"By your voice, sir," answered McQuarters, and added quaintly, "Ah, but it was different weather in those days!"
"Ay," said John, "we have come around by strange roads; you an artilleryman, and I—" He broke off, musing. For a moment, standing there knee-deep in snow, he heard the song of the waters, saw the forests again, the dripping ledges, the cool, pendant boughs, and smelt the fragrance of the young spruces. The spell of the woodland silence held him, and he listened again for the rustle of wild life in the undergrowth.
"Hist! What was that?"
"Another squall coming, sir. It's on us too, and a rasper!"
But, as the snow-charged gust swept down and blinded them in its whirl, John leaned towards McQuarters and lifted his voice sharply.
"It was more than that—Hark you!" He gripped McQuarters' arm and pointed to the barricade, over which for an instant a point of steel had glimmered. "Back, man!—back to the guns!" he yelled to the sentry. But the man was already running; and together the three floundered back to the hangar. Behind them blows were already sounding above the howl of the wind; blows of musket-butts hammering on the wooden palisade.
"Steady, men," grunted McQuarters as he reached the pent. "Give them time to break an opening—their files will be nicely huddled by this."
John à Cleeve glanced around and was satisfied. Captain Chabot had his men lined up and ready: two ranks of them, the front rank kneeling.
"Give the word, my lad," said Captain Barnsfare cheerfully, lintstock in hand.
"Fire then!—and God defend Quebec!"