shuddered at the thought
of those terrible words about the _lettre de cachet_.

Perhaps the innkeeper's words reminded Isidore that his uncle, the
Baron de Valricour, or possibly the Marquis de Montcalm himself, might
yet do something for him, if indeed anything could be done. At all
events it was useless to hope for aid from anyone in France. Somewhat
to the honest innkeeper's surprise, he suddenly arose, and speaking
with a calmness and dignity which quite awed the would-be comforter, he
said, "You are right, good friend. I take shame to myself for showing
such weakness. Yes, there are those who may still help me, if it be
God's will; and if they can, I know they will not shrink from doing so.
For the kindness which would have sheltered and assisted us, I can
never repay you, but I can never forget it. Farewell! It is best for
you that you should not even know my name. The boat that is waiting
yonder shall take me back to the ship alone," he added, with a groan.
"Ah, if ever I visit France again----"

He could say no more, but he grasped honest Jean's hand and left the
house. The landlord hurried after him, but it was only to see him
descend the steps of the quay and enter the boat, which, in a minute or
two, was lost in the darkness.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter VIII]

PART III

THE FALL OF NEW FRANCE.

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter I]

THE FALL OF NEW FRANCE.

CHAPTER I.

The Canadian summer has set in, coming upon the land, not gradually and
imperceptibly as in many other climates, where a mild and genial
spring-time intervenes between the seasons of extreme cold and heat,
but suddenly, and, as it were, almost at a bound. But two or three
short weeks ago the face of the country was still all white with the
snows of many a long month, and the great St. Lawrence was bridged over
from shore to shore with one broad expanse of solid ice of almost
incredible thickness. Anon the vast mass broke up, with explosions
loud as the roar of artillery, into countless rugged fields and
hummocks, which, after floating up and down awhile on the bosom of the
mighty tide, drifted away at last out seaward, to return no more. It
is a trite trick of the mimic stage to make old Father Winter suddenly
cast aside his hoary garments and stand forth at once in bright array
bedecked with fruits and flowers; here in very deed, and on the
grandest scale, Nature seems with one touch to sweep away t