y, and presently all the earth grew blithe, and
the birds filled the woods and valleys with jocund noise.

It was near noon before I knew that my pilgrimage was over.

Coming round a point of rock, I saw the Gray Monk, of whom strange
legends had lately travelled to the city. I took off my hat to him
reverently; but all at once he threw back his cowl, and I saw--no monk,
but, much altered, the good chaplain who had married me to Alixe in the
Chateau St. Louis. He had been hurt when he was fired upon in the water;
had escaped, however, got to shore, and made his way into the woods.
There he had met Mathilde, who led him to her lonely home in this hill.
Seeing the Tall Calvary, he had conceived the idea of this disguise, and
Mathilde had brought him the robe for the purpose.

In a secluded cave I found Alixe with her father, caring for him, for
he was not yet wholly recovered from his injuries. There was no waiting
now. The ban of Church did not hold my dear girl back, nor did her
father do aught but smile when she came laughing and weeping into my
arms.

"Robert, O Robert, Robert!" she cried, and at first that was all she
could say.

The good Seigneur put out his hand to me beseechingly. I took it,
clasped it.

"The city?" he asked.

"Is ours," I answered.

"And my son--my son?"

I told him how, the night that the city was taken, the Chevalier de la
Darante and I had gone a sad journey in a boat to the Isle of Orleans,
and there, in the chapel yard, near to his father's chateau, we had laid
a brave and honest gentleman who died fighting for his country.

By-and-bye, when their grief had a little abated, I took them out into
the sunshine. A pleasant green valley lay to the north, and to the
south, far off, was the wall of rosy hills that hid the captured town.
Peace was upon it all, and upon us.

As we stood there, a scarlet figure came winding in and out among the
giant stones, crosses hanging at her girdle. She approached us, and,
seeing me, she said: "Hush! I know a place where all the lovers can
hide."

And she put a little wooden cross into my hands.

APPENDIX.
The following is an excerpt from 'The Scot in New France' (1880) by J.M.
Lemoine. It is an account of Robert Stobo, the man whose life this text
is loosely based upon.

Five years previous to the battle of the Plains of Abraham, one comes
across three genuine Scots in the streets of Quebec--all however
prisoners of war, taken in