The Marquis de Beaujardin had awaited the return of Jasmin from his errand to the Quai La Fosse, first with impatience, then with irritation, but at last with anxiety; and as neither the valet nor Jean Perigord made their appearance, either that night or on the following morning, he at last proceeded to the quay in person to search out the innkeeper. He found Jean still in great perturbation about the events of the preceding evening, and a visit from another totally different Marquis de Beaujardin so excited him that for a long time he refused to tell anything. At last, however, he was induced to do so, and the marquis learned that he had come too late, and that Marguerite had undoubtedly been seized, but that Isidore had certainly escaped for the present, though all inquiries as to whither he had gone proved wholly fruitless.

With a heavy heart Monsieur de Beaujardin returned to his chateau, quite powerless to take any further steps, for he felt that any attempt on Marguerite’s behalf would be more likely to lead to Isidore’s capture than to obtain her liberation.

Surprised at not seeing the valet again, Madame de Valricour tried to ascertain from the marquis what had passed at Nantes, but his only reply was a stern request that she would cease visiting Beaujardin altogether. As to his wife, the marquis confined himself to telling her that Isidore was safe, but had gone abroad. Of course the baroness soon heard this from her weak-minded sister-in-law, but she had learned from de Crillon that both the birds had been snared, and felt quite satisfied that the marquis had only sought to relieve his wife’s anxiety by a made up story of her son’s safety.

The return of the Baron de Valricour from New France on a short furlough did not mend matters. The baroness only told him that Isidore and Marguerite had eloped, at which he was very indignant: the marquis preserved a moody silence, feeling assured that the baroness had had some hand in what had occurred, but he had no proofs. What could he say? Besides, he hated such scenes as must needs ensue on a revelation of the little he did know. So there was for a time a great coolness between the two houses; but Madame de Valricour had now formed another scheme, and as incessant dropping will wear away even a stone, she soon contrived to induce the marchioness to insist on having Clotilde frequently at Beaujardin. The marquis had always been fond of his niece, and the fact that they both secretly grieved over the fate of Isidore and Marguerite drew him still closer to her. This was just what the baroness wanted. The match with Isidore was at an end, but the marquis might be induced to adopt Clotilde. She took her measures accordingly. Hints were now and then dropped about her returning to Canada with the baron, and taking Clotilde with them. The marquis did not disguise his reluctance to let Clotilde go. Now was the time to get him to insist on Clotilde’s remaining at Beaujardin, perhaps to declare his intentions about the disposal of his property in her favour. Much to her surprise and vexation, however, she found, on the very first attempt to lead up to that subject, that both the marquis and his wife assumed without question that Isidore’s absence was only temporary, and that he would certainly return some day to Beaujardin; she was therefore compelled, for a time at least, to let things take their course. The pretended journey to Canada with her husband was abandoned, and M. de Valricour returned thither alone. At parting, however, there was a reconciliation between him and the marquis, who, after narrating all that had come to his own knowledge respecting his son’s marriage, and the events that had taken place at Nantes, expressed a hope that Isidore might have taken refuge in New France, and begged M. de Valricour to do what he could to ascertain whether such was really the fact. This the kind-hearted baron promised faithfully to do, and then departed for Quebec, where he arrived shortly before the winter set in.

A lively and picturesque scene enough is that presented by the little market-place of Sorel. December has come, and with it the usual heavy and incessant falls of snow. That of last night has added a good foot at least to the three or four that already covered the country all around. Yet there are the accustomed little groups of habitans, with their provisions and wares for sale, chattering and gesticulating as vivaciously as ever over the difficulty they had in getting there at all through the heavy snow-drifts, and apparently quite regardless of a temperature several degrees below zero. Look at that motley little circle there, some clad in yellow leather coats with gay coloured borders, others in buffalo wraps with leather leggings, but most of them with red or wampum sashes tied round their waists. One is crowing over the others because the “Grand Voyer,” or Road Inspector, has already made a short cut from his village over fields and fences alike, marking out the new track with fir-branches stuck in the snow at intervals, so that by night or by day there is no fear of missing the impromptu highway. But it was hard work for all that. The rude sledge, which is little more than a couple of short wooden runners with boards nailed across them, and a short pole at each corner, plunges into the snow and then carries forward a mass of it until the obstruction becomes too great; the clumsy machine then mounts over it somehow, and again plunges down till the increasing traffic makes the road one series of hillocks and deep holes or cahots, which jolt and jerk the traveller enough to dislocate every joint in his body. They are, however, not quite so bad as that yet, and the hardy little Canadian pony looks ready for any amount of work as he stands there with three or four more in a row. The warmth in their shaggy heads has melted the snow and ice that stuck to them when they came in, and it has run down their faces, but no sooner has it done so than it straightway congeals again, and hangs down from their noses in icicles a foot in length. You may see some nearly as long as those which hang from the eaves and window sills of the house opposite that was on fire last night; they froze there as the water was dashed up against the building whilst it was still blazing within.

