As she looked out upon the shining waters of the river, a strange perception came to Diane de Monesthrol. It seemed as though the world had broken into fragments and lay crumbling at her feet, while her spirit soared free above the ruins. She already understood the tragic possibilities of fear and loss and pain; she had acknowledged the necessity of devotion, self-abnegation, heroism; now a lightning flash of intuition revealed to her the terrible beauty of self-sacrifice, giving her to realize, though faintly and indistinctly, some conception of a divine help, offered with a human eagerness of sympathy, patient until the feeble mortal hands could reach up and lay hold of it. With this conviction a wonderful peace came to succeed the burning wretchedness. Just then the peals of the Angelus rang out, echoing through the mountain slopes and over the waters. It was the voice of prayer and praise, rising in triumph above all earthly passions of grief and pain. Groups of women, with heavy eyes and care-worn faces, holding their rosaries with fingers which still mechanically pressed the beads as they walked, while their lips moved in silent prayer, came out from the dusky seclusion of the church, where day and night lights burned and prayers were offered. The beadle of the Parish Church, in full uniform, mace in hand, was narrating with much dramatic emphasis all the particulars of a supposed engagement, to a keenly interested group of listeners, when the tide of his eloquence was abruptly checked by a sharp poke in the ribs that deprived him of breath. Nanon, her face flushed like a peony, the lappets of her cap flying, swept past like a whirlwind. “_Seigneur dieu!_ I would know the truth, me, after waiting so long—a canoe!” “A boat arriving!—tidings!—tidings!” The words passed from one to another, and were repeated in a variety of keys, as, moved by a common impulse, the group rapidly dispersed, flying down to the shore, where the whole population of the town seemed to have gathered. Propelled by four strong arms, skimming lightly as foam over the surface of the water, leaving a faint track behind it as it moved, the frail craft advanced. As it came between the eager spectators and the sun, the forms of those it contained stood out like silhouettes against the light. The citizens of Ville Marie waited with quickened breath and beating hearts, hoping, fearing, expecting—they dared not think what. Le Ber gazed with the wrinkles deepening on his brow. The setting sun shone so brilliantly in his eyes that he raised his hand to shade them; and for the moment could see nothing. “Le Canotier and Madouaska—the Blessed Virgin send us good news,” du Plessis announced hurriedly, speaking with a catch in his breath.