SaepÈ malum hoc nobis, si mens non lÆva fuisset,
De coelo tactas memini praedicere quercus.

Virgil.

All was silence and gloom at D'Haberville Manor; the very servants went about their work with a spiritless air, far unlike their usual gayety. Madame D'Haberville choked back her tears that she might not add to her husband's grief, and Blanche, for her mother's sake, did her weeping in secret; for in three days the vessel was to set sail. Captain D'Haberville had bidden his two friends, the priest and M. d'Egmont, to meet Jules and Archie at a farewell dinner. At this meal every one strove to be cheerful, but the attempt was a conspicuous failure. The priest, wisely concluding that a sober conversation would be better than the sorrowful silence into which the party was continually dropping, introduced a subject which was beginning to press on all thoughtful minds.

"Do you know, gentlemen," said he, "that a storm is gathering dark on the horizon of New France. The English are making tremendous preparations, and everything seems to indicate an early attack."

"And then?" exclaimed Uncle Raoul.

"Then, whatever you like, my dear chevalier," answered the curÉ; "but it must be acknowledged that we have hardly forces enough at our command to long resist our powerful neighbors."

"My dear abbÉ," exclaimed Uncle Raoul, "I think that in your reading this morning you must have stumbled on a chapter of the lamentations of Jeremiah."

"I might turn your weapon against yourself," retorted the priest, "by reminding you that those prophecies were fulfilled."

"No matter," almost shouted Uncle Raoul, clinching his teeth. "The English, indeed! The English take Canada! By heaven, I would undertake to defend Quebec with my crutch. You forget, it seems, that we have always beaten the English; that we have beaten them against all odds—five to one—ten to one—sometimes twenty to one! The English, indeed!"

"Concedo," said the curÉ; "I am ready to grant all you claim, and more too if you like. But mark this. We grow weaker and weaker with every victory, while the enemy, thanks to the foresight of England, rises with new strength from each defeat; meanwhile, France leaves us to our own resources."

"Which shows," exclaimed Captain D'Haberville, "the faith our King reposes in our courage."

"Meanwhile," interposed M. d'Egmont, "he sends us so few soldiers that the colony grows weaker day by day."

"Give us but plenty of powder and lead," answered the captain, "and a hundred of my militia will do more in such a war as that which is coming upon us—a war of reconnoitrings, ambuscades, and surprises—than would five hundred of the best soldiers of France. I speak from experience. For all that, however, we stand in great need of help from the mother country. Would that a few of those battalions which our beloved monarch pours into the north of Europe to fight the battles of Austria, might be devoted to the defense of the colony."

"You might rather wish," said "the good gentleman," "that Louis XV had left Maria Theresa to fight it out with Prussia, and had paid a little more attention to New France."

"It is perhaps hardly becoming in a young man like me," said Lochiel, "to mix myself up in your arguments; but, to make up for my lack of experience, I will call history to my aid. Beware of the English, beware of a government ever alive to the interests of its colonies, which it identifies with the interests of the empire; beware of a nation which has the tenacity of the bull-dog. If the conquest of Canada is necessary to her she will never swerve from her purpose or count the sacrifice. Witness my unhappy country."

"Bah!" cried Uncle Raoul, "the Scotch, indeed!"

Lochiel began to laugh.

"Gently, my dear Uncle Raoul," said "the good gentleman"; "and, to make use of your favorite maxim when you are collecting the rents, let us render unto CÆsar that which is CÆsar's. I have studied the history of Scotland, and I can assure you that neither in valor nor in patriotism need the Scotch yield place to any other nation, ancient or modern."

"Oh, you see, I only wanted to tease this other nephew of mine," exclaimed Uncle Raoul, swelling his chest; "for we know a little history ourselves, thank God. No one knows better than Archie my esteem for his fellow-countrymen, and my admiration for their dashing courage."

"Yes, dear uncle, and I thank you for it," said Archie, grasping him by the hand; "but distrust the English profoundly. Beware of their perseverance, and remember the Delenda est Carthago of the Romans."

"So much the better," said Jules. "I will be grateful to their perseverance if it brings me back to Canada with my regiment. May I do my first fighting against them here, on this soil of Canada, which I love and which holds all that is dearest to me! You shall come with me, my brother, and shall take revenge in this new world for all that you have suffered in your own country."

