The cool of the evening had followed upon the heat of a very sultry day, which had greatly tried the sufferer.  Wolfe looked up, and saw his friend beside him, and smiled in recognition of his attentions.

“You are always here, Julian; you must surely want rest yourself.  You have been here night and day.  I know it even though I may not seem to do so.  But I shall be on my legs again soon.  I can feel that the access of pain is abating.  How have things been going in the town since I was laid by the heels?”

“Oh well, several vessels with their load of prisoners have already sailed for England; many of the townsfolk and merchants have started, or are starting, for France; some regiments of our men are to be sent at once to reinforce General Abercromby.  I fear by all accounts that they will come too late to be of any real use for the campaign this season.  It is quite true that he suffered a crushing defeat at Ticonderoga, due, as many of the officers say, to bad generalship.  Still he will doubtless be glad of support in the wilderness, wherever he may be.  Humphrey is to start with the first detachment; he expects his orders for departure daily.”

Wolfe raised himself upon his elbow and sat up, despite his weakness, fired by excitement and energy.

“But Quebec, Quebec, Quebec!” he exclaimed; “surely we are going forward to Quebec?”

Julian shook his head doubtfully.

“I fear me not at least this present season.  I hear it said that General Amherst was ready, but that the Admiral was against it for the present.  They say there is still much to do in subduing the adjacent possessions of France in these lands, and so paving the way for the greater enterprise.  Various officers are to be sent hither and thither upon expeditions to small settlements, to uproot or destroy them.  When this has been done, perhaps the move to Quebec will be made.  But I fear me it will not be before next year.”

Wolfe made a gesture of irritation and impatience.

“Have we not yet had enough of procrastination?” he questioned bitterly.  “Will England never learn the lesson which her reverses should have taught her?  What boots the victory we have gained here, if it be not the stepping stone to lead us to Quebec?”

“Who speaks of Quebec?” asked a clear, musical voice at the half-open door; and Julian sprang to his feet, exclaiming as he did so: 

“It is Madame Drucour! she has come every day to see and inquire after you.”

Hearing the sound of her name, the lady pushed open the door and entered—­a graceful, stately figure clothed all in black; her beautiful face worn and pale, and trouble lurking in the depths of her hazel eyes; yet calm and serene and noble of aspect as she moved forward and held out a slim white hand to the patient.

“You are better, Monsieur?” she asked, in her full, rich tones.  “I trust that the suffering is less than it was.  The fever, I can see, has abated somewhat.”