"I know it too well. Come inside. M. de Chatillard wishes to see you."
Willet, Robert, Tayoga and Zeb Crane went in, and were shown into the bedroom where the Seigneur Louis Henri Anatole de Chatillard, past ninety years of age, lay upon his last bed. He was a large, handsome old man, fair like so many of the Northern French, and his dying eyes were full of fire. Two women of middle years, his granddaughters, knelt weeping by each side of his bed, and two servants, tears on their faces, stood at the foot. Willet and his comrades halted respectfully at the door.
"Step closer," said the old man, "that I may see you well."
The four entered and stood within the light shed by two tall candles. The old man gazed at them a long time in silence, but finally he said:
"And so the English have come at last."
"We're not English, M. de Chatillard," said Willet, "we're Americans, Bostonnais, as you call us."
"It is the same. You are but the children of the English and you fight together against us. You increase too fast in the south. You thrive in your towns and in the woods, and you send greater and greater numbers against us. But you cannot take Quebec. The capital of New France is inviolate."
Willet said nothing. How could he argue with a man past ninety who lay upon his dying bed?
"You cannot take Quebec," repeated M. de Chatillard, rising, strength showing in his voice. "The Bostonnais have come before. It was in Frontenac's time nearly three-quarters of a century ago, when Phipps and his armada from New England arrived before Quebec. I was but a lad then newly come from France, but the great governor, Frontenac, made ready for them. We had batteries in the Sault-au-Matelot on Palace Hill, on Mount Carmel, before the Jesuits' college, in the Lower Town and everywhere. Three-quarters of a century ago did I say? No, it was yesterday! I remember how we fought. Frontenac was a great man as Montcalm is!"
"Peace, M. de Chatillard," said Father Drouillard soothingly. "You speak of old, old times and old, old things!"