"With all my heart," cried Archie, grasping the handle of his knife as if it were the terrible claymore of the Camerons. "I will serve as a volunteer in your company, if I can not get a commission as an officer; and the simple soldier will be as proud of your exploits as if he had a hand in them himself."

The young men warmed into excitement at the thought of heroic deeds; the great black eyes of Jules shot fire, and the old warlike ardor of the race suddenly flamed out in him. This spirit was infectious, and from all lips came the cry of Vive le Roi! From the eyes of mother, sister, and aunt, in spite of all their efforts to restrain them, there escaped a few tears silently.

The conversation became eager. Campaigns were planned, the English were beaten by sea and land, and Canada was set upon a pinnacle of splendor and prosperity.

"Fill up your glasses," cried Captain D'Haberville, pouring himself out a bumper. "I am going to propose a health which everybody will drink with applause: 'Success to our arms; and may the glorious flag of the fleur-de-lys float forever over every fortress of New France!'"

Just as they were raising the glasses to their lips a terrific report was heard. It was like a stupendous clap of thunder, or as if some huge body had fallen upon the manor house, which shook to its very foundations. Every one rushed out of doors. The sun was shining with all the brilliance of a perfect day in July. They scaled the roof, but there was no sign anywhere that the house had been struck. Every one was stupefied with awe, the seigneur himself appearing particularly impressed. "Can it be," he exclaimed, "that this phenomenon presages the fall of my house!"

In vain did M. d'Egmont, the priest, and Uncle Raoul endeavor to refer the phenomenon to ordinary causes; they could not remove the painful impression it had left. The glasses were left unemptied in the dining-room, and the little company passed into the drawing-room to take their coffee.

What took place afterward only confirmed the D'Haberville family in their superstitious fears. Who knows, after all, whether such omens, to which the ancient world lent implicit belief, may not indeed be warnings from heaven when some great evil threatens us? If, indeed, we must reject all that our feeble reason comprehends not, we should speedily become Pyrrhonists, utter skeptics, like MoliÈre's Marphorius. Who knows? But one might write a whole chapter on this "who knows."

The weather, which had been so fine all day, began to cloud up toward six o'clock in the evening. By seven the rain fell in torrents; the thunder seemed to shatter the vault of heaven, and a great mass of rock, struck by a thunder-bolt, fell from the bluff with terrific noise and obliterated the highway.

Captain D'Haberville, who had carried on an immense deal of forest warfare along with his Indian allies, had become tinctured with many of their superstitions; and when the disasters of 1759 fell upon him, he was convinced that they had been foretold to him two years before.

Jules, seated at supper between his mother and sister and holding their hands in his, shared in their depression. In order to turn their thoughts into another channel, he asked his mother to tell one of those stories with which she used to amuse his childhood.

"It would give me," said he, "yet another memory of the tenderest of mothers to take with me to Europe."

"I can refuse my boy nothing," said Madame D'Haberville; and she began the following story:

"A mother had an only child, a little girl, fair as a lily, whose great blue eyes wandered from her mother to heaven and back from heaven to her mother, only to fix themselves on heaven at last. How proud and happy was this loving mother when every one praised the beauty of her child! Her cheeks like the rose just blown, her tresses fair and soft as the beaten flax and falling over her shoulders in gracious waves! Immeasurably happy was this good mother.

"At last she lost the child she idolized; and, like Rachel, she would not be comforted. She passed her days in the cemetery embracing the little grave. Mad with grief, she kept calling to the child with ceaseless pleadings:

"'My darling! my darling! listen to your mother, who is come to carry you to your own bed, where you shall sleep so warmly! Oh, how cold you must be under the wet sod!'

"She kept her ear close to the earth, as if she expected a response. She trembled at every slightest noise, and sobbed to discover that it was but the murmur of the weeping willow moved by the breeze. The passers-by used to say: 'This grass, so incessantly watered by her weeping, should be always green; but her tears are so bitter that they wither it, even like the fierce sun of midday after a heavy shower.'

"She wept beside a brook where the little one had been accustomed to play with pebbles, and in whose pure stream she had so often washed the little feet. The passers-by used to say:

"'This mother sheds so many tears that she swells the current of the stream!'

