“Yes; I suppose so,” replied the Marquis carelessly, and then they descended the bank and entered the boats.
Charles Langlade sat in the stern behind Mercèdes, but he was silent. Had it been summer-time the scenery up the stately river would have been lovely, but winter still rested on all things. Not a green hue so much as tinged the black branches of the trees; only the groves of pines, upon the summits of which the snow still rested, gave colour to the landscape. They shot past the snowy fall of Montmorenci, with its perpetual leaping avalanche, along the low shores of the beautiful Isle of Orleans, where the wild grape festooned the primitive forest, and won from old Cartier the name of the Isle of Bacchus. Here and there villages clustered round slim-spired churches in the vales, or on some gentle height; it was no longer the wild desolation of the forest, but the gradual growth of civilisation creeping upon them, until at last Quebec with its “mural-crowned” and castled rock rose before them.
It had been decided that they should land just outside Quebec, rest for the night at a farmhouse tenanted by friends of Charles Langlade, and enter the city the following morning. It was almost dark when they reached their destination, and as they left the boat and walked up to the farm, Charles found himself beside Mercèdes and Marthe.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, in a low tone, his voice trembling slightly, “I am glad of this opportunity of wishing you adieu. I shall be far on my way to join my tribe before the sun is risen to-morrow.”
“Will you?” said Mercèdes. “I am so sorry; you have been so good to me. I wish it were all to come over again. Cannot you go with us to Quebec?”
“Thank you,” he answered; “your words give me great happiness. I can go no farther with you now, but it will not be long before we meet again, I trust.”
“Meet again!” answered Mercèdes; and if he could have looked into her face he would have seen a shadow cross it. “Who can tell? It is not very likely we shall meet again. I am going to the Convent of St. Ursula to be a nun.”
“Ah no!” he exclaimed; “you must not; you are too brave and good to shut yourself away from the world.”
“But I must,” she said; “it was decided long ago, when I was a child.”
He made no answer, but set his teeth hard.