Soon after midnight on the last morning of the year, a man came battling his way down from the upper town to the Pres-de-Ville barrier. A blinding snow-storm raged through the darkness, and although it blew out of the north the cliff caught its eddies and beat them back swirling about the useless lantern he carried. The freshly fallen snow encumbering his legs held him steady against the buffets of the wind; and foot by foot, feeling his way--for he could only guess how near lay the edge of the precipice--he struggled toward the stream of light issuing from the _hangar_. As he reached it the squall cleared suddenly. He threw back his snow-caked hood and gazed up at the citadel on the cliff. The walls aloft there stood out brilliant against the black heavens, and he muttered approvingly; for it was he who, as Officer of the Works, had suggested to the Governor the plan of hanging out lanterns and firepots from the salient angles of the bastions; and he flattered himself that, if the enemy intended an assault up yonder, not a dog could cross the great ditch undetected. But it appeared to him that the men in the _hangar_ were not watching too alertly, or they would never have allowed him to draw so near unchallenged. He was lifting a hand to hammer on the rough door giving entrance from the rear, when it was flung open and a man in provincial uniform peered out upon the night. "Is that you, Captain Chabot?" asked the visitor. The man in the doorway smothered an exclamation. "The wind was driving the snow in upon us by the shovelful," he explained. "We are keeping a sharp enough look-out down the road." "So I perceived," answered John a Cleeve curtly, and stepped past him into the _hangar_. About fifty men stood packed there in a steam of breath around the guns--the most of them Canadians and British militiamen, with a sprinkling of petticoated sailors. "Who is working these?" asked John a Cleeve, laying his hand on the nearest three-pounder. "Captain Barnsfare." A red-faced seaman stepped forward and saluted awkwardly: Adam Barnsfare, master of the _Tell_ transport. "Your crew all right, captain?" "All right, sir." "The Governor sends me down with word that he believes the enemy means business to-night. Where's your artilleryman?" "Sergeant McQuarters, sir? He stepped down, a moment since, to the barrier, to keep the sentry awake." John a Cleeve glanced up at the lamp smoking under the beam. "You have too much light here," he said. "If McQuarters has the guns well pointed, you need only one lantern for your lintstocks."