“and this,” the guide continued, with the loquacity of his kind; “directly at our feet is the river saint lawrence. that building there with the pointed roofs is the chateau frontenac, built on the exact site of the old chateau de saint louis. beyond it, you see the spire of the french basilica, consecrated in sixteen hundred and sixty-six, and, slightly to the right, are the roofs and spires of laval.”

“and, right under our noses, the city of quebec, huddled indiscriminately around the maple leaf,” brock interrupted, as their red-coated escort stopped for breath. “miss howard, i wish you hadn’t been quite so generous in your fee.”

“but i am sure it is very interesting,” churchill observed politely. “remember that i am a stranger here.”

the guide took the hint and edged towards churchill’s end of the line.

“this is what is termed the king’s bastion,” he went on glibly. “beyond is cape diamond, so called from the crystals of quartz that used to be found there. now they are very rare; but,” with every appearance of anxiety, he fell to searching his pockets; “but i happen to have—”

again brock interrupted.

“no use, thomas atkins,” he said jovially. “we are too old birds to be caught in that trap.”

unabashed, the guide let the bits of quartz drop back into his pocket.

“many ladies admire my buttons,” he said tentatively. “they make interesting hat pins.”

“the ladies, or the buttons?” nancy queried innocently. “but, thank you, i think you have showed us everything, and we can find our way out alone.” and, leaving the bastion, she led the way back to the tiny cannon of bunker hill, where she loyally halted her companions.

a cloudless sky arched above the old gray citadel, that morning. inside the walls, the daily routine was going its usual leisurely course. few visitors were abroad; but an occasional private strayed across the enclosure and, not far from the gate, guard-mounting was just taking place. nancy watched the new guard as it tramped out into the open, saluted and went into position, its every evolution followed in detail by the stout newfoundland dog who waddled along at its heels. then, as the band swung about and marched off for its daily practice, she moved away.

“come,” she said a little impatiently. “after the glorious past, the present is a bit of anticlimax. shall we go for a walk?”

her companions assented, and together they went down into saint louis street and turned towards the terrace. as they passed barth’s quarters, he unexpectedly appeared upon the steps.

“whither?” nancy called blithely, as he lifted his cap.

“to post some letters.”

“come with us, instead,” she bade him, notwithstanding the murmured protestations which arose from both brock and churchill.

to nancy’s mind, the previous evening had not been altogether a shining success. for half an hour after their introduction, she had dragged the two men through a species of conversation; but there had been a triple sigh of relief as the evening gun had marked the hour for barth’s departure. nancy had followed him to the parlor door.

“good night,” she said cordially there. “we shall see you, in the morning?”

“oh,—yes. if i can,” barth answered vaguely.

then he had made a dejected exit. as he strolled languidly away to his room, he alternated between fears of a possible relapse in his ankle, and mutinous thoughts regarding the hero of valley forge.

“beastly race, those american men!” was the finale of his reflections. “oh, rather!”

now, however, his dejection vanished in the face of the sunshiny morning and of nancy’s greeting.

“won’t i be in the way?” he asked.

“why should you?”

“i can’t walk much, you know.”

“but i thought englishmen were famous for their walking,” churchill said, as he greeted the young englishman much as a genial mastiff might salute a youthful pug.

barth glanced towards nancy with a confident smile.

“didn’t miss howard tell you?” he asked.

“tell me what?”

“about the way we first met. i sprained my ankle, and miss howard turned into a hired nurse, and took care of me.”

churchill’s eyes sought nancy’s scarlet face.

“the deuce she did! where was this party?”

“this—?”

“this party?”

“oh, no. it wasn’t a party at all. i was entirely by myself. i have sometimes wondered how she ever chanced to find me in all that crowd.”

“probably the good sainte anne guided her unworthy namesake,” nancy responded lightly. “that was where the tragedy occurred.”

“oh!” beside barth’s oh, that of churchill seemed needlessly crisp and curt. “but i thought you were bored to death at sainte anne-de-beaupré, nancy.”

“that was only at first. later, events happened.”