"She nursed her grief in every room wherein the little one had played. She opened the trunk in which she kept religiously all the child's belongings—its clothes, its playthings, the little gold-lined cup of silver from which she had last given it to drink. Passionately she kissed the little shoes, and her sobs would have melted a heart of steel.

"She went continually to the village church to pray, to implore God to work one miracle in her behalf, and give her back her child. And the voice of God seemed to answer her:

"'Like David you shall go to her, but she shall not return to you.'

"Then she would cry:

"'When, Lord, when shall such joy be mine?'

"She threw herself down before the image of the blessed Virgin, our Lady of Sorrows; and it seemed to her that the eyes of the Madonna rested upon her sadly, and that she read in them these words:

"'Endure with patience, even as I have done, O daughter of Eve, till the day when your mourning shall be turned into gladness.'

"And the unhappy mother cried anew:

"'But when, when will that blessed day come, O Mother of God?'

"One day the wretched mother, having prayed with more than her usual fervor, having shed, if possible, more tears than was her wont, fell asleep in the church, exhausted with her grief. The sexton shut the doors without noticing her. It must have been about midnight when she awoke. A ray of moonlight illuminating the altar revealed to her that she was yet in the church. Far from being terrified, she rather rejoiced at her situation, if such a thing as joy could be said to find any place in her sad heart.

"'Now,' said she, 'I can pray alone with God, alone with the Blessed Virgin, alone with myself!'

"Just as she was going to kneel down a low sound made her raise her head.

"She saw an old man, who, entering by one of the side doors of the sacristy, made his way to the altar with a lighted taper in his hand. She saw with astonishment that it was the former sexton, dead twenty years before. She felt no fear at the sight, for every sentiment of her breast had been swallowed up in grief. The specter climbed the altar steps, lighted the candles, and made the customary preparations for the celebration of a requiem mass. When he turned she saw that his eyes were fixed and expressionless, like those of a statue. He re-entered the sacristy, but reappeared almost at once, followed this time by a venerable priest bearing a chalice and clothed in full vestments. His great eyes, wide open, were filled with sadness; his movements were like those of an automaton. She recognized the old priest, twenty years dead, who had baptized her and given her her first communion. Far from being terrified by this marvel, the poor mother, wrapped up in her sorrow, concluded that her old friend had been touched by her despair, and had broken the bonds of the sepulchre for her sake.

"All was somber, grim, and silent in this mass thus celebrated and ministered by the dead. The candles cast a feeble light like that of a dying lamp. At the moment when the bell of the 'Sanctus,' striking with a dull sound, as when a bone is broken by the grave-digger in some old cemetery, announced the descent of Christ upon the altar, the door of the sacristy opened anew and admitted a procession of little children, marching two and two, who traversed the choir and filed into the space to the right of the altar. These children, the oldest of whom had had scarce six years of life upon earth, wore crowns of immortelles and carried in their hands, some of them baskets of flowers, some of them little vases of perfume, others cups of gold and silver filled with a transparent liquid. They stepped lightly, and a celestial rapture shone upon their faces. One only, a little girl at the end of the procession, appeared to follow the others painfully, loaded down as she was with two great jars which she could hardly drag. Her little feet, reddening under the pressure, were lifted heavily, and her crown of immortelles seemed withered. The poor mother strove to reach out her arms, to utter a cry of joy on recognizing her own little one, but she found that she could neither move nor speak. She watched all the children file past her into the place to the left of the altar, and she recognized several who had but lately died. When her own child, bending under her burden, passed before her, she noticed that at every step the two jars besprinkled the floor with the water that filled them to the brim. When the little one's eyes met those of her mother, she saw in their depths a mingling of sadness, tenderness, and reproach. The poor woman strove to clasp her in her arms, but sight and consciousness alike fled from her. When she recovered from her swoon the church was empty.

"In a monastery about a league from the village, dwelt a monk who was renowned for his sanctity.

"This old man never left his cell, save to listen with sympathy to the bitter confessions of sinners, or to succor the afflicted. To the first he said:

"'I know the corruptness of man's nature, so be not cast down; come to me with confidence and courage every time you fall, and my arms shall ever be open to lift you up again.'

