“Langlade; open quickly,” was the answer. She hastened to obey; the Indian glided into the room, looked round, and saw the child sleeping in its little bed. To snatch it in his arms, smothering its cries, and disappear with it, was the work of a second.
Roused by the noise, Mercèdes came running in, but the child was gone. Marthe was wringing her hands, and in short, incoherent phrases told Mercèdes what had happened.
But events were to succeed each other so rapidly that they had hardly time to breathe, much more think. So accustomed had they become to the bombardment of the city that, though it sounded more continuous and louder than usual that morning, they attached no especial importance to it; but a nun with a white, terrified face came to them from the Superior, bidding them repair at once to the General Hospital, that the English were on the Heights of Abraham, and that a great battle was being fought. Wrapping their black cloaks around them, and drawing their hoods over their heads in such a way as to conceal their faces, they hastened to obey, passing quickly through the streets, in some parts crowded by frightened citizens driven forth from their half-ruined houses, in others swept clean by the bombs which came whizzing down from the English batteries. Very white and fixed was the young novice’s face as she glided along. She suddenly came to a standstill, almost in front of the Church of the Ursulines, where a crowd was gathered, which opened to let a party of soldiers, carrying a litter which had been hastily constructed out of guns crossed one over the other, pass on their way.
The brilliant rays of the sun fell full upon the livid face of the man who lay thereon. The waxen features were thrown into relief by the black military cloak around him.
Not a cry escaped Mercèdes’ lips, though in that second she had had time enough to recognise her father; but like an arrow she flew to his side. One of the officers knew her, and gently and pityingly made way for her, and she entered the church with the litter; then the heavy doors were closed to keep back the surging crowd. Slowly, with measured steps, surrounded by his officers, they bore him up the nave; in front of the high altar the soldiers laid down their precious burden, and Mercèdes, kneeling beside him, raised his hand to her lips. He made no sign of being even aware of her presence; his eyes were fixed, his features immovable; his soul was still on the battle-field in the agony of that first moment of defeat. A surgeon had been hastily summoned, who examined the patient and probed the wound; but not a muscle of Montcalm’s face moved even under that agony. When it was over, and a temporary dressing had been applied, he said, “Well, sir, how long have I to live?”
“General,” answered the surgeon, in a low, pained voice, “a few hours only.”
“All the better,” he said. “I shall not see the English enter Quebec,” and he closed his eyes. Notwithstanding the wounds received on the battle-field, borne by the tide of the fugitives the General had ridden into Quebec at the head of the army, crossed the bridge under the northern rampart, and entered the palace gate. At that moment another shot reached him, which, passing through his body, proved fatal, and he was half lifted, half fell from his horse; and so it came to pass that his soldiers bore him into the Church of the Ursulines.
Mercèdes and Marthe tended him. Quiet and loving were the words which from time to time he spoke to them. A few only of those who surrounded them knew that the pale-faced novice was his daughter. Michel, the gardener of the Ursuline Convent, fetched and carried for them, and so that fatal day drew to an end.
Towards evening, Ramsay, the new Governor, came and asked Montcalm’s advice as to how he might best defend Quebec.
“Have you any orders to give me, General?” he asked.