nted; but
Angele took his head upon her knee, and the fathers and mothers and
neighbors swarmed around him, and Father Robineau did him doctor's
service. Every priest then on the St. Lawrence knew how to dress
wounds as well as bind up spirits.

Denys of Bonaventure, notwithstanding the excitement overhead, kept
men at the basement loopholes until Montgomery had long withdrawn and
returned to camp.

He then felt that he could indulge himself with a sight of his
son-in-law, and tiptoed up past the colony of women and children whom
the priest had just driven again to their rest on the second floor;
past that sacred chamber on the third floor, and on up to the flume
loft. There Monsieur De Bonaventure paused, with his head just above
the boards, like a pleasant-faced sphinx.

"Accept my salutations, Captain De Mattissart," he said laughing.
"I am told that you and this young militia-man floated down the
mill-stream into this mill, with the French flag waving over your
heads, to the no small discouragement of the English. Quebec will
never be taken, monsieur."

Long ago those who found shelter in the mill dispersed to rebuild
their homes under a new order of things, or wedded like Laurent and
Angele, and lived their lives and died. Yet, witnessing to all these
things, the old mill stands to-day at Petit Cap, huge and cavernous;
with its oasis of home, its milk-room, its square hoppers and
flume-chamber unchanged. Daylight refuses to follow you into the
blackened basement; and the shouts of Montgomery's sacking horde seem
to linger in the mighty hollows overhead.

[Footnote 1: Wolfe forbade such barbarities, but Montgomery did not
always obey. It was practiced on both sides.]

WOLFE'S COVE.

The cannon was for the time silent, the gunners being elsewhere, but a
boy's voice called from the bastion:--

"Come out here, mademoiselle. I have an apple for you."

"Where did you get an apple?" replied a girl's voice.

"Monsieur Bigot gave it to me. He has everything the king's stores
will buy. His slave was carrying a basketful."

"I do not like Monsieur Bigot. His face is blotched, and he kisses
little girls."

"His apples are better than his manners," observed the boy, waiting,
knife in hand, for her to come and see that the division was a fair
one.

She tiptoed out from the gallery of the commandant's house, the wind
blowing her curls back from her shoulders. A bastion of Fort St. Louis
was like a bal