The Abbe had stayed to bring this last letter from the flying Governor.  His own soul was stirred to the depths by indignation and sorrow.  It seemed to him the crowning disgrace in a disgraceful flight.  Ramesay had sought speech with the Marquis a few hours before his death, but could obtain no advice from him.  He had done with worldly things, and could only wish well to those who were left behind.  It was a desperate state of affairs, and all the town knew it.

So great was the confusion that no workman could be found to make a coffin for the body of the dead General.  The old servant of the Ursulines, faithful to the last, went hither and thither and collected a few planks and nails, and the midshipmen and Colin assisted her to nail together a rude coffin in which the body was presently laid.  It must be buried that same evening, for none knew from hour to hour what was in store for the city.  But no pomp or circumstance could attend the funeral; and indeed no one could be found to dig a grave.

Yet a fitting grave was found in the chapel of the Ursuline convent, now little more than a ruin.  An exploding shell had made a deep cavity in the floor not far from the altar, and this hollow was soon shaped into the similitude of a grave.

No bells tolled or cannon fired as the mournful procession filed through the streets; yet it did not lack a certain sombre dignity.  The Bishop and the Abbe headed it, with a few priests from the Cathedral in attendance.  Ramesay was there with his officers, and Madame Drucour, with Colin and Corinne, the three midshipmen (who no longer feared to show themselves), and the old servant, brought up the rear.  As the cortege passed through the streets, numbers of citizens fell in behind, together with women and children, weeping for one whose name was dear, and who they all averred would have saved their city had he lived.

Torches were lit before the procession filed into the ruined church, and sobs mingled with the chants that were rehearsed over the grave.

“Alas, alas!” sobbed the women; “we have buried our hopes in that grave.  We have lost our General; we shall lose our city, and all Canada will follow.”

“It is no wonder they feel so,” said the Abbe to his sister that night; “we are abandoned by the army that might have saved us.  We have scarce provision to last a week, even on half rations—­so I heard today—­and all the merchants and townspeople are for immediate capitulation.  It is possible that when our army finds itself at Jacques Cartier, thirty miles from the scene of danger, and in an impregnable position, they may rally their courage and reconsider the situation; but unless I am greatly mistaken, that resolution will come too late—­Quebec will have already surrendered.”

Things had come to a desperate pass.  Only one out of all the officers was in favour of resistance; the rest declared it impossible.  The English on the heights were intrenched, and were pushing their trenches nearer and nearer.  Though Wolfe was dead and Moncton disabled, Townshend, the third in command, was acting with the energy and resolve which had characterized the expedition all along.