A few days after this, Jessica, at her home in Boston,—in the room where she had promised her father to be George Gering’s wife,—sat watching the sea. Its slow swinging music came up to her through the October air. Not far from her sat an old man, his hands clasping a chair-arm, a book in his lap, his chin sunk on his breast. The figure, drooping helplessly, had still a distinguished look, an air of honourable pride. Presently he raised his head, his drowsy eyes lighted as they rested on her, and he said: “The fleet has not returned, my dear? Quebec is not yet taken?”

“No, father,” she replied, “not yet.”

“Phips is a great man—a great man!” he said, chuckling. “Ah, the treasure!”

Jessica did not reply. Her fingers went up to her eyes; they seemed to cool the hot lids.

“Ay, ay, it was good,” he added, in a quavering voice, “and I gave you your dowry!”

Now there was a gentle, soft laugh of delight and pride, and he reached out a hand towards her. She responded with a little laugh which was not unlike his, but there was something more: that old sweet sprightliness of her youth, shot through with a haunting modulation,—almost pensiveness, but her face was self-possessed. She drew near, pressed the old man’s hand, and spoke softly. Presently she saw that he was asleep.

She sat for some time, not stirring. At last she was about to rise and take him to his room, but hearing noises in the street she stepped to the window. There were men below, and this made her apprehensive. She hurried over, kissed the old man, passed from the room, and met her old servant Hulm in the passage, who stretched out her hand in distress.

“What is it, Hulm?” she asked, a chill at her heart. “Oh, how can I tell you!” was the answer. “Our fleet was beaten, and—and my master is a prisoner.” The wife saw that this was not all. “Tell me everything, Hulm,” she said trembling, yet ready for the worst.

“Oh, my dear, dear mistress, I cannot!”

“Hulm, you see that I am calm,” she answered. “You are only paining me.”

“They are to try him for his life!” She caught her mistress by the waist, but Jessica recovered instantly. She was very quiet, very pale, yet the plumbless grief of her eyes brought tears to Hulm’s face. She stood for a moment in deep thought.

“Is your brother Aaron in Boston, Hulm?” she asked presently.

“He is below, dear mistress.”

“Ask him to step to the dining-room. And that done, please go to my father. And, Hulm, dear creature, you can aid me better if you do not weep.”

She then passed down a side staircase and entered the dining-room. A moment afterwards Aaron Hulm came in.

“Aaron,” she said, as he stood confused before her misery, “know you the way to Quebec?”

“Indeed, madame, very well. Madame, I am sorry—”

“Let us not dwell upon it, Aaron. Can you get a few men together to go there?”

“Within an hour.”

“Very well, I shall be ready.”

“You, madame—ready? You do not think of going?”

“Yes, I am going.”

“But, madame, it is not safe. The Abenaquis and Iroquois are not friendly, and—”

“Is this friendly? Is it like a good friend, Aaron Hulm? Did I not nurse your mother when—”

He dropped on one knee, took her hand and kissed it. “Madame,” he said loyally, “I will do anything you ask; I feared only for your safety.”

An hour afterwards she came into the room where her father still slept. Stooping, she kissed his forehead, and fondled his thin grey hair. Then she spoke to Hulm.

“Tell him,” she said, “that I will come back soon: that my husband needs me, and that I have gone to him. Tell him that we will both come back—both, Hulm, you understand!”

“Dear mistress, I understand.” But the poor soul made a gesture of despair.

“It is even as I say. We will both come back,” was the quiet reply. “Something as truthful as God Himself tells me so. Take care of my dear father—I know you will; keep from him the bad news, and comfort him.”

Then with an affectionate farewell she went to her room, knelt down and prayed. When she rose she said to herself: “I am thankful now that I have no child.”

In ten minutes a little company of people, led by Aaron Hulm, started away from Boston, making for a block-house fifteen miles distant, where they were to sleep.

The journey was perilous, and more than once it seemed as if they could not reach Quebec alive, but no member of the party was more cheerful than Jessica. Her bravery and spirit never faltered before the others, though sometimes at night, when lying awake, she had a wild wish to cry out or to end her troubles in the fast-flowing Richelieu. But this was only at night. In the daytime action eased the strain, and at last she was rewarded by seeing from the point of Levis, the citadel of Quebec.

They were questioned and kept in check for a time, but at length Aaron and herself were let cross the river. It was her first sight of Quebec, and its massive, impregnable form struck a chill to her heart: it suggested great sternness behind it. They were passed on unmolested towards the Chateau St. Louis. The anxious wife wished to see Count Frontenac himself and then to find Iberville. Enemy of her country though he was, she would appeal to him. As she climbed the steep steps of Mountain Street, worn with hard travel, she turned faint. But the eyes of curi............