But Charles Langlade was not alone. He carried on his shoulder a boy of some three years old. The two resembled each other most curiously, except that the child’s skin was still fair and soft, whilst the father’s was bronzed and weather-beaten. There were the same deep blue eyes and curling chestnut hair, the same pose of the head slightly tossed back. They looked very picturesque, the hunter in his crimson shirt, one arm raised, holding the half-naked child, who sat proudly aloft, clutching at his father’s hair, beating his little bare feet against the broad chest, and laughing aloud for glee; so bubbling over with life, that the passers-by turned to look back at them.
It was a goodly sight; and so they reached the heavy stone gateway leading into the city, set thick with mighty bolts and spikes. Here Charles Langlade paused, and showed his pass before he could gain admittance; but he was not detained long, and went his way through a squalid lane, the old “Sault au Matelot,” looking its best this bright summer morning, creeping under the shelter of the city walls and overhanging rock, from which drooped weeds and grass, with just a few rays of sunlight penetrating here and there, glistening on the abundant moisture which slowly trickled down, until at last he reached the flight of steps leading from the lower to the upper town, and having climbed them stood at the convent gates. He paused a moment before pulling the great bell, lifted the child from off his shoulder, and placed it on the ground. As it stood thus beside him he looked at it, and passed his hand over the rough curly head, straightening the short crimson cotton blouse, which, with innumerable strings of coloured beads round its neck, was all the clothes it boasted; then with an impatient sigh he pulled the rope dangling at the gateway. The sound rang through the silent court and garden, and presently a small panel was pushed on one side, and a voice asked,—
“Who is there?”
“From his Excellency General Montcalm. I am the bearer of a letter to the reverend mother,” said Langlade.
The little panel was clapped quickly to again, and he heard the receding footsteps of the doorkeeper.
He was not kept long waiting. This time the little door let into the big gateway was unbarred, and he was bidden to enter; and, after she had carefully rebolted the door, the nun preceded him through the garden, full of flowers, clumps of lilac bushes, roses, and hollyhocks, blossoming within the shelter of the high surrounding walls, while the bright morning sun poured down on the alleys and greensward with all the glory of the short Canadian summer.
He was ushered into a long whitewashed room, the only furniture of which was a deal table, a few common chairs, and a tall crucifix on the wall.
The nun pointed to a chair, and disappeared with that soft gliding movement habitual to her class; but Charles Langlade, picking the child up, carried it to the open window and looked out on the quiet scene; and as he caught a glimpse of black robes moving among the trees, he wondered in his secret heart if Mercèdes were there. A strange longing had been upon him all that day to see her face once more, and then—well, then it would be over.
The door opened, and a tall thin woman in black robes and veil, her face framed in white linen, entered noiselessly. Behind her was another figure dressed in the same fashion, only she wore a long white robe and veil; her face was very pale and her eyes downcast, but in her Charles Langlade recognised Mercèdes; and thus it was these two stood once more in each other’s presence.
“I have read the General’s letter, Mr. Langlade, and understand that you wish to leave your child with us for a time. You can do so; we will take all care of it, and when this terrible war is over you can claim it of us.”