"Accept my salutations, Captain De Mattissart," he said laughing. "I am told that you and this young militia-man floated down the mill-stream into this mill, with the French flag waving over your heads, to the no small discouragement of the English. Quebec will never be taken, monsieur." Long ago those who found shelter in the mill dispersed to rebuild their homes under a new order of things, or wedded like Laurent and Angèle, and lived their lives and died. Yet, witnessing to all these things, the old mill stands to-day at Petit Cap, huge and cavernous; with its oasis of home, its milk-room, its square hoppers and flume-chamber unchanged. Daylight refuses to follow you into the blackened basement; and the shouts of Montgomery's sacking horde seem to linger in the mighty hollows overhead. [Footnote 1: Wolfe forbade such barbarities, but Montgomery did not always obey. It was practiced on both sides.] WOLFE'S COVE. The cannon was for the time silent, the gunners being elsewhere, but a boy's voice called from the bastion:-- "Come out here, mademoiselle. I have an apple for you." "Where did you get an apple?" replied a girl's voice. "Monsieur Bigot gave it to me. He has everything the king's stores will buy. His slave was carrying a basketful." "I do not like Monsieur Bigot. His face is blotched, and he kisses little girls." "His apples are better than his manners," observed the boy, waiting, knife in hand, for her to come and see that the division was a fair one. She tiptoed out from the gallery of the commandant's house, the wind blowing her curls back from her shoulders. A bastion of Fort St. Louis was like a balcony in the clouds. The child's lithe, long body made a graceful line in every posture, and her face was vivid with light and expression. "Perhaps your sick mother would like this apple, Monsieur Jacques. We do not have any in the fort." The boy flushed. He held the halves ready on his palm. "I thought of her; but the surgeon might forbid it, and she is not fond of apples when she is well. And you are always fond of apples, Mademoiselle Anglaise." "My name is Clara Baker. If you call me Mademoiselle Anglaise, I will box your ears." "But you are English," persisted the boy. "You cannot help it. I am sorry for it myself; and when I am grown I will whip anybody that reproaches you for it." They began to eat the halves of the apple, forgetful of Jacques's sick mother, and to quarrel as their two nations have done since France and England stood on the waters. "Don't distress yourself, Monsieur Jacques Repentigny. The English will be the fashion in Quebec when you are grown." It was amusing to hear her talk his language glibly while she prophesied. "Do you think your ugly General Wolfe can ever make himself the fashion?" retorted Jacques. "I saw him once across the Montmorenci when I was in my father's camp. His face runs to a point in the middle, and his legs are like stilts."