The children stepped nearer the parapet, where they could see all Quebec Basin, and the French camp stretching its city of tents across the valley of the St. Charles.  Beneath them was Lower Town, a huddle of blackened shells and tottering walls.

“See there what the English have done,” said Clara, pointing down the sheer rock.  “It will be a long time before you and I go down Breakneck Stairs again to see the pretty images in the church of Our Lady of Victories.”

“They did that two months ago,” replied Jacques.  “It was all they could do.  And now they are sick of bombarding, and are going home.  All their soldiers at Montmorenci and on the point of Orleans are embarking.  Their vessels keep running around like hens in a shower, hardly knowing what to do.”

“Look at them getting in a line yonder,” insisted his born enemy.

“General Montcalm is in front of them at Beauport,” responded Jacques.

The ground was moist underfoot, and the rock on which they leaned felt damp.  Quebec grayness infused with light softened the autumn world.  No one could behold without a leap of the heart that vast reach of river and islands, and palisade and valley, and far-away melting mountain lines.  Inside Quebec walls the children could see the Ursuline convent near the top of the slope, showing holes in its roof.  Nearly every building in the city had suffered.

Drums began to beat on the British ships ranged in front of Beauport, and a cannon flashed.  Its roar was shaken from height to height.  Then whole broadsides of fire broke forth, and the earth rumbled with the sound, and scarlet uniforms filled the boats like floating poppies.

“The English may be going home,” exulted Clara, “but you now see for yourself, Monsieur Jacques Repentigny, what they intend to do before they go.”

“I wish my father had not been sent with his men back to Montreal!” exclaimed Jacques in excitement.  “But I shall go down to the camps, anyhow.”

“Your mother will cry,” threatened the girl.

“My mother is used to war.  She often lets me sleep in my father’s tent.  Tell her I have gone to the camps.”

“They will put you in the guard-house.”

“They do not put a Repentigny in the guard-house.”

“If you will stay here,” called the girl, running after him towards the fortress gate, “I will play anything you wish.  The cannon balls might hit you.”

Deaf to the threat of danger, he made off through cross-cuts toward the Palace Gate, the one nearest the bridge of boats on the St. Charles River.

“Very good, monsieur.  I’ll tell your mother,” she said, trembling and putting up a lip.