The traveller and his new guide had not measured
three leagues from the hospitable mansion of
Father Ducosse before the short day of the season
closed. The sun, leaving behind a lurid glow,
went down in a thick bank of clouds, and the general
aspect of nature foreboded a storm. The approach
of night, however, did not hinder their journey;
but, moving forward at a round pace, they
only stopped to breathe and bait their horses at the
infrequent inns along their route, if a lonely

[figure description] Page 076.[end figure description]

peasant's cottage, whose inmates, from hospitality rather
than for lucre, received and entertained the few
travellers who chanced to pass that way, can be
so denominated.

Towards midnight the air became milder, and
the stars, which hitherto had lighted them on their
way, began to fade gradually from the sky, as a
thin white haze spread over it like a veil of gauze.
The moon at length rose through a dense atmosphere,
and soon after the whole heavens became
white with a thick vapour, which totally obscured
her disk, but without sensibly increasing the darkness
of the night. Dark clouds along the horizon
at length began to ascend towards the zenith, and
the winds to sigh through the forests. On observing
these increasing indications of a gathering tempest,
the monk urged forward his horse, and called
to his guide, who lagged behind amusing himself
by striking at the branches above his head, to make
better speed.

“If you use your whip, Zacharie, on your pony's
back, it will be more to the purpose than your
present pastime! How far now to the convent St.
Therese?” he asked.

“A league and a leap, father; but why dost thou
not call me `son' instead of Zacharie? You holy
fathers are ever soning it, as if you'd make up for
your own lacking therein by fathering every beggar's
brat in the land. By my mother's honesty,
'tis a wise son knows his own father when so many
holy fathers call him `son' and `my son.' ”

“You speak not unadvisedly, Zacharie, and 'tis
lest such relationship should be fastened on me
that I omit, in your particular case, this form of
speech.”

“Thou hast more wisdom that I gave thy cloth
credit for, father,” replied the boy, at the same

[figure description] Page 077.[end figure description]

time, instigated by his restless spirit, making his
horse caricole until he made a demivolt across the
road against the monk, in a manner that would have
sent him from his saddle to the ground if he had
been an indifferent horseman; the catastrophe
which was, no doubt, anticipated by the mischievous
urchin.

“So, so, Paul! So, so!” he began, apologetically,
soothing the animal, “hast thou no better manners
than to thrust thy buttocks 'gainst a holy monk?
By my grandmother's spectacles! thou shalt suffer
purgatory unless thou mend thy manners. Oh,
ciel! ouf!” he suddenly cried out with pain, as the
monk's riding-whip came in contact with his face,
“ai! ah! thou canst use a switch, father, as well
as rosary. Malheur! Thou hast made the fire
fly out o' the eyes o' me, father,” he added, in a
tone that had lost a large portion of its assurance,
and riding cautiously beyond reach of the monk's
whip, “as if they had been flints and thy switch
a steel blade.”

“Then husband your tricks to practise on less
hasty travellers, Zacharie. Here is salve to anoint
your eyes,” he added, good-humouredly, and giving
him a piece of money.

“Callest thou this salve?” said Zacharie, thrusting
the half-crown into his cheek; “if I had eyes
over my body as thick as a peacock has on his tail,
thou mightst have leave to switch away at them,
one at a time, if thou wouldst heal them again with
such ointment.”

“I believe you honest, Zacharie; for once in your
life, I'll be sworn! you have spoken truth. But
forward. We must get under cover before this
storm comes on. How say you, a league farther?”

“A league from that wheezing, rheumatic bridge
we crossed ere thou gavest me that ready cut

[figure description] Page 078.[end figure description]

across the blinkers. I tell thee, I like thee better for
a blow given in right good-will, when on just provocation,
which I will not say thou hadst not, than
if thou didst mumble prayers in thy hood for my
soul's benefit, as if I were a born heathen, as some
monks I've seen would do, or fling hard Latin at
my head like Father Duc. Were I a man, I would
like to try switches with thee, ay, and steel, didst
thou carry such ungodly gear beneath thy monk's
habit.”

“What do you mean, boy?” inquired the monk,
hastily wrapping his gown closer about his person,
and riding nearer his guide.

