It was now almost nightfall. Dick returned to his quarters, in a barn loft, put from his pockets and attire whatever might betray him, and saw with satisfaction that his clothes, now mended by old Tom and replenished from the stock of a dead comrade, no longer bore striking evidence of his march through Maine. He assured himself for the thousandth time that the miniature was still in its hiding-place; made a hasty supper with his mess on the barn floor below; called MacAlister aside and told of his coming absence on reconnoitring duty; shook the old fellow's hand, and was gone.
"Guid luck, and a merry meeting in this waurld or some ither!" was old Tom's farewell.
Dick tore up his pass as soon as it had been honored at last by the outermost picket; for in his zeal to respect his commander's every wish he was determined to make so wide a detour in rounding the camp that he could not possibly come near another sentry. The night was well advanced when he strode finally between the colonial army and the frowning city. Skulking past Mount's Tavern, giving a wide berth to every farmhouse or suburban residence that might perchance shelter some American force on special duty, he stood at last between the suburb of St. Louis and that of St. John's, and hesitated as to which gate to approach. He chose that of St. John's, and, hastening up to it with an air of importance and fatigue, was challenged at some distance by a sentry on the wall. His prompt account of himself got him speedily through the wicket, and soon a guard officer was escorting him to Colonel Maclean, who was for the time quartered in a house near the bastion of La Potasse, in order to be close to the barracks and St. John's Gate.
Maclean sat in a room on a level with the street, holding vigil with some officers. Dick faced him across a table on which were a candelabra, writing materials, and a great mass of papers. The British commander, Scotchiest of the Scotch, was rugged, frowning, and sharp-speaking, but seemed to have a solid substratum of good-nature. He read Carleton's letter in silence, then scrutinized Dick with gray eyes as hard as granite, and pelted him with a succession of gruff questions, to which Dick replied with quiet readiness and a steady return of look. The questions were all on matters covered by the letter, which, Dick could easily see, the sagacious Scot did not suspect of having been opened. Dick's answers evidently convinced the colonel that the letter had not changed bearers since leaving General Carleton's hand. For the colonel's address was a little less gruff, when he presently asked:
"What is your name, my guid mon?"
"Tammas MacAlister," replied Dick, under a prompt inspiration, and added, in imitation of the Fiddler's manner of speech, "Ye maun hae kenned my fayther, and his fayther afore him, that baith piped ahint the heels of Charlie Stuart in '45, though the present generation is loyal, soul and body, to the powers that be. I oft heard them tell of the Macleans, and what a grand family they are,—begging your pardon."
"I dare say," answered the colonel, his face having lost its rigor. "Though I don't mind at the moment, I maun hae kenned your forebears in days lang syne. 'Tis strange I didn't heed your Scottish tongue sooner. Ye're the build and face of a true Caledonian, and ye'll mak' a braw recruit for the Royal Emigrants. Captain, let MacAlister mess and quarter with your company for the time being, and see that he reports to me to-morrow at ten o'clock." The officer addressed sent an attendant for a sergeant, in whose charge Dick was placed, and by whom he was soon assigned to a bunk in the adjacent barracks, his mind in a whirl of emotions, thoughts, and plans, all regarding his military mission and his intended visit to Catherine de St. Valier.
The next morning, at breakfast, Dick studied carefully each man of the mess. Pretending to a previous knowledge acquired through a seafaring uncle, he asked an old Quebec man whether there were any St. Valiers still in the city. He soon learned that Gerard and Catherine were the last of their branch of the family, that it was an impoverished branch, and that they were now living with their unmarried uncle in the latter's house in Palace Street, near the street that led from the St. John's Gate.
Dick next, observing that a certain prating corporal affected expert knowledge of the town's defences, and had a truly Scotch tenacity of assertion, lured him subtly into an argument regarding the present state of Quebec as compared with that in Wolfe's time; and thus elicited, as to the disposition of artillery, a statement so exact and full that, to be relied on, it required only to agree with some report from another source. Dick secretly assigned each section of a piece of biscuit to represent some particular post named by the corporal, and on that section he made tiny finger-nail scratches equal in number to the cannon said to be at the post. Being under orders to remain with the sergeant, he found, by using his eyes skilfully while about the barracks, that the corporal's account was correct as far as concerned certain guns in the vicinity of St. John's Gate.
During the morning there came to the barracks a barber who had customers among soldiers stationed at different parts of the town. Now that the troops remained near their posts when off duty, ready to respond in case of sudden attack, this practitioner, instead of keeping shop as usually, made the rounds to visit the customers who could not visit him. Dick was shaved by him, and, during the operation, led him to discourse upon those parts of the city to which duty called him. The observant barber incidentally let fall numerous bits of information that confirmed, if they did not augment, certain details of the knowing corporal's disclosures.