the mighty river from the forests and the river-rush; as his eye
traveled up the glorious promontory, now mellowed in sunshine, to the
summit bristling with cannon; as his gaze swept the broad reaches of
the river, and returned to rest upon the joyous faces around him,
joyous even in the face of daily peril, the Chevalier threw back his
shoulders, as if bracing himself for the battle to come. Here he was
to forget and build anew; France, his mother, was dead, and here was
his foster-mother, rugged and brave, opening her arms to him. New
France! Ah, well, there was here, somewhere, a niche for him, and the
man in him vowed to fill it. He did not yet say "With God's help." It
was early, and the sting of his misfortune still stirred the poison in
his soul.

"New France, Paul," cried the poet at his side. The newness and
strangeness of the scene had filled the poet's face with animation. No
problems beset his buoyant soul.

"Yes, lad; this is New France. Fortune here seems to be of the
masculine; and I daresay that you and I shall receive many cuffs in the
days to come."

"Come, my friends," said Brother Jacques, "and I will show you the path
which leads to the citadel."

And the three proceeded up the incline.

Sister Benie of the Ursulines was passing along the narrow road which
led to the river. There was on her serene face the remains of what had
been great beauty, such as is sometimes given to the bourgeois; but the
purple eyes were wells of sadness and the lips ever drooped in pity and
mercy. Across her pale cheek was a paler scar, which ran from the left
temple to the chin. Sister Teresa, her companion, was young and plain.
Soldiers and trappers and Indians passed them on the way up, touching
their caps and hats; for Sister Benie was known from Montreal to
Tadousac. Suddenly Sister Benie gave a low cry and pressed a hand upon
her heart.

"Sister, you are ill?" asked her companion.

"A dizziness; it is gone now." Presently she caught the arm of a
gentleman who was passing.

"My son," she said, sweetly, "can you tell me who is that young man
walking with Brother Jacques; the tall one?"

"He? That is the Chevalier du Cevennes."

"His family?"

"He is the son of the Marquis de Perigny."

"Thank you, my son."

CHAPTER XV

THE SUPPER

"Monsieur du Cevennes," said D'Herouville, just before supper that
first night of their arrival on Canadian soil, "I see that you are not
quite stron