d a by-way from the lower regions of the
Rue de Champlain--a break-neck thoroughfare little liked by the old
and asthmatical, but nothing to the sturdy "climbers," as the habitans
called the lads of Quebec, or the light-footed lasses who displayed
their trim ankles as they flew up the breezy steps to church or market.

Max Grimau and Blind Bartemy had ceased counting their coins. The
passers-by came up in still increasing numbers, until the street, from
the barrier of the Basse Ville to the Cathedral, was filled with a
noisy, good-humored crowd, without an object except to stare at the
Golden Dog and a desire to catch a glimpse of the Bourgeois Philibert.

The crowd had become very dense, when a troop of gentlemen rode at full
speed into the Rue Buade, and after trying recklessly to force their way
through, came to a sudden halt in the midst of the surging mass.

The Intendant, Cadet, and Varin had ridden from Beaumanoir, followed by
a train of still flushed guests, who, after a hasty purification,
had returned with their host to the city--a noisy troop, loquacious,
laughing, shouting, as is the wont of men reckless at all times, and
still more defiant when under the influence of wine.

"What is the meaning of this rabble, Cadet?" asked Bigot; "they seem
to be no friends of yours. That fellow is wishing you in a hot place!"
added Bigot, laughing, as he pointed out a habitan who was shouting "A
bas Cadet!"

"Nor friends of yours, either," replied Cadet. "They have not recognized
you yet, Bigot. When they do, they will wish you in the hottest place of
all!"

The Intendant was not known personally to the habitans as were Cadet,
Varin, and the rest. Loud shouts and execrations were freely vented
against these as soon as they were recognized.

"Has this rabble waylaid us to insult us?" asked Bigot. "But it
can hardly be that they knew of our return to the city to-day." The
Intendant began to jerk his horse round impatiently, but without avail.

"Oh, no, your Excellency! it is the rabble which the Governor has
summoned to the King's corvee. They are paying their respects to the
Golden Dog, which is the idol the mob worships just now. They did not
expect us to interrupt their devotions, I fancy."

"The vile moutons! their fleece is not worth the shearing!" exclaimed
Bigot angrily, at the mention of the Golden Dog, which, as he glanced
upwards, seemed to glare defiantly upon him.

"Clear the way, villains!" cried Big