"You found it cold enough out there to-night, comrade," said one of the men, roused by his entrance; "if it goes on like this we must get half-hour reliefs again, or some of us will be found frozen to death on guard, like poor Jean Maret was last year."
"Cold!" ejaculated the sentry, "I don't care for cold, and I would as soon die of frost as see again what I've seen to-night."
"What! the black ghost?" inquired the other, but with bated breath.
"Black! I should think not, I've heard of that; but if ever there was a white ghost in the world I've seen one to-night, flying along over the snow where any human being would have floundered over head and ears, and at last it went over the edge of the fosse, where the fall would have broken any mortal's neck to a certainty. But lo! before I could look round, there it was again flitting right past me in a whirl of snow, and with a blast that swept me clean off my feet."
"Why didn't you send a bullet through it?" said his comrade.
"Through it! Yes, that's just it. Any bullet but a silver one made out of a crown piece cut crosswise would only go through that sort of thing. Who ever heard of killing a ghost? Well, I only came to this horrid place last week, but if things are to go on like this, I shall pitch away my firelock and desert some night."
"Then you had better do it before de Loison goes, Comrade. He is an easy-going fellow enough, and don't like the bother of catching runaways, and says it is only wasting good cartridges. To-morrow we are to have old Valricour here instead; he is another kind of customer, for though he is as harmless as a baby, and as tender-hearted as a woman off duty, just try your tricks on him, and he will shoot you as soon as look at you."
"I don't care," replied the other doggedly; "I may as well be shot as frightened to death."
Perhaps a leaden bullet might not have proved quite so harmless as the superstitious sentry had supposed. When the apparition first vanished into the fosse opposite the corner of the fort, Marguerite was asleep, and dreaming that she was once more at Quebec, and listening to Isidore, as he sang that wondrously beautiful air of Stradella's. Presently she awoke with a sigh, but only to hear the enchanting melody continued in a low, soft voice. Was she awake, or still asleep? Hastily raising herself, she beheld, with a feeling of mingled surprise and awe, a tall slim figure clad in white, on which the night lamp cast just light enough to make it stand out from the surrounding gloom. The song ceased, and a chill blast sweeping through the chamber made her shudder. Was it the chill of death?
"Hush, lady! Fear nothing," said the apparition in a low voice. "It is Amoahmeh. Make haste, rise at once; I have come to set you free."