“so i should judge. strange you forgot to mention them!”

“there are unexplained gaps in your own letters,” she reminded him audaciously. “it was only by chance that i heard whom you took out, the night of the leighton dinner.” then she turned to the others. “we mustn’t go far, this morning,” she added; “not so much on account of your foot, mr. barth, as because of our early dinner. shall we take ourselves to the terrace?”

high up on the glacis in the lee of the king’s bastion, they found a belated bit of indian summer. nancy dropped down on the crisp, dry turf and, turning, beckoned st. jacques to her side. crossing the terrace with barth, she had seen the frenchman pacing to and fro beside the rail, and she had answered his wishful greeting with a smile of welcome. leaving brock and churchill to lead the way, nancy had sauntered idly along in the rear, adjusting her quick step to the frailties of barth’s ankle, her alert happiness to the darker mood which sat heavily upon her other companion.

“you are not going to fail us, this afternoon, m. st. jacques?” she asked now.

silently he shook his head.

“your cousin has a perfect day,” he said, after a pause.

“and he appreciates it. already, he declares himself the slave of the place.”

“you are coming with me, in the morning?” st. jacques inquired.

“i am not sure. i hope we can; but mr. churchill is not a very good catholic,” she answered, with a smile.

st. jacques’s eyes lighted mirthfully.

“but sainte anne is his patron saint?” he questioned.

nancy shook her head.

“alas, no! he has shifted his allegiance, and poor sainte anne is feeling very much cut up about it.”

“no matter,” st. jacques answered philosophically. “she is getting her fair share of devotees, and, with france and england at her shrine, she can afford to be content without america.” then his face darkened. “if only she will be propitious!” he added, with sudden gravity.

nancy’s hand shut on a tuft of grass at her side. slowly she had come, during those past days, to the realization of the dual personality of the patron saint of adolphe st. jacques. half human, half divine, the good sainte anne was holding complete sway in the mind of the young frenchman, just then. half his unspoken wish was plain to her, half was still beyond her ken. she wondered restlessly when would come the time that she was free to speak. she wondered, too, what were the words she was destined to say.

with a swift motion, st. jacques settled backward to rest his elbow on the grass at her side. pushing back his cap, as if its slight weight irritated him, he swept the dark hair from his forehead. nancy frowned involuntarily as her eyes rested on the angry scar.

“that was a shocking blow,” she said pityingly.

he nodded, with slow thoughtfulness. then he bit his lip, and shook his hair forward until the scar was completely hidden.

“it might have been worse—perhaps.”

“you’d better ask the good sainte anne to do a miracle on you,” brock suggested, from his place farther up the slope.

instantly the dark eyes sought nancy’s face.

“i have already asked her,” adolphe st. jacques answered quietly.

“and what did the lady say?”

the frenchman’s eyes moved northward and rested upon the purple tops of the far-off laurentides.

“my novena is not finished. she has yet to make her answer,” he said.

and, for the second time in their acquaintance, nancy was conscious of the dull tugging at her heart. forgetful of barth, watching from the other side, she turned to look straight down into the face of st. jacques; and brock, who alone of them all had been taken into the heart of the frenchman’s secret, felt it no shame to himself when the tears rushed into his clear gray eyes, as he saw the look on nancy’s face, womanly, earnest, yet all unconscious of impending ill.

it was churchill who broke the silence. a stranger to them all but nancy, he yet could not fail to realize the tension of the moment. nevertheless he assured himself that he had met those symptoms before. nancy’s path, the past season, had been strewn with similar victims.

“wonderful view!” he said calmly.

the platitude broke the strain. st. jacques sat up and put on his cap, and barth fumbled for his glasses. above them, brock openly rubbed his eyes with the bunched-up fingers of his gloves.

“so glad you like it, joe! it is wonderful; and then it is endeared to me by all manner of associations. away up there in those blue hills, mr. barth sprained his ankle; m. st. jacques and i spent an afternoon in this road just underneath the cliff, and,” her eyes sought brock’s eyes mockingly; “and there aren’t ten blocks in the entire city that can’t mark some sort of a skirmish between the american and canadian forces.”

brock’s answering shot was prompt.

