How Canada Was Won: A Tale of Wolfe and Quebec

by F. S. Brereton

"To-night! To-night!" he said over and over again to himself as he paced backwards and forwards. "And father is there. Where can he have been, and how comes it that Silver Fox has managed to get into Quebec? He seems to know the place, too, and is in no hurry to depart."

He had purposely walked in the opposite direction to that taken by the chief, but now he watched him out of the corner of his eye. Silver Fox was dawdling idly in the courtyard, as many another Indian had done on that and on previous days. He strolled along the wall, looked out at the magnificent prospect spread out before him, at the rolling waters of this, one of the mightiest of rivers, at the green slopes of the Isle of Orleans, and at the blue and green vista beyond, the forest-clad southern bank which stretched right away across the much-debated frontier to America, the colony filled with the hardy sons of Old England, and with fugitives from many parts of the world. Silver Fox halted for quite a little while and filled his pipe meditatively, striking flint and steel with great deliberation, and puffing languidly as if he had nothing in the world to occupy him, nothing to fear, and only desired to remain there and think and watch the lovely country below. For half an hour at least he leaned against the granite parapet, and then Steve saw him walk softly along some dozen paces, turn his head to the place where the sentry was placed, and then deliberately point below.

"A signal undoubtedly," thought Steve. He dropped his hand to show that he was watching, and then turned away again, while the Indian chief daubed in the colours of the Hurons struck flint and steel again as if his tobacco had not been lit sufficiently, and then sauntered calmly from the courtyard. Half an hour later our hero ventured to the same spot and carelessly looked over. Down below, some thirty feet perhaps, was a narrow path running between the wall of the fort and another wall which hemmed in the courtyard of a private residence.

"That is where I am to expect them," he thought. "Well, it is a good place, for the path is little used, and at night time it is densely dark. Now how am I to get here without upsetting the sentries?"

He thought for a little while, and then suddenly walked across the courtyard, clambered up the flight of steps which led to the room which had been allotted to him as his quarters, and promptly took off some of his clothing. A minute later he had thrown himself on his couch, where he lay half on his face, feigning illness. An hour or more later there was a step outside, and the guard, whose duty it was to make a round of the rooms occasionally, looked in at the door.

"Ha! Monsieur sleeps," he said gently, for he was a good fellow, and Steve had always been pleasant with him. "Monsieur is tired. I will be careful not to wake him."

He tip-toed away down the passage, and would soon have been out of hearing had Steve remained silent. But that was the last thing he wished to do. He desired to attract the attention of the man, and promptly gave a groan as if he were in agony.

"Did I hear correctly? Was it monsieur who groaned?"

The guard stopped abruptly, and brought the stock of his ponderous musket with a clatter to the ground, the jar being instantly followed by a second groan.