girl."

John flushed. "I shall never seek her," he answered. "But while
life lasts I shall not give up hope of seeing her once again."

"And I am waiting for my captaincy," said Dick grimly; "who with less
than half your luck would have commanded a regiment!"

He swung about suddenly to confront a corporal--John's critical
friend of the picket--who had come up the bank seeking him.

"Beg pardon, sir," said the corporal, saluting, "but there's a
Canadian below that has found a corpse along-shore, and wants to bury
him on his own account."

"That will be Bateese Guyon," said John. They walked together down
the shore to the spot where Bateese bent over his brother.

"This is the man," said he, "who led us through the Roches Fendues.
Respect his dead body, Dick."

"I hope," said Dick, half-lifting his hat as he stood by the corpse,
"I can respect a man who did a brave deed and died for his country."

CHAPTER XXVII.

PRES-DE-VILLE.

Fifteen years have gone by, and a few months. In December 1775, on
the rock of Quebec, Great Britain clung with a last desperate grip
upon Canada, which on that September day in 1760 had passed so
completely into her hands.

All through December the snow had fallen almost incessantly; and
almost incessantly, through the short hours of daylight, the American
riflemen, from their lodgings in the suburbs close under the walls,
had kept up a fire on the British defenders of Quebec. For the
assailants of Great Britain now were her own children; and the man
who led them was a British subject still, and but three years ago had
been a British officer.

Men see their duty by different lights, but Richard Montgomery had
always seen his clearly. He had left the British Army for sufficient
cause; had sought America, and married an American wife. He served
the cause of political freedom now, and meant to serve it so as to
win an imperishable name. The man whom King George had left for ten
years a captain had been promoted by Congress Brigadier-General at a
stroke. It recognised the greatness of which his own soul had always
assured him. "Come what will," he had promised his young wife at
parting, "you shall never be ashamed of me." His men adored him for
his enthusiasm, his high and almost boyish courage, his dash, his
bright self-confidence.

And his campaign had been a triumph. Ticonderoga and Crown Point had
fallen before him. He had swept down the Richelieu, capturing