tion out, and he carried it away
with him, saying that I should have Voban that evening.

I waited hour after hour, but no one came. As near as I could judge it
was now evening. It seemed strange to think that, twenty feet above
me, the world was all white with snow; the sound of sleigh-bells and
church-bells, and the cries of snowshoers ringing on the clear, sharp
air. I pictured the streets of Quebec alive with people: the young
seigneur set off with furs and silken sash and sword or pistols; the
long-haired, black-eyed woodsman in his embroidered moccasins and
leggings with flying thrums; the peasant farmer slapping his hands
cheerfully in the lighted market-place; the petty noble, with his
demoiselle, hovering in the precincts of the Chateau St. Louis and the
intendance. Up there were light, freedom, and the inspiriting frost;
down here in my dungeon, the blades of corn, which, dying, yet never
died, told the story of a choking air, wherein the body and soul of a
man droop and take long to die. This was the night before Christmas Eve,
when in England and Virginia they would be preparing for feasting and
thanksgiving.

The memories of past years crowded on me. I thought of feastings and
spendthrift rejoicings in Glasgow and Virginia. All at once the carnal
man in me rose up and damned these lying foes of mine. Resignation went
whistling down the wind. Hang me! Hang me! No, by the God that gave me
breath! I sat back and laughed--laughed at my own insipid virtue, by
which, to keep faith with the fanatical follower of Prince Charlie, I
had refused my liberty; cut myself off from the useful services of my
King; wasted good years of my life, trusting to pressure and help to
come from England, which never came; twisted the rope for my own neck
to keep honour with the dishonourable Doltaire, who himself had set
the noose swinging; and, inexpressible misery! involved in my shame and
peril a young blithe spirit, breathing a miasma upon the health of
a tender life. Every rebellious atom in my blood sprang to indignant
action. I swore that if they fetched me to the gallows to celebrate
their Noel, other lives than mine should go to keep me company on the
dark trail. To die like a rat in a trap, oiled for the burning, and
lighted by the torch of hatred! No, I would die fighting, if I must die.

I drew from its hiding-place the knife I had secreted the day I was
brought into that dungeon--a little weapon, but it would serve for