“Let us go,” she said; “they are calling.”

That was all.

Victor lay in the living-room of the fort.  A shroud covered all but his face.  A little gold crucifix, belonging to Father Chaumonot, lay against his lips.  Candles burned at his head and at his feet.  There was quiet in his breast, peace on his boyish face.

“Come, Anne,” said madame softly.

“Let me watch,” said Anne.  “I have always loved him.”

They buried Victor under the hill, at the foot of a kingly pine where a hawk had builded his eery home.  A loving hand had carved upon the tree these words:  “Here lies Victor de Saumaise, a brave and gallant Frenchman, a poet, a gentleman, and soldier.  He lived honorably and he died well.”  Close to the shores of the lake they buried the vicomte and the last of the D’Herouvilles.  But only a roll of earth tells where they lie.  Thus, a heart of sunshine and two hearts of storm repose in the eternal shadow, in peace, in silence.  The same winds whisper mournfully above them, or sing joyously, or breathe in thunder.  The heat of summer and the chill of winter pass and repass; the long grasses grow and die; the sun and the moon and the throbbing stars spread light upon these sepulchers.  Two hundred and fifty years have come and gone, yet do they lie as on that day.  After death, inanimation; only the inanimate is changeless.

CHAPTER XXXIII

HOW GABRIELLE DIANE DE MONTBAZON LOVED

How Brother Jacques, the Chevalier, Madame de Brissac and Anne de Vaudemont, guided by the Black Kettle, reached Quebec late in November, passing through a thousand perils, the bitter cold of nights and the silence of days more terrifying than the wolf’s howl or the whine of the panther whose jaws dripped with the water of hunger, is history, as is the final doom of the Onondaga mission, which occurred early the following year.  What became of the vicomte’s confederates is unknown.

All throughout the wild journey the Chevalier’s efforts were directed toward keeping up the lagging spirits of the women, who found it easier to despair than to hope.  Night after night he sat beside them during his watch, always giving up his place reluctantly.  That his constant cheeriness had its effect there is no doubt; for before they came within sight of the chateau madame had smiled twice.

They arrived in Quebec late in the afternoon.  Immediately Anne entered the Ursulines, to come forth again only when a nun.

Breton fell upon his ragged knees in thanksgiving.  The sight of his gaunt, bearded master filled him with the keenest joy, for this master of his had been given up as dead.

“And Monsieur le Marquis?” was the Chevalier’s first question.

“He lives.”

Early that evening Breton came to the Chevalier, who was dreaming before his fire.

“Monsieur Paul, but I have found such a remarkable paper in my copy of Rabelais!  Here it is.”