“I mean, father,” replied Zacharie, edging farther
off, and shaking his head mysteriously, “that I
spied the hilt of a sword and the gleam of something
like pistol-butts peeping aneath thy gown
when thy fingers were searching for that ointment
thou gavest me.”

“Nay, boy, it was but my rosary and silver crucifix
you saw,” said the monk, drawing from his
bosom and exhibiting, by the faint light, these insignia
of his apparent profession; “these are our
spiritual sword and pistol, my son, with which we
combat the arts of the devil.”

“The devil combat me, then,” said the boy, incredulously,
“if I am fool enough to mistake the
arms of a brave soldier for those of a craven
monk! But thou knowst best, father,” he added,
dryly.

For the next five minutes he busily occupied
himself in switching the ears of his nag, and appeared
to have quite forgotten the subject; and the
monk, adopting the wisest course to put to sleep
any suspicion that he might entertain dangerous
either to his safety or the success of his mission,
ceased to speak any farther upon it. He

[figure description] Page 079.[end figure description]

determined, however, to watch him closely on his arrival
at the convent, lest he might betray the secret
of his disguise, for he was convinced that the boy
felt satisfied he had not been deceived, although he
might pretend to admit the explanation given him.

The atmosphere continued to thicken above their
heads, and the night grew sensibly darker every
moment. The first approaches of the long-brewing
storm were at length manifested by the occasional
falling of a crystal of snow, which rapidly
increased in size and numbers till the air was
filled with multitudinous flakes, whitening, as they
fell, their shaggy garments, their horses, the branches
of the trees, and the path before them. In a
few minutes the surface of the ground was perfectly
white, and, the wind dying away, the snow
fell in a heavy, noiseless shower, and soon nearly
obliterated all traces of their path. Fearing they
should lose it altogether, they galloped forward,
and, amid a genuine Canadian snowstorm, which
would have rendered it difficult, if not impossible,
to proceed much farther through a forest, every
vestige of which the snow was momently erasing,
while it bewildered them by confusing and obscuring
every object, they arrived at the place of their
destination on the brow of a hill overhanging the
river.

The convent St. Therese, into which we are
about to introduce the reader, was a retreat erected
by one of the religious communities of the capital
as a place of safety or security during the heat of
summer, the prevalence of an epidemic, the dangers
of war, or any event which might render a residence
in the city insecure or inconvenient. It
was, as the travellers discovered on getting close
to it, a quadrangular edifice of brick, one story in
height, with a single square tower rising from the

[figure description] Page 080.[end figure description]

centre, and surrounded by a low brick wall, enclosing
a lawn ornamented with forest trees. It was
situated on the summit of a cliff rising boldly from
the river, and at the southern extremity of a gorge
a mile in length, through which, at a profound
depth, the river furiously raged over a rocky bed.
Opposite the convent, separated from it by the
river, rose lofty hills covered with forests, with
the jagged face of a rock protruding here and there
from their sides. This site was chosen rather for
the romantic features of the surrounding scenery
than for its capabilities of defence in case of hostile
attack; yet, difficult of access, and commanding the
only road leading through the defile, it was equally
suited either for a religious retirement or a military
fortress. The monastic community was composed,
at the time of our traveller's visit, of four or five
religieuses professées, several novices, the lady superior,
and a father confessor.

“Here, father,” said Zacharie, as they drew up
their weary horses before a gate placed in the wall
surrounding the convent, “here thou'lt find those
that wear the gown as well as thou, and carry
sharper weapons than that crucifix thou tellest of.”

“How mean you, Sir Wisdom?” carelessly asked
the monk, dismounting as he spoke, and lifting a
heavy knocker, which he applied several times
loudly to the solid panel of the gate to which it
was affixed.

“Dost not know, then? but how shouldst thou
know what I mean, being a monk,” said the boy,
with a touch of irony in his voice. “I speak of
the demoiselles whose tongues and eyes are sharper
than the two-edged sword Father Duc preaches
about. Ciel! If thou couldst hear my old dam's
clapper go at times, thou wouldst say ne'er convent
bell rung louder or sword cut sharper. Mercie!

[figure description] Page 081.[end figure description]

I never see a petticoat but I plug my ears. Hearest
thou not their chattering even now? That
knocker in thy hand has set them to cawing, as
I've heard a roost of crows when I chanced to send
a rock among them.”

