“You have done me every injury in your power. You have never spoken to me that you have not tortured me so I cannot look on you without fear and loathing.”
At my words he stepped close to me, but before either could utter a sound, a shrill cry came from above:
“O mon Dieu! mon Dieu! The English are on the Heights.”
Doors were thrown open, and in an instant the corridors were filled with white faces, and hurrying feet were flying towards the stairways.
“Nonsense!” cried a reassuring voice when we gained the upper windows. “Those are our troops! See, they are crossing the bridge!”
“No. Here! Here! See! Just opposite us, over the edge of the hill.” And as we crowded to the side whence the cry came our hearts sank as we saw a little patch of red against the morning sky.
“Bah! They are only a handful. See how our men are crossing the St. Charles! There! They are coming out of the St. John's Gate now!”
“Mes soeurs, we will descend to the chapel,” said the calm voice of la mère de Ste. Claude, and at her words the obedient nuns recovered their usual air of quiet and flocked after her, as did many of the others; but Angélique and I remained.
We could plainly see our troops defiling out of the town in a seemingly unending line, and could distinguish their officers riding to and fro giving orders; but the little point of red remained immovable, and we could not tell whether it was an army or a single detachment.
Regulars, Canadians, and Indians continued to pour across the bridge of boats, and to cross through the town from the Palais to the St. John's Gate, whence they issued, and moved off towards the left, hidden from us by the rising ground.