o had been waiting outside for developments in the
quarrel with Colonel Adderly. At the outer porch, Hamilton laid a hand
on Mr. MacKenzie's shoulder.

"Don't come," he begged hurriedly. "There's a storm blowing. It's rough
weather, and a rough road, full of drifts! Make my peace with the man I
struck."

Then Eric and I whisked out into the blackness of a boisterous, windy
night. A moment later, our horses were dashing over iced cobble-stones
with the clatter of pistol-shots.

"It will snow," said I, feeling a few flakes driven through the darkness
against my face; but to this remark Hamilton was heedless.

"It will snow, Eric," I repeated. "The wind's veered north. We must get
out to the camp before all traces are covered. How far by the Beauport
road?"

"Five miles," said he, and I knew by the sudden scream and plunge of his
horse that spurs were dug into raw sides. We turned down that steep,
break-neck, tortuous street leading from Upper Town to the valley of the
St. Charles. The wet thaw of mid-day had frozen and the road was
slippery as a toboggan slide. We reined our horses in tightly, to
prevent a perilous stumbling of fore-feet, and by zigzagging from side
to side managed to reach the foot of the hill without a single fall.
Here, we again gave them the bit; and we were presently thundering
across the bridge in a way that brought the keeper out cursing and
yelling for his toll. I tossed a coin over my shoulder and we galloped
up the elm-lined avenue leading to that Charlesbourg retreat, where
French Bacchanalians caroused before the British conquest, passed the
thatch-roofed cots of _habitants_ and, turning suddenly to the right,
followed a seldom frequented road, where snow was drifted heavily. Here
we had to slacken pace, our beasts sinking to their haunches and
snorting through the white billows like a modern snow-plow.

Hamilton had spoken not a word.

Clouds were massing on the north. Overhead a few stars glittered against
the black, and the angry wind had the most mournful wail I have ever
heard. How the weird undertones came like the cries of a tortured child,
and the loud gusts with the shriek of demons!

"Gillespie," called Eric's voice tremulous with anguish,
"listen--Rufus--listen! Do you hear anything? Do you hear any one
calling for help? Is that a child crying?"

"No, Eric, old man," said I, shivering in my saddle. "I hear--I hear
nothing at all but the wind."

But my hesitancy belied t