Suddenly there ran through the assembled crowd a murmur which gathered in volume and intensity, and changed to a strange sound as of wailing.  Corinne, who had the best view, leaned eagerly forward to see, and her face blanched instantly.

A horseman was coming through the gate, supported on either side by a soldier; his face was deadly white, and blood was streaming from a wound in his breast.

Madame Drucour looked also and uttered a cry: 

“Monsieur le Marquis est tue!”

It was indeed Montcalm, shot right through the body, but not absolutely unconscious, though dazed and helpless.

Instantly Madame Drucour had forced a passage through the crowd, and was at his side.

“Bring him this way,” she said to those who supported him and led the horse; “he will have the best attention here.”

Montcalm seemed to hear the words, and the wail of sorrow which went up from the bystanders.  He roused himself, and spoke a few words, faintly and with difficulty.

“It is nothing.  You must not be troubled for me, my good friends.  It is as it should be—­as I would have it.”

Then his head drooped forward, and Madame Drucour hurried the soldiers onward to the house where she now lived; Colin running on in advance to give notice of their approach, and if possible to find Victor Arnoux, that the wounded man might receive immediate attention.

The surgeon was luckily on the spot almost at once, and directed the carrying of the Marquis into one of the lower rooms, where they laid him on a couch and brought some stimulant for him to swallow.  He was now quite unconscious; and the young surgeon, after looking at the wound, bit his lip and stood in silent thought whilst the necessary things were brought to him.

“Is it dangerous?” asked Madame Drucour, in an anxious whisper, as she looked down at the well-known face.

“It is mortal!” answered Victor, in the same low tone.  “He has not twelve hours of life left in him.”

Chapter 2:  Surrender.

“Is the General yet living?” asked the Abbe an hour or two later, entering the house to which he knew his friend had been carried, a look of concentrated anxiety upon his face.

Madame Drucour had heard his step even before she heard his voice.  She was already beside him, her face pale and her eyes red with weeping.

“Ah, my brother,” she cried, “thou art come to tell us that all is lost!”

“All would not be lost if the army had a head!” answered the Abbe, with subdued energy.  “We could outnumber the enemy yet if we had a soldier fit to take command.  But the Marquis—­how goes it with him?”

“He lives yet, but he is sinking fast.  He will never see the light of another day!” and the tears which had gathered in Madame Drucour’s eyes fell over her cheeks.

“My poor friend!” sighed the Abbe; and after a pause of musing he added, “Is he conscious?”