destructive hands.

The mills of God grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small. It was
true! The years had passed. The French victories in North America had
been numerous. Again and again they had hurled back the English and
Americans, and year after year they had dammed the flood. They had
struck terrible blows at Duquesne and Oswego, at William Henry and at
Ticonderoga. But the mills of God ground on, and here at last was the
might of Britain before Quebec, and Robert's heart, loyal as he was to
the mother country, always throbbed with pride when he recalled that his
own Americans were there too, the New England rangers and the staunch
regiment of Royal Americans, the bravest of the brave, who had already
given so much of their blood at Montmorency. In these world-shaking
events the Americans played their splendid part beside their English
kin, as they were destined to do one hundred and fifty-nine years later
upon the soil of Europe itself, closing up forever, as most of us hope,
the cleavage between nations of the same language and same ideals.

Robert looked long at Quebec on its heights, gleaming now in the sun
which turned it into a magic city, increasing its size, heightening the
splendor of the buildings and heightening, too, the formidable obstacles
over which Wolfe must prevail. Nature here had done wonders for the
defense. With its mighty river and mighty cliffs it seemed that a
capable general and a capable army could hold the city forever.

"Aye, it's strong, Lennox," said Charteris, who read his thoughts.
"General Wolfe, as I know, has written back to England that it's the
strongest place in the world, and he may be right, but we've had some
successes here, mingled with some failures. Aside from the Battle of
Montmorency most of the land fighting has been in our favor, and our