And now the soldiers had all marched through; the last of the bands had disappeared from the streets; the garrison had taken themselves to their own quarters; the men of the town had flocked out of the city in the hope of seeing something of the fight; and the streets were chiefly thronged by anxious women and wondering, wide-eyed children—­all crowding together in groups, their faces turned towards those heights above where they knew the struggle was to be fought out.

“Hark to the firing!”

A deep silence fell upon the crowds in the streets—­the hush of a breathless expectancy.  The rattle of musketry fell upon their ears, and then a sound almost like a cannon shot.  It was the volley of the English, delivered with such admirable precision.  An involuntary scream arose from many as that sound was heard.  Had the English got their artillery up to those inaccessible heights?

But no; there was no further sound of cannonading, only a fierce and continuous fusillade, which told of the battle raging so fiercely up yonder on the heights.

Some women crowded into the churches to offer prayers at the shrines of saint or Virgin; but the majority could not tear themselves away from the streets, nor from the open space near to the gate of St. Louis, by which gate news would most likely enter.

And it did.

How the time went none could say, but it seemed only a short time after the firing had commenced before white-faced scouts from the town, who had gone forth to see the battle, came running back with gestures of terror and despair.

“The English are shooting us down like sheep.  The French give way on every side.  Their terrible fire mows down our ranks like grass before the scythe!  They are charging upon us now!  We are scattered and fleeing every way!  Alas, alas! the day is lost.  Quebec will fall!”

“Lost! it cannot be lost in this time,” cried pale-faced women, unable and unwilling to believe.  “Where is the Governor? he will come up with the reserves.  Where is Bougainville? surely he will fall upon the English rear!  Have we not twice the force of the English?  We cannot be conquered in this time! it would be a shame to France forever.”

So cried the people—­one calling one thing, and another another, whilst every fresh scout brought in fresh tidings of disaster.  There could be no doubt about it.  The French army had been routed at the first onset.  Where the fault lay none could tell, but they were flying like chaff before the wind.

Corinne stood close beside her aunt, silent, with dilated eyes, her heart beating almost to suffocation as she sought to hear what was said, and to make out the truth of the thousand wild rumours flying about.

Colin came dashing through the gate.  His face was flushed; he had lost his hat; he was too breathless to speak.  But he saw Corinne’s signal, and came dashing up to them.  He flung himself down upon the ground, and struggled for breath.