“And this,” the guide continued, with the loquacity of his kind; “directly at our feet is the River Saint Lawrence. That building there with the pointed roofs is the Chateau Frontenac, built on the exact site of the old Chateau de Saint Louis. Beyond it, you see the spire of the French Basilica, consecrated in sixteen hundred and sixty-six, and, slightly to the right, are the roofs and spires of Laval.” “And, right under our noses, the city of Quebec, huddled indiscriminately around The Maple Leaf,” Brock interrupted, as their red-coated escort stopped for breath. “Miss Howard, I wish you hadn’t been quite so generous in your fee.”
“But I am sure it is very interesting,” Churchill observed politely. “Remember that I am a stranger here.”
The guide took the hint and edged towards Churchill’s end of the line.
“This is what is termed the King’s Bastion,” he went on glibly. “Beyond is Cape Diamond, so called from the crystals of quartz that used to be found there. Now they are very rare; but,” with every appearance of anxiety, he fell to searching his pockets; “but I happen to have—”
Again Brock interrupted.
“No use, Thomas Atkins,” he said jovially. “We are too old birds to be caught in that trap.”
Unabashed, the guide let the bits of quartz drop back into his pocket.
“Many ladies admire my buttons,” he said tentatively. “They make interesting hat pins.”
“The ladies, or the buttons?” Nancy queried innocently. “But, thank you, I think you have showed us everything, and we can find our way out alone.” And, leaving the bastion, she led the way back to the tiny cannon of Bunker Hill, where she loyally halted her companions.
A cloudless sky arched above the old gray Citadel, that morning. Inside the walls, the daily routine was going its usual leisurely course. Few visitors were abroad; but an occasional private strayed across the enclosure and, not far from the gate, guard-mounting was just taking place. Nancy watched the new guard as it tramped out into the open, saluted and went into position, its every evolution followed in detail by the stout Newfoundland dog who waddled along at its heels. Then, as the band swung about and marched off for its daily practice, she moved away.
“Come,” she said a little impatiently. “After the glorious past, the present is a bit of anticlimax. Shall we go for a walk?”
Her companions assented, and together they went down into Saint Louis Street and turned towards the terrace. As they passed Barth’s quarters, he unexpectedly appeared upon the steps.
“Whither?” Nancy called blithely, as he lifted his cap.
“To post some letters.”
“Come with us, instead,” she bade him, notwithstanding the murmured protestations which arose from both Brock and Churchill.
To Nancy’s mind, the previous evening had not been altogether a shining success. For half an hour after their introduction, she had dragged the two men through a species of conversation; but there had been a triple sigh of relief as the evening gun had marked the hour for Barth’s departure. Nancy had followed him to the parlor door.
“Good night,” she said cordially there. “We shall see you, in the morning?”
“Oh,—yes. If I can,” Barth answered vaguely.
Then he had made a dejected exit. As he strolled languidly away to his room, he alternated between fears of a possible relapse in his ankle, and mutinous thoughts regarding the hero of Valley Forge.
“Beastly race, those American men!” was the finale of his reflections. “Oh, rather!”
Now, however, his dejection vanished in the face of the sunshiny morning and of Nancy’s greeting.
“Won’t I be in the way?” he asked.
“Why should you?”
“I can’t walk much, you know.”
“But I thought Englishmen were famous for their walking,” Churchill said, as he greeted the young Englishman much as a genial mastiff might salute a youthful pug.
Barth glanced towards Nancy with a confident smile.
“Didn’t Miss Howard tell you?” he asked.
“Tell me what?”
“About the way we first met. I sprained my ankle, and Miss Howard turned into a hired nurse, and took care of me.”
Churchill’s eyes sought Nancy’s scarlet face.
“The deuce she did! Where was this party?”
“This—?”
“This party?”
“Oh, no. It wasn’t a party at all. I was entirely by myself. I have sometimes wondered how she ever chanced to find me in all that crowd.”
“Probably the Good Sainte Anne guided her unworthy namesake,” Nancy responded lightly. “That was where the tragedy occurred.”
“Oh!” Beside Barth’s oh, that of Churchill seemed needlessly crisp and curt. “But I thought you were bored to death at Sainte Anne-de-Beaupré, Nancy.”
“That was only at first. Later, events happened.”
“So I should judge. Strange you forgot to mention them!”
“There are unexplained gaps in your own letters,” she reminded him audaciously. “It was only by chance that I heard whom you took out, the night of the Leighton dinner.” Then she turned to the others. “We mustn’t go far, this morning,” she added; “not so much on account of your foot, Mr. Barth, as because of our early dinner. Shall we take ourselves to the terrace?”
High up on the glacis in the lee of the King’s Bastion, they found a belated bit of Indian summer. Nancy dropped down on the crisp, dry turf and, turning, beckoned St. Jacques to her side. Crossing the terrace with Barth, she had seen the Frenchman pacing to and fro beside the rail, and she had answered his wishful greeting with a smile of welcome. Leaving Brock and Churchill to lead the way, Nancy had sauntered idly along in the rear, adjusting her quick step to the frailties of Barth’s ankle, her alert happiness to the darker mood which sat heavily upon her other companion.
“You are not going to fail us, this afternoon, M. St. Jacques?” she asked now.
Silently he shook his head.
“Your cousin has a perfect day,” he said, after a pause.
“And he appreciates it. Already, he declares himself the slave of the place.”
“You are coming with me, in the morning?” St. Jacques inquired.
“I am not sure. I hope we can; but Mr. Churchill is not a very good Catholic,” she answered, with a smile.
St. Jacques’s eyes lighted mirthfully.
“But Sainte Anne is his patron saint?” he questioned.
Nancy shook her head.
“Alas, no! He has shifted his allegiance, and poor Sainte Anne is feeling very much cut up about it.”
“No matter,” St. Jacques answered philosophically. “She is getting her fair share of devotees, and, with France and England at her shrine, she can afford to be content without America.” Then his face darkened. “If only she will be propitious!” he added, with sudden gravity.
Nancy’s hand shut on a tuft of grass at her side. Slowly she had come, during those past days, to the realization of the dual personality of the patron saint of Adolphe St. Jacques. Half human, half divine, the Good Sainte Anne was holding complete sway in the mind of the young Frenchman, just then. Half his unspoken wish was plain to her, half was still beyond her ken. She wondered restlessly when wou............