They were no longer in the little narrow house where once they had dwelt.  That had been shattered at last by some of the heavier guns which the enemy had brought to Point Levi, and they had been forced to abandon it.  They were in a house which so far had not been touched, sheltered as it was behind some of the fortifications.  It belonged to Surgeon Arnoux, a clever and competent man, who was at present with the army of Bourlemaque; but his younger brother, Victor, also a surgeon, was still in the city, and he had generously opened his house to several of the unfortunate citizens who had been rendered homeless by the bombardment.

At present the house contained as its residents Madame Drucour, with her brother the Abbe, and Colin and Corinne.  The Bishop, Pontbriand, who was dying himself of a mortal disease, but was still able to go about amongst the sick and wounded, was another inmate, beloved of all.  The party was waited on sedulously by an old servant of the Ursulines, Bonnehomme Michel, as she was called, who was the most faithful, hard-working, and devoted of creatures, and displayed the greatest ingenuity in contriving, out of the scantiest of materials, such dishes as should tempt the appetite of the sick Bishop, and make the rest forget that they were in a beleaguered city.

Corinne had learned by this time what the horrors of war were like.  Her fair face was both thinner and graver than it had been in past days.  She had known the terrible experience that leaves its mark upon the witnesses:  she had been one of more than one company when a bursting shell in their midst had brought death to some amongst those with whom she was sitting.  She had seen men—­yes, and women too—­struck down in the streets by shot or splinters.  She had worked side by side with Madame Drucour amid the sick and wounded, and had seen sights of horror and suffering which had branded themselves deeply into her soul.

She could never again be the careless, laughing Corinne of old; and yet the soldier spirit in her burned stronger and ever more strong.  If war was a fearful and terrible thing, it had its glorious side too.  She heard, with a strange thrill of mingled pain and pride, of the gallant doings of the English troops.  She regarded the cautious policy of the French with something like contempt.  She and Colin would sometimes steal down to the margin of the water, and look at the English vessels which had braved the guns of the town, and were riding safely at anchor in the upper basin; and would feel a thrill of admiration at the dauntless bravery of the British sailors and soldiers.  After all, if Quebec were to fall to such gallant foes, would she suffer much after the first shock was over?

They had lost their three merry midshipmen.  When General Wolfe had sent over several boatloads of prisoners taken in the unguarded villages of the upper river, it had been agreed that any English prisoners in the town should be given in exchange; and the lads, cheering lustily the while, had been rowed away by the returning boats.