The morning found the snow coming down at a furious rate, so that the landscape was blotted out on every side. The roadway was drifted high with snow, which lay against the kitchen door to a depth of three feet.
“I reckon I am safe here for the present,” thought the young soldier. “Nobody will think of visiting this house during such a snow-storm.”
The old woman came down as soon as it was light. She found Henry fixing the fire, and he had already set the pot of water for boiling.
“You are snow-bound,” she said, but of course he did not understand her. He gazed thoughtfully out of one of the windows, while she prepared a simple morning meal from her scanty stock of provisions. He wished he could pay her, but could only point to his empty pockets, at which she smiled again, as if that did not matter.
“A good, motherly sort,” he told himself. “Mother at home couldn’t treat a French soldier any better than this woman is treating me.”
The snow-storm kept up for several days, and after that there were fierce high winds, which sent the snow flying and drifting in half a dozen directions at once.
During those days Henry and the old woman were left entirely alone. By an effort on the part of both he learned that she was a widow with a son somewhere in the French army, and that her name was Garrot. She deplored the war, and wished only for peace, no matter which side won.
“And at her age I cannot blame her,” thought Henry. “Probably she has lost a great deal by the forages of both armies.” And his surmise was correct.
On the morning of the fourth day at the cottage, the young soldier heard firing at a distance. The sounds seemed to come closer at noon, but shortly after that died away utterly.
“Some sort of a skirmish,” thought the youth. “Can it be that the French have attacked Quebec?”