“Hush, boy! your tongue would outwoman
them all!” said the monk. Then grasping his
arm as he stood beside him near the gate, he added,
sternly, “While within these walls, if wise, you
will keep your tongue closely within your teeth, or
you will feel a heavier weight than that of my riding-switch.”
As he spoke a light appeared in a
window of the convent, and an individual, thrusting
his head forth, desired to know who disturbed the
repose of the inmates at an hour so untimely.

“A black sheep o'thine own flock, Father Bonaventure,”
shouted Zacharie, in reply, adding, in a
lower voice, “but I think he be a wolf in sheep's
clothing.”

“Boy,” said the monk, in a decided tone, “I
perceive you are aware that I am not what I seem.
Beneath your assumed levity you have a sufficient
share of good sense, which now may be of service
to you. I have here, as you rightly guessed,” he
continued, placing his hand on his sword, “what
will at once release me from all fear of betrayal.
But do not start back. You have no cause for
alarm. I shall not harm a hair of your head. I
will do better, trust to your generosity for preserving
the secret you possess! Have I mistaken
my man?” he added, in a tone of frank and manly
confidence, which, with his language, made its intended
impression on Zacharie, who, with his reckless
and mischievous nature, possessed a generous
spirit and certain inborn sentiments of honour, rude
though they were, and hidden under a heedless exterior,
often allied to such wild and dauntless

[figure description] Page 082.[end figure description]

characters as his; and the attitude assumed by the monk
at this crisis not only furnished a proof of his
knowledge of human nature, but did honour to his
heart.

“No, thou hast not mistaken me,” replied the
boy, firmly, and with a respectful courtesy in his
voice and manner that surprised the monk; and
then adding, in something like his usual manner,
“be thou priest or soldier, monk or devil, I would
not now betray thee. None shall know from me
thou art other than a mumbling friar, with a beard
a full yard long, hollow eyes, bony cheeks, and
withered to a 'natomy. That thou carriest only
rosary and crucifix I will take my gospel oath.
Father Duc,” he continued, in his usual manner,
“should have trusted me. But he thinks me either
a fool or a knave, or both; but, for that matter, I
never had but little reputation for aught except
evil. Thou art the first man that ever saw in me
other than the horned devil himself. How thou
shouldst know me in one night's ride better than
the old women, priests, and habitans I've lived with
all my life, is odd enough. But thou hast not misplaced
thy confidence; and, for treating me like a
reasonable being as thou hast done, instead of
doing thee an injury, I would fight for thee against
my mother. But one thing I will frankly tell thee,
father,” he said, in a low tone, as a man with a
lantern crossed the lawn to the gate, “that if thou
hadst not placed this confidence in me, but had
sought by threats and offers of violence to ensure
my secrecy, then thou shouldst have swung for it
after, if, as I believe, thou art a spy.”

“Is it a brother who craves our hospitality this
wintry night?” asked, in a sonorous, drawling
voice, a corpulent person, in cowl and gown hastily
thrown on awry, peering as he spoke between the

[figure description] Page 083.[end figure description]

bars of the gate, and thrusting the lamp through
the interstices to his elbow, to examine the travellers
more nearly, although their persons, wrapped
in furs and whitened with a thick coat of the still
falling snow, were scarcely distinguishable, and
resembled to the vision of the fat priest shaggy
polar bears standing upright on their hind legs as
much as men.

Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, he began
with great deliberation to unlock and disengage the
padlock from the bars which crossed and firmly
secured the double leaves of the gate, and admitted
the travellers and their horses. After closing the
gate he conducted the latter to a range of brick
stalls standing not far from it; and then, leaving
Zacharie to attend to the comfort of the animals,
he led the way, with a sort of limping gait, across
the court to the door of the convent.

“The snow hath somewhat mollified the air,
brother,” he said, as they arrived at the door, “yet
a warm brand may not be amiss. So I bade Sister
Agathe, as I came forth to admit thee, to rake
open the embers in the refectory; thither I will lead
thee. Crooked sticks make even fire; therefore
will Sister Agathe's labours soon expel the cold
from thy limbs.”

So saying, he preceded the traveller through the
door, and entered a narrow passage, turning abruptly
to the left; at the opposite extremity was an open
door, through which they passed into a large apartment
totally dark.

