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href="#ulink_75973c99-2019-5224-9a4a-f956f9d95583">LAST DAYS.

       XIX.

       PRES-DE-VILLE.

       XX.

       SAULT-AU-MATELOT.

       END OF BOOK THIRD.

       BOOK IV—AFTER THE STORM.

       I.

       THE CONFESSIONAL.

       II.

       BLANCHE'S PROPHECY.

       III.

       THE PROPHECY FULFILLED.

       IV.

       DAYS OF SUSPENSE.

       V.

       THE INVALID.

       VI.

       THE SAVING STROKE.

       VII.

       DONALD'S FATE.

       VIII.

       THE BURDENED HEART.

       IX.

       EBB AND FLOW.

       X.

       ON THE BRINK.

       XI.

       IN THE VALE OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

       XII.

       IN THE FIERY FURNACE.

       XIII.

       RODERICK'S LAST BATTLE.

       XIV.

       AT VALCARTIER.

       XV.

       FRIENDSHIP STRONGER THAN LOVE.

       XVI.

       THE HOUR OF GLOOM.

       XVII.

       THE GREAT RETREAT.

       XVIII.

       CONSUMMATUM EST.

       XIX.

       FINAL QUINTET.

       THE END.

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

       Table of Contents

      He stood leaning heavily on his carbine. High on his lonely perch, he slowly promenaded his eye over the dusk landscape spread out before him. It was the hour of midnight and a faint star-light barely outlined the salient features of the scenery. Behind him wound the valley of the St. Charles black with the shadows of pine and tamarac. Before him rose the crags of Levis, and beyond were the level stretches of the Beauce. To his left the waterfall of Montmorenci boomed and glistened. To his right lay silent and deserted the Plains of Abraham, over which a vapor of sanguine glory seemed to hover. Directly under him slept the ancient city of Champlain. A few lights were visible in the Chateau of St. Louis where the Civil Governor resided, and in the guard-rooms of the Jesuit barracks on Cathedral-square, but the rest of the capital was wrapped in the solitude of gloom. Not a sound was heard in the narrow streets and tortuous defiles of Lower Town. A solitary lamp swung from the bows of the war-sloop in the river.

      He stood leaning heavily on his carbine. To have judged merely from his attitude, one would have said that he was doing soldier's duty with only a mechanical vigilance. But such was not the case. Never was sentry set upon watch of heavier responsibility, and never was watch kept with keener observation. Eye, ear, brain—the whole being was absorbed in duty. Not a sight escaped him—from the changes of cloud in the lowering sky over the offing, to the deepening of shadows in the alley of Wolfe's Cove. Not a sound passed unheard—from the fluttering wing of the sparrow that had built its winter

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