No wonder that yonder country woman is selling her milk by the lump out of a sack, or that her husband, who is a bit of a humourist, has stuck up on their legs his half dozen dead pigs to glare at the passers-by as though they were still alive. There are half a score of Red Indians too; their tribe has pitched its wigwams in the forest at a little distance from the town, and they have come in to loaf about and pick up anything they can, or in the hope of getting some good-natured Canadian to treat them to the deadly fire-water. There they stand looking stolidly at the house of Pierre Lebon the baker, which is in a pretty plight, to be sure. It is a corner house, and round that unlucky corner the snow has whirled and eddied all night long till it has formed a pyramid-shaped hill twenty feet high against the side of the building, utterly burying the doorway, and even covering one of the upper windows, which it at last forced in. All along the little street beyond, for a score of yards at least, there is a bare patch of pavement on which the giddy blasts have not allowed a single flake of snow to settle.

Besides these Indians, there is a girl of the same tribe on the market-place, come to dispose of her little store of bark work embroidered with porcupine-quills, and gaily ornamented moccasins. She too is picturesque enough with her dark handsome face, surmounted by a quaint cap of white feathers, and her large cloak of white fox skins, beneath which peep out her scarlet leggings, and a pair of moccasins, not smartly decorated like those she has for sale, but made of plain buff leather, better suited to the great flat snow-shoes by her side, with which she has made her way hither across the deep snow. She speaks but little, yet her keen and watchful glances show that she is by no means unobservant of what is going on around her. See! one of the market women has stopped just in front of her, but it is only to have a good look at the glossy wrapper, white as snow, which glistens quite dazzlingly in the bright sunlight.

“Ah, child,” says the woman, good-humouredly, as the girl rises and stands upright before her, “no one is likely to take you for the ’Black Lady of Sorel.’”

Contrary to her wont, for she seldom speaks except when directly questioned, the Indian girl exclaimed, “The Black Lady of Sorel, madame! Who is she?”

“Nay, my good girl,” replied the woman, not at all displeased at being addressed as madame, “I don’t mean a real lady, but the ghost who is seen sometimes walking on the wall of the fort at midnight, of course.”

“I have indeed heard say that there are ghosts,” said the girl, “but I never saw one, madame.”

“Nor I, child,” was the reply, “and I am sure I don’t want to.”

“But what makes her walk about in such a strange place?” asked the girl, with unusual animation.

“You silly child, how should I know? My husband says that the soldiers at the fort, though they don’t like to talk about it, declare it is the ghost of some very wicked person whom the king caused to be shut up there, and who, though she has been dead ever so long, is still trying to get out. But I cannot stop gossiping here, so good-bye. Don’t be frightened at the ghost, child; it won’t hurt you, though you are only a red skin.”

Early on the following morning there was drumming enough to deafen one as the guard turned out in honour of Colonel de Valricour, who was received by the officer he had come to replace in the command of the fort. They held a long conference together on various points connected with the duties of the garrison, and these had been all duly disposed of when the old commandant thus addressed his successor

“I have now only one thing more to do, monsieur, and that is to transfer to your keeping two state prisoners now in the fort. They were sent here two or three months ago, as the secret register will show you, and they pass by the names of Godefroid and Gabrielle. Their real names, however, as given in the king’s warrant, are Isidore de Beaujardin and Marguerite Lacroix.”

