the venerable shepherd of
souls, coming back to dwell in the bishopric of Quebec, the witness of
his first apostolic labours, gave himself into the hands of his Master
to disappear and die. "Lord," he said with Simeon, "now lettest thou thy
servant depart in peace according to thy word." But many griefs still
remained to test his resignation to the Divine Will, and the most
shocking disaster mentioned in our annals was to sadden his last days.
The year 1688 had passed peacefully enough for the colony, but it was
only the calm which is the forerunner of the storm. The Five Nations
employed their time in secret organization; the French, lulled in this
deceptive security, particularly by news which had come from M. de
Valrennes, in command of Fort Frontenac, to whom the Iroquois had
declared that they were coming down to Montreal to make peace, had left
the forts to return to their dwellings and to busy themselves with the
work of the fields. Moreover, the Chevalier de Vaudreuil, who commanded
at Montreal in the absence of M. de Callieres, who had gone to France,
carried his lack of foresight to the extent of permitting the officers
stationed in the country to leave their posts. It is astonishing to note
such imprudent neglect on the part of men who must have known the savage
nature. Rancour is the most deeply-rooted defect in the Indian, and it
was madness to think that the Iroquois could have forgotten so soon the
insult inflicted on their arms by the expedition of M. de Denonville, or
the breach made in their independence by the abduction of their chiefs
sent to France as convicts. The warning of their approaching incursion
had meanwhile reached Quebec through a savage named Ataviata;
unfortunately, the Jesuit Fathers had no confidence in this Indian; they
assured the governor-general that Ataviata was a worthless fellow, and
M. de Denonville made the mistake of listening too readily to these
prejudices and of not at least redoubling his precautions.

It was on the night between August 4th and 5th, 1689; all was quiet on
the Island of Montreal. At the end of the evening's conversation, that
necessary complement of every well-filled day, the men had hung their
pipes, the faithful comrades of their labour, to a rafter of the
ceiling; the women had put away their knitting or pushed aside in a
corner their indefatigable spinning-wheel, and all had hastened to seek
in sleep new strength for the labour of the morrow. Outside,