"To the second he said: 'Since God, who is so good, lays this burden upon you now, he is reserving you for infinite joys hereafter.'

"To all he said: 'If I should confess to you the story of my life, you would be astonished to behold in me a man who has been the sport of unbridled passion, and my misfortunes would melt you to tears.'

"The poor mother threw herself sobbing at his feet, and told him the marvelous thing she had seen. The compassionate old man, who had sounded the depths of the human heart, beheld here a favorable opportunity to set bounds to this excessive anguish.

"'My dear child,' said he, 'our overwrought imagination often cheats us with illusions which must be relegated to the realms of dream. Nevertheless, the Church teaches us that such marvels can really take place. It is not for us in our ignorance to set limit to the power of God. It is not for us to question the decrees of Him who took the worlds into his hand and launched them into space. I accept, then, the vision, and I will explain it to you. This priest, coming from the tomb to say a mass, doubtless obtained God's permission to fulfill part of his sacred ministry which he had left undone; and the sexton, by forgetfulness or negligence, was probably the cause of his omission. The children crowned with immortelles are those who died with their baptismal grace unimpaired. They who carried baskets of flowers or vases of perfume are those whose mothers gave them up to God with holy resignation, comforted by the thought that they were exchanging this world of pain for the celestial country and the ineffable light about the throne. In the little cups of gold and silver were the tears of mothers who, though torn by the anguish of their loss yet taught themselves to cry: "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord."'

"On her knees the poor mother drank in the old man's words. As Martha exclaimed at the feet of Christ, 'Lord, if thou hadst been here, my brother had not died. But I know that even now, whatever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee,' even so the poor mother cried in her ardent faith, 'If thou hadst been with me, my father, my little one would not have died; but I know that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask of God, God will give it thee.'

"The good monk reflected a moment and prayed God for wisdom. It was a sentence of life or of death that he was about to pronounce upon this mother who appeared inconsolable. He was about to strike a blow which should either restore her to reason or break her heart forever. He took her hands in his withered and trembling clasp, and said gently:

"'You loved, then, this child whom you have lost?'

"'Loved her? My God, what a question!' And she threw herself moaning at his feet. Then, raising herself suddenly, she grasped the skirt of his cassock and besought him through her sobs: 'You are a saint, my father; oh, give me back my child—my darling!'

"'Yes,' said the monk, 'you loved your little one. Doubtless you would have done much to spare her even the lightest grief?'

"'Anything, everything, my father!' exclaimed the poor woman; 'I would have been rolled on the hot coals to spare her a little burn.'

"'I believe you,' said the monk; 'and doubtless you love her yet?'

"'Do I love her? Merciful Heaven!' cried the wretched mother, springing to her feet as if bitten by a serpent; 'I see, priest, that you know little of a mother's love if you imagine death can efface it.' And trembling from head to foot, she burst again into a torrent of tears.

"'Begone, woman,' said the old man, forcing himself to speak with sternness; 'begone, woman, who hast come to impose upon me; begone, woman, who liest to God and to his priest. Thou hast seen thy little one staggering under the burden of thy tears, which she gathers drop by drop, and thou tellest me that thou lovest her! She is near thee now, toiling at her task; and thou sayest that thou lovest her! Begone, woman, for thou liest to God and to his minister!'

"The eyes of the poor woman were opened as if she were awaking from a frightful dream. She confessed that her grief had been insensate, and she besought the pardon of God.

"'Go in peace,' said the old man; 'resign yourself to God's will, and the peace of God will be shed upon your soul.'

"Some days after, she told the good monk that her little one, radiant with joy and carrying a basket of flowers, had appeared to her in a dream and thanked her for having ceased from her tears. The good woman, who was rich in this world's goods, devoted the rest of days and her substance to charity. To the children of the poor she gave most loving attention, and adopted several of them. When she died they wrote upon her tomb, 'Here lies the mother of the orphans.'"

All were deeply moved by Madame D'Haberville's story, and some were even in tears. Jules embraced his mother, and left the room to hide his emotion.

"O God," he cried, "guard this life of mine! for if evil should befall me, my loving mother would be as inconsolable as the mother in the story she has just told us."

A day or two later Jules and Archie were tossing upon the Atlantic; and at the end of two months, after a prosperous voyage, they reached the shores of France.