The baron started from his seat, exclaiming, “You do not mean to say” but he could get no further.

“So it is,” was the reply. “You seem startled, colonel. Ah, I hope these are not people in whom you are interested. I know nothing of them, but I supposed they must be highly connected.”

“I am interested in them indeed,” said the baron, greatly agitated; “in fact they are nearly related to me. To think that I should find them here, and that they should actually be placed in my charge.”

“I am really concerned about it,” said the ex-commandant. “It is a singularly painful position, for of course,” he added, looking rather dubiously at do Valricour, “the king’s warrant is a thing that one cannot play with or disregard, however distressing it may be to one’s feelings.”

“Sir,” exclaimed the baron, sternly, “I do not want any suggestions from you in such a matter. I know my duty, and the king’s warrant would be obeyed by me to the letter if it involved the very life of my own child.”

“No doubt, no doubt,” was the answer. “I have only further to say that it is a part of the minister’s injunctions, as you will find in perusing them, that these two persons are not to be allowed to hold any communication with each other, and are to be carefully secluded from observation. Gabrielle has, of herself, chosen to wear a long mourning veil which she never removes; but as to all that, Monsieur lé Baron, it is for you to act according to your instructions. I will now prepare for my departure, and I do myself the honour of bidding you adieu.”

“Is it possible?” muttered M. de Valricour, as he paced up and down the chamber when left to himself. “So the poor boy was seized, after all, and my brother-in-law must have been misled as to his being at large. And Marguerite too, whom I promised to protect. What! must I act as her gaoler? I could be thankful to any English bullet that would save me from this.” He sat down for a little while and endeavoured to collect himself, but it was of no use, and more than one tear dropped on the floor as the old soldier bowed his head and prayed for strength to do his duty. “I never knew how much I loved the boy till now,” said he; “but he was so frank, so brave, so generous. And the poor forlorn orphan! Well,” he exclaimed as he rose from his chair, “I can at least comfort them separately. Each one at least may be consoled by knowing that the other is alive and well. Yes, I will go at once.”

Proceeding straight to the apartment occupied by Godefroid, he tapped at the door. A soldier opened it and saluted: “The prisoner is very bad, sir,” said he, “I fancy he must be half out of his mind, he talks such stuff, and if not well watched he is like enough to make away with himself.”

Greatly shocked at this announcement the baron stepped forward hastily and entered the mean room, where the prisoner was lying on a pallet groaning most distressingly. Summoning up all his self-command the visitor approached the bed, but instantly started back exclaiming, “What is this?”

“Ah, sir,” said the attendant, “he has been like this, off and on, ever since he was brought here. Sometimes he calls himself Jasmin, and says he has betrayed his master for money, like Judas; sometimes he raves about a letter which he says he wants to show, and then again he don’t, just as he happens to be better or worse; sometimes he talks about a Madame de Valricour; but one does not mind what a man like that talks about.”

“No, no, of course not,” replied the baron hurriedly. “As you have always attended to him you can do so still. He sees no one else, I suppose?”

“Of course not,” said the man; “I’ve been used to this kind of work before, sir more’s the pity and I know my duty.” Whereupon the new commandant, after a special injunction to the man to be watchful, returned to his own apartment.

“Yes, it is plain enough,” said he, as he mused over what he had just witnessed. “They did seize the wrong man, and Isidore is no doubt at large; that is something to be thankful for at all events. I am very much afraid, however, that my lady the baroness has been more deeply concerned in this business than Beaujardin cared to tell me. Well, I can let Marguerite know that her husband is safe, and that I will make her hard fate as light as I can till something can be done.”

With these words he rose, and passing along the corridor to the other end of the fort, presently reached the door of the apartment allotted to Gabrielle. He knocked gently at the door, but no answer was returned. He knocked again, and for the third time, then he impatiently pushed open the door.

The prisoner was standing at the opposite end of the room, and as she turned towards him he noticed the long black veil which was thrown over her head, and covered her face, descending almost to the ground.

“Marguerite!” said he, scarce able to hide his emotion, “Marguerite! Do you not remember me?”