“When the candles are out all cats are gray,” said
the confessor, punching his guest familiarly in the
ribs.

At the farther end of the room was a huge fireplace,
in which, upon a pile of smoking wood, lay
a few coals, the glare of which as they were at

[figure description] Page 084.[end figure description]

intervals blown up by the asthmatic breath of an aged
female, who, with a religious habit flung in rude
dishabille over her shoulders, was on her hands
and knees before it, served, in conjunction with the
faint light of the lantern held by the host, to increase
the cheerless gloom of the large apartment
instead of dissipating the darkness.

“Sister Agathe,” said the priest, or father confessor,
as more correctly he should be denominated,
“thou hast but a cold fire for cold travellers.”

“Rome was not built in a day,” growled the old
crone.

“Neither,” he added, with some severity, “now
that I view thee more closely, is thy attire becoming
the presence of strangers. Hie thee to thy
cell, woman, and complete thy toilet, and then see
that couches are prepared in the guest's lodge. I
myself will take thy place at the hearth.”

“Let not thy tongue cut thy throat,” retorted the
woman, with asperity, as she shuffled out of the
room.

“A fool's bolt is soon shot,” rejoined Father Bonaventure,
as she departed.

A bright blaze soon rewarded him for the unusual
and lavish expenditure of wind from his capacious
lungs. After the traveller and Zacharie,
who had returned from the stable and was fast
asleep on the hearth, had sufficiently partaken of
its genial heat, the former proceeded to make known
his errand to his host.

“You are, worthy father,” he said, suddenly
turning, and bending his eyes full upon him, “a
good Catholic, and have the welfare of church and
state at heart, I trust?”

“Heaven forbid it should be otherwise, brother,”
answered the priest with quickness, suspiciously

[figure description] Page 085.[end figure description]

eying his guest from the corner of one eye as he
sat beside him. Then crossing his fat hands over
his puncheon-like person, while he twirled his
thumbs, as if perplexed at the question, he asked,

“Why, why puttest thou such a query to me,
brother?”

“Are you well affected towards the present government,
father?” interrogated the monk, without
appearing to regard his question.

Father Bonaventure hitched his person along
the bench, and eyed the monk from head to feet, as
if he expected to see horns, or a hoof at the very
least, while his features were agitated by a complex
expression of mingled distrust and confidence.
The former sentiment at length predominated, and
with a voice and manner partly the effect of his
fears and suspicions, and partly assumed as a feeler
to fathom the purpose of his interrogator without
politically committing himself, he said,

“Avoid thee, Sathanas! wouldst thou ensnare
me to my own hurt?”

“Not so, father,” replied the monk, smiling, and
at once comprehending the ruse; “I am the bearer
of weighty news from Father Etienne, whom I left
last night. His name should be a key to confidence
between us. I touched your pulse with a
question or two, good father, for my own private
satisfaction, before I opened my business.”

“Verily, thou didst somewhat alarm me,” replied
Father Bonaventure, drawing a long breath, as if a
great weight had suddenly fallen from his breast;
“I thought thee an inquisitor of government, and,
as I have been of late somewhat given to insurgent
speech and opinions, I feared the worst. Yea,
verily, `the guilty fleeth when no man pursueth.'
Thou bearest with thee, brother, doubtless, some
writing or token that I may confer with thee in

p157-089 [figure description] Page 086.[end figure description]

safety touching the matter which thou wouldst
open to me?”

“I do. It is—the Chevalier de Levi!”

“Then thou art doubly welcome,” said Father
Bonaventure, moving back to his former place near
his guest, and warmly grasping his hand. All distrust
instantly disappeared from his jocund physiognomy,
and was replaced by an air of profound
mystery, nowise diminished by the significant application,
as he looked at his guest, of the fore finger
of his left hand to the side of a nose of the most
formidable dimensions.

After a long conference in relation to the expected
invasion, the monk, not having thought it
prudent to undeceive his host in the opinion he entertained
of his sacerdotal character, was conducted
by him to a comfortable and well-furnished
cell in a distant part of the convent. On taking
leave of him for the night and commending him to
the protection of St. Therese, the father assured
him that he should be furnished in the morning
with a guide and a carriole, for the snow would
render such a mode of travelling necessary, to convey
him to the St. Lawrence.