daughter of mine. I will take care of that; the Church is a perfect
if gentle jailer."

I could bear it no longer. I knelt to him. I begged him to have
pity on me. I pleaded with him; I recalled the days when, as a
child, I sat upon his knee and listened to the wonderful tales he
told; I begged him, by the memory of all the years when he and I
were such true friends to be kind to me now, to be merciful--even
though he thought I had done wrong--to be merciful. I asked him to
remember that I was a motherless girl, and that if I had missed the
way to happiness he ought not to make my path bitter to the end. I
begged him to give me back his love and confidence, and, if I must
for evermore be parted from you, to let me be with him, not to put
me away into a convent.

Oh, how my heart leaped when I saw his face soften! "Well,
well," he said, "if I live, you shall be taken from the convent;
but for the present, till this fighting is over, it is the only
safe place. There, too, you shall be safe from Monsieur
Doltaire."

It was poor comfort. "But should you be killed, and the English
take Quebec?" said I.

"When I am dead," he answered, "when I am dead, then there is
your brother."

"And if he speaks for Monsieur Doltaire?" asked I.

"There is the Church and God always," he answered.