She started; at first she had not recognised him, but the voice soon recalled to her recollection the kindness and sympathy he had shown to her when they first met at Quebec the year before. Still she made no answer.

“Why so silent?” said he, in some surprise. “You may lift your veil to me, for I am thankful to say that I am the new commandant of this place, and my heartfelt wish is to comfort you, and help you if I can.”

There was a brief pause, then the veil was lifted, and revealed the face of Amoahmeh.

It was some little time before the baron could recover from the shock.

“What is all this?” he at last exclaimed. “Where is Marguerite or Gabrielle and who are you?”

“If Monsieur de Valricour has forgotten me, I have not forgotten one who was once so kind to me,” replied Amoahmeh.

“What!” said he, as the words called up a recollection of the interest he had taken in Marguerite’s protegee. “Why, you are the Indian girl who saved Isidore’s life at Fort William Henry. How came you here?”

Amoahmeh did not at first reply: she was not sure how far her questioner was to be trusted with that secret.

“Do you know what you have done?” he continued, impatiently. “If, as I fancy you have helped her to escape, I ought to have you taken out and shot before you are an hour older.”

“Amoahmeh is ready to die,” was the calm rejoinder.

The baron strode up and down, scarce knowing whether to be most pleased or angry, yet sorely puzzled what to do.

“Stay,” said he. “You were handed over to me as Gabrielle; it is no business of mine that my predecessor handed over to me the wrong person, and let the right Gabrielle escape. And yet, glad as I am for one thing,” he added, looking compassionately on his prisoner, “it goes to my heart to think that you should be repaid for your devotion by such a fate as this, not to say worse still when I may not be here to look after you. I cannot let you go,” said he, stopping abruptly in front of her; “no, I can’t let you go. I don’t care even to ask you where she is, or anything about her; you have been delivered over to me as Gabrielle, and my duty is to keep you safe. I might be shot nay, I would rather be than betray my trust.”

Amoahmeh knelt down and took his hand.

“Monsieur,” said she, “if all the doors of this cruel place were open Amoahmeh would stay and die here rather than bring trouble on one who has been kind to her and them.”

“You are a noble girl indeed,” said de Valricour, as he raised her up. “Only one thing more you need not fear my betraying you. How on earth did you discover that she was here?”

“I was at Quebec some weeks ago,” answered Amoahmeh, “and overheard some of the market people talking about a ship which had arrived there from Nantes. The sailors had told them there were two mysterious passengers on board, who were said to be state prisoners. My heart leaped when I thought of what my poor young benefactor had related to me about the lady; and when I found that the vessel had gone further up the river, I traced it to Three Rivers, where I heard a similar report. With such a clue even a mere child of the pale faces could have followed the trail, and after some time, with Heaven’s blessing, I was rewarded by finding out that the prisoners were brought here.”

“Then they are both safe?” said the baron, eagerly.

“Yes, she is by this time far on the way to one who will befriend her.”

“And he?”

“The great chief of the pale-faced warriors has sent him far away to the fort on the great river where the sun goes down.”

“Do you mean to say he went to General Montcalm?” inquired the baron, eagerly. But Amoahmeh, fearful lest she might have said too much, hurriedly drew the veil over her face and only replied, “What should Gabrielle know of him?”

“Well, well,” said de Valricour, “I will question you no more, though how you ever came in here and she got out is a mystery to me. But I have other matters to see to, so farewell for the present.”

Two little scenes that had taken place within the walls of the fort on the preceding night accounted for the mystery. The clock had not long struck an hour after midnight, when one of the soldiers, who had just been relieved, entered the guard-room well-nigh covered with snow from head to foot, and looking as pale as death.

“You found it cold enough out there to-night, comrade,” said one of the men, roused by his entrance; “if it goes on like this we must get half-hour reliefs again, or some of us will be found frozen to death on guard, like poor Jean Maret was last year.”

“Cold!” ejaculated the sentry, “I don’t care for cold, and I would as soon die of frost as see again what I’ve seen to-night.”

“What! the black ghost?” inquired the other, but with bated breath.

