The sea was frozen now for miles upon miles along the coast, there were no electric cables as yet, and inland all postal communication was cut off by concurrent events. No news came to Roland from Messrs. Hook and Crook, and for all that he knew to the contrary, the newly-found heirs might have eaten their Christmas pudding and drunk the new year in, at Ardgowrie! But Roland gave not a thought to such matters now! He had become changed in appearance, too; he was thinner, and two or three lines appeared about his eyes, where none had been visible before; and times there were when he thought himself going mad with the bitter strain upon his thoughts. He had but a wild, clamorous craving and gnawing at the heart--a fierce longing to quit Chambly and set out for St. Eustache. But Roland Ruthven was a soldier of the Queen, and was chained to his post. His place was with the colours of the Royal Scots. The cold at this time was intense; in the village market-place were masses of beef, sheep, and deer frozen hard as they had been for months, having been killed when the severe weather first set in. There, too, were plucked fowls, fish of all kinds frozen hard, and eels as stiff as walking-sticks. Even the milk was sold by the pound, and the loaves of bread, frozen hard the moment they left the oven, had to be literally sawn into slices, and half-and-half grog froze. The snow was deeper than it had ever been seen by that proverbial party who is to be found everywhere, "the oldest inhabitant," and military operations were out of the question. Guards, when relieving others, frequently took over the arms of the old guard being unable to carry their own; and once Roland found a sentinel frozen dead, hard and stiff and pale as the snow around him, in his sentry-box, with his glazed eyes glaring horribly out of their sockets. He was Robert Bruce, already mentioned, who, poor fellow, would sing upon his post no more. But amid all this, the mess often thought and talked of punkahs, of Bengal curries, green chillies, devilled biscuits, and other "up-country" memories, as if the very mention of such things would keep them warm! And at that merry mess-table Roland always felt himself to be now--how different from past times!--the skeleton at the banquet. But there comes an end to all things, and relief came ere long to the agonised mind of Roland. He was seated in his billet--a miserable wood-cutter's hut at Chambly,--when, one morning, Hector Logan burst in upon him like a gale of wind, bringing a tempest of snow with him. "News for you, Ruthven!" he cried, shaking himself like a Newfoundland dog; "splendid news! We are to march at once." "For where?" "St. Eustache, my boy." "St. Eustache!" exclaimed Roland, starting to his feet. "St. Eustache it is. I have just seen the Colonel with the General's order in his hand." "Thank God!" exclaimed he, with great fervour; "we shall soon gain tidings now--you know of _whom_?" "True, old fellow!"