“No, no news has come, Lydia, but rise and dress,” was the crisp, laconic reply. “We will go to the mountain cross to pray for du Chesne’s safety, I have a conviction that at this moment he needs our prayers.” Lydia’s blue eyes opened, wide and startled; in her consternation she forgot to sob. “But it is dark night, still and lonely. The savages may line every foot of the way; we may be killed or taken prisoners. Oh! I dare not face the dangers,” she cried, shuddering. “The greater the merit of the pilgrimage. Our sufferings may enable us to obtain grace; for danger, I think nothing of it. Dress quickly and quietly; if we are observed, we shall not be allowed to start” Action was a relief from pain, and Diane was bestirring herself vigorously. Finding herself being hastily dressed, against her will, and perceiving that her peevish importunities produced absolutely no effect, Lydia ceased to resist. Indeed, this pale girl with a troubled restlessness in her anxious eyes, a pathetic droop of the red lips, moving with a steady purpose, bore so little resemblance to vivid, brilliant Diane, that the English girl was thoroughly frightened, and became passive in the hands of the stronger spirit. A pilgrimage to the mountain cross was considered at Ville Marie a fashionable act of devotion. As the way to the mountain teemed with real and tangible dangers, ladies generally undertook it in parties, protected by armed escorts. Every tree or stone might be expected to offer shelter to feathered and painted enemies; there were also wild beasts to be dreaded; so that in starting there was always the possibility of not being able to return. Soon the two girls—Diane erect and stately, never for an instant pausing or faltering; Lydia clinging feebly to her arm—like shadows moving amidst shadows, were traversing the deserted streets. The desolate, dark night was full of visionary terrors and real dangers. The chant of the St. Lawrence filled the air, the river trembling with violet tints and glancing pearly shafts. Presently they crossed a swiftly flowing stream, and emerged upon the open country. Here no vagrant echo, not even the stir of a leaf, disturbed the stillness. The dew was rich with cool fragrance. Now dark trees would close up the path, then it would widen into a world of space as it passed into the odorous moorland or crossed little rivulets tinkling on their way to the river. The moonbeams, piercing through the interlacing branches, threw chequered shadows on the path. Anon, amidst vistas of leafy shade, they caught fleeting glimpses of the illuminated world beyond.