t day
Zulma kept him company, but the second, having learned upon inquiry that
Batoche's cabin was not a great distance away, she felt an irresistible
desire to drive over and visit little Blanche. Her father did not think
it worth his while to interpose any objections, although he really did
not fancy the project. Strange to say, his sick friend favoured it.
Smiling languidly, he said in a whisper:--

"Let your daughter go. She may be able to do some good. Batoche is a
wonderful man. We all like him, however little we can make him out. I am
told that his granddaughter is a very singular child. Let Zulma go."

She went accompanied only by her own servant. She would accept no other
escort. When she debouched from the Charlesbourg road into the broad
highway leading from Quebec through Beauport to Montmorenci and onwards,
she heard the sullen roar of cannon and the muffled roll of musketry in
front of the town. She stopped a moment to listen, remarking to her
companion that the firing was brisker than usual. But she was not
further impressed, and soon drove on. The directions she had received
were so precise that no difficulty was experienced in finding the route
to the cabin. The little path leading to it from the main road was
unbeaten either by trace of cariole or web of snow-shoe, but her horse
broke through it easily enough, and pulled up in front of the hut almost
before it was seen. It was nearly indistinguishable, being white as the
element by which it was surrounded, and silent as the solitude amid
which it stood. The faintest thread of white smoke rose from the
chimney. Not a sound in the environs could be heard save the dull moan
of the waterfall. Zulma stepped lightly out of the sleigh, tripped up to
the door and rapped gently. No answer. She rapped a little louder. Still
no answer. She applied her ear to the small aperture of the latch. Not a
breath was audible. Getting just a little excited, not through fear, but
through the mystery of adventure, she drew off her glove and knocked
vigorously. The door opened wide and noiselessly on its hinges, and
across it stood a mite of a girl, dressed in white woollen. For a moment
Zulma did not stir. She could not. The strangeness of that child's face,
its weird beauty, the singular light in the wide-open eyes arrested her
footsteps and almost the beating of her heart. And near the child was a
huge black cat, with stiff tail, bristling fur and glaring green eye,
not ho