MARY HARTWELL CATHERWOOD. THE ROMANCE OF DOLLARD. I. A SHIP FROM FRANCE. IN April of the year 1660, on a morning when no rain drizzled above the humid rock of Quebec, two young men walked along the single street by the river. The houses of this Lower Town were a row of small buildings with stone gables, their cedar-shingled roofs curving upward at the eaves in Norman fashion. High in north air swelled the mighty natural fortress of rock, feebly crowned by the little fort of St. Louis displaying the lilies of France. Farther away the cathedral set its cross against the sky. And where now a tangle of streets, bisected by the city wall, climb steeply from Lower to Upper Town, then a rough path straggled. The St. Lawrence, blue with Atlantic tide-water, spread like a sea betwixt its north shore and the high palisades of Fort Levi on the opposite bank. Sailboats and skiffs were ranged in a row at the water’s edge. And where now the steamers of all nations may be seen resting at anchor, on that day one solitary ship from France discharged her cargo and was viewed with lingering interest by every colonist in Quebec. She had arrived the previous day, the first vessel of spring, and bore marks of rough weather during her voyage. Even merchants’ wives had gathered from their shops in Lower Town, and stood near the river’s edge, watching the ship unload, their hands rolled in their aprons and their square head-covers flaring in the wind. “How many did she bring over this time?” cried a woman to her neighbor in the teeth of the breeze. “A hundred and fifty, my husband told me,” the neighbor replied in the same nipped and provincialized French. And she produced one hand from her apron to bridge it over her eyes that she might more unreservedly absorb the ship. “Ah, to think these cables held her to French soil but two months ago! Whenever I hear the Iroquois are about Montreal or Ste. Anne’s, my heart leaps out of my breast towards France.” “It is better here for us,” returned the other, “who are common people. So another demoiselle was shipped with this load. The king is our father. But look you! even daughters of the nobles are glad to come to New France.” “And have you heard,” the second exclaimed, “that she is of the house of Laval-Montmorency and cousin of the vicar-apostolic?” “The cousin of our holy bishop? Then she comes to found some sisterhood for the comfort of Quebec. And that will be a thorn to Montreal.” “No, she comes to be the bride of the governor-general. We shall soon see her the Vicomtesse d’Argenson, spreading her pretintailles as she goes in to mass. Well would I like a look through her caskets at new court fashions. These Laval-Montmorencys are princes in France. V’là, soldiers!” the woman exclaimed, with that facile play of gesture which seems to expand all Canadian speech, as she indicated the two men from Montreal.