“it is only that america refuses to be annexed,” he supplemented gravely. “we hope to bring her to terms in time.”

and barth fell to kicking the turf in moody discontent. nancy checked him.

“don’t destroy the glacis of your chief american outpost, mr. barth. you may need it sometime to fight off the french from your possessions.”

her words had been wholly free from any allegorical meaning. nevertheless, barth’s heels ground into the turf more viciously than ever, as he made grim answer,—

“oh, we english need no artificial defenses to fight off the frenchmen, you know.”

“sic ’em!” brock observed impartially. then he snatched his hat from his head, and, forgetful of their differences, barth and st. jacques followed his lead.

distant and faint from behind the sheltering wall came the strains of god save the king, as the band marched back from practice.

“strange to hear america up here!” churchill said idly.

“america?” the frenchman’s accent was inquiring.

“yes. that is our national anthem.”

“how long since?” brock queried coolly.

“why, always, i suppose.”

barth bestowed a contemplative stare upon the stranger.

“how very—american!” he observed.

“of course. we think it is rather characteristic, and are no end proud of it,” churchill assured him blandly.

barth sat up, straight and stiff.

“mr. churchill, did you ever happen to hear of god save the king?”

“queen? oh, beg pardon! she’s dead, and it is a king now. yes, i’ve heard of it. what about it?”

“that.” barth swept his little gray cap towards the dying notes of the final phrase. “your so-called america is only our god save the king.”

“is it? i’m no musician, and didn’t know. still, i can’t see that it hurts it, to have started with you. so did we all, if it comes to that.”

“then you should give us the credit for having originated it,” brock suggested.

st. jacques rolled over on his other elbow.

“as it happens, brock, you didn’t originate it. it came from the other side of the channel.”

“oh, rather! but it’s ours,” barth interposed hastily.

st. jacques rolled back again.

“i beg your pardon, mr. barth; but it chances to be french,” he returned quietly. “lulli wrote it for louis quatorze, and england borrowed it without returning thanks.” and then, still leaning on his elbow with his eyes fixed upon barth, he sang to the end the good old song,—

“grand dieu! sauvez le roi!

grand dieu! sauvez le roi!

sauvez le roi!

que toujours glorieux,

louis victorieux,

voye ses ennemis

toujours soumis.”

as the light baritone voice died on the still air, nancy looked down at him with a smile.

“france scores, this time,” she said. “but what a text for an international alliance! here we are, three nations sitting under the eaves of the most famous citadel in america, and each claiming as his very own the same national anthem.”

“oh; but it is generally admitted to belong to us,” barth added, with unflinching persistence.

the next night, churchill and the doctor were left alone for a few moments. the doctor held out his hand with a smile.

“nancy tells me you are open to congratulation, joe.”

“yes. that is what brought me up here. i am too fond of you both to be willing to take your congratulations in ink. she is a wonderful girl, uncle ross.” the happiness of the young american sat well upon him. in his uncle’s eyes, he gained dignity, even as he spoke those few words. then he laughed. “you may find yourself in the face of a similar situation,” he suggested.

“what do you mean?”

“nancy.”

the doctor stared at him for a moment.

“oh, not a bit! not a bit!” he said then. “every lover is looking for love. nancy is nothing but a little girl.”

churchill smiled.

“then look out for your little girl. you may lose her, some day.”

“no,” the doctor protested valiantly. “the lady will see to that. they are nice boys, good boys; but they are only children.”

“don’t be too sure. if i know anything at all about such matters—”

“you don’t,” the doctor interrupted testily. “but go on! go on!”

“then st. jacques is very much in love with nancy; and, what is more, that snip of an englishman is in love with her, too.”

“hh! and what about brock?” growled the doctor.

churchill thrust his hands into his pockets and smiled back into the frowning face of his uncle.

“that’s where you have me,” he answered coolly. “i have been watching the two of them, all day long, and i’ll be sanctified if i can tell you now.”