“Black! I should think not, I’ve heard of that; but if ever there was a white ghost in the world I’ve seen one to-night, flying along over the snow where any human being would have floundered over head and ears, and at last it went over the edge of the fosse, where the fall would have broken any mortal’s neck to a certainty. But lo! before I could look round, there it was again flitting right past me in a whirl of snow, and with a blast that swept me clean off my feet.”

“Why didn’t you send a bullet through it?” said his comrade.

“Through it! Yes, that’s just it. Any bullet but a silver one made out of a crown piece cut crosswise would only go through that sort of thing. Who ever heard of killing a ghost? Well, I only came to this horrid place last week, but if things are to go on like this, I shall pitch away my firelock and desert some night.”

“Then you had better do it before de Loison goes, Comrade. He is an easy-going fellow enough, and don’t like the bother of catching runaways, and says it is only wasting good cartridges. To-morrow we are to have old Valricour here instead; he is another kind of customer, for though he is as harmless as a baby, and as tender-hearted as a woman off duty, just try your tricks on him, and he will shoot you as soon as look at you.”

“I don’t care,” replied the other doggedly; “I may as well be shot as frightened to death.”

Perhaps a leaden bullet might not have proved quite so harmless as the superstitious sentry had supposed. When the apparition first vanished into the fosse opposite the corner of the fort, Marguerite was asleep, and dreaming that she was once more at Quebec, and listening to Isidore, as he sang that wondrously beautiful air of Stradella’s. Presently she awoke with a sigh, but only to hear the enchanting melody continued in a low, soft voice. Was she awake, or still asleep? Hastily raising herself, she beheld, with a feeling of mingled surprise and awe, a tall slim figure clad in white, on which the night lamp cast just light enough to make it stand out from the surrounding gloom. The song ceased, and a chill blast sweeping through the chamber made her shudder. Was it the chill of death?

“Hush, lady! Fear nothing,” said the apparition in a low voice. “It is Amoahmeh. Make haste, rise at once; I have come to set you free.”

Scarce knowing what she did, Marguerite obeyed the strange bidding.

“Quick, put this on, and draw the hood well round your face,” said her visitor, throwing over her the great white mantle. “Monsieur is alive and safe, and you will meet again if you can but escape from here.”

By this time Marguerite had somewhat recovered from her amazement, though she could as yet scarcely grasp all the reality of what was passing.

“Amoahmeh! Is it indeed you? Merciful Heaven! Is he then really safe?” she added, clasping her bands.

“Quick, quick!” replied Amoahmeh. “This way, through the casement slip your feet into these, they are no strange things to one who has been so long among us,” and with these words she pointed to the snow-shoes which lay just outside the window, already half-hidden by the snow.

Marguerite shrank back alarmed, but Amoahmeh continued

“Fear nothing, madame; I came up by the drift, which runs right down into the ditch. Turn then to the right, and you will come upon another drift, which will take you out upon the slope. At the foot of it you will find an Indian, who will conduct you to my tribe, and they will conceal you till they can make their way to Boulanger’s cottage, near Quebec. Hasten, I beseech you. There is no time to be lost. If the sentries challenge you, heed them not, but speed on for your life.”

“And you!” cried Marguerite; “you cannot follow in your moccasins only, and in that dress you must be seen, and may be fired upon.”

“Fear not for me, madame,” was the prompt reply. “I am still an Indian girl, and can laugh at any attempt to keep me in such a place as this longer than I choose to stay. Quick, if you would hope over again to see the one you love most dearly.”

Scarce daring to breathe, in spite of all her courage, Amoahmeh watched the receding form as, with the parting words, “May Heaven reward you!” Marguerite passed into the raging snow-storm, and was soon lost even to the keen eyes of her deliverer. Still, however, Amoahmeh remained there bending forward, as if to catch some distant sound. At last it came. High even above the roaring and howling of the storm was heard what less practised ears might have taken for the shrill scream of an eagle winging its flight in safety to its nest. Then as she recognised the signal, Amoahmeh closed the casement, drew the black veil around her, and calmly lay down to rest, nor did she wake until she was aroused by the beating of the drums that announced the arrival of the new commandant.