t is hardly to be thought
of. Do not let us talk about it," and she rose.

For instead of throwing herself in the river, as she had thought in her
wildness, she could cross to France, and enter a convent, if she could
not endure it.

Ralph Destournier saw that argument was useless. When the time came, he
would act.

But May passed without bringing the lover. Quebec was beginning to take
courage, and what with hunting and fishing, semi-starvation was at an
end. Emigrants came back and all was stir and activity in the little
town.

There came a letter to Rose, after a long delay. Savignon had joined a
party of explorers, who were pushing westward, and marvelled at the
wonderful country. He had pondered much over his desires, and while his
love was still strong, he did not want an unwilling bride. He would give
her a longer time to consider--a year, perhaps. He had wrung a reluctant
assent from her, he admitted, and taken an ungenerous advantage. For
this he would do a year's penance, without sight of the face that had so
charmed him.

Was he really brave enough to do that? Rose thought so. Destournier
believed it some new attraction to the roving blood of the wilderness.

But Rose would not wholly accept her freedom. Still she was more like
the Rose of girlhood, though she no longer climbed or ran races. The
Sieur was whiling away the heavy hours of uncertainty by teaching
several Indian girls, and Rose found this quite a pleasure.

The servant came in with some news. Not the French vessel they hoped
for, but an English man-of-war, with two gunboats, was approaching.

If defence had been futile before, it was doubly so now. The fort was
out of repair, the guns useless from lack of ammunition, there was no
provision to sustain a siege. A small boat with a flag of truce rounded
the point, and with a heavy heart Champlain displayed his on the fort.

The two brothers of Captain David Kirke, who was now at Tadoussac, had
again been sent to propose terms of surrender. The English were to take
possession in the name of their king.

It was a sad party that assembled around the large table, where so many
plans and hopes had stirred the brave hearts of the explorers and
builders-up of new France. Old men they were now, Pontgrave a wreck from
rheumatism, a few dead, and Champlain, with the ruin of his ambitions
before him. There was some vigorous opposition to the demands, but there
was clearly no alternative but surrend