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Updated: May 6, 2025
Lajeunesse, Garotte, and Muroc were invaluable, each after his kind. Duclosse the mealman was sutler. The young Seigneur and his companions were not challenged, and they passed on up to the Rock of Red Pigeons. Looking down, they had a perfect view of the encampment.
"That's the will of God, and the weather at sea, and what the Orleans do," answered Muroc grinning. It was hard to tell how deep this adventure lay in Muroc's mind. He had a prodigious sense of humour, the best critic in the world. "For me," said the lime-burner, "I think there'll be fighting before we get to the Orleans. There's talk that the Gover'ment's coming against us."
Lajeunesse, Garotte, and Muroc were invaluable, each after his kind. Duclosse the mealman was sutler. The young Seigneur and his companions were not challenged, and they passed on up to the Rock of Red Pigeons. Looking down, they had a perfect view of the encampment.
Therefore the notables among the habitants had gathered in his empty house for a last drink of good-fellowship Muroc the charcoalman, Duclosse the mealman, Benoit the ne'er-do-weel, Gingras the one-eyed shoemaker, and a few others. They had drunk the health of Medallion, they had drunk the health of the Cure, and now Duclosse the mealman raised his glass. "Here's to "
The mealman's face seemed to petrify, his eyes stood out, the bread he had in his teeth dropped, and he stared wildly at Lajeunesse. All were occupied in watching the mealman, and they did not see the figure of a girl approaching. Muroc, dumfounded, spoke first. "Elise the black fever!" he gasped, thoroughly awed. "She is better, she will live," said a voice behind Lajeunesse.
"Mark you, I was born a man of fame, walking bloody paths to glory; but, by the grace of Heaven and my baptism, I became a forgeron. Let others ride to glory, I'll shoe their horses for the gallop." "You'll be in Parliament yet, Lajeunesse," said Duclosse the mealman, who had been dozing on a pile of untired cart-wheels. "I'll be hanged first, comrade." "One in the family at a time," said Muroc.
"'These are bagatelles, said His Excellency to me; 'but tell my friends, Monsieur Muroc and Monsieur Duclosse and Monsieur Garotte, that they are buttons for the coats of my sergeants, and that my captains' coats have ten times as many buttons. Tell them, said he, 'that my friends shall share my fortunes; that France needs us; that Pontiac shall be called the nest of heroes.
"Wait a minute, porridge-pot," cried Muroc. "The best man here should raise the glass first and say the votre sante. 'Tis M'sieu' Medallion should speak and sip now." Medallion was half-sitting on the window-sill, abstractedly listening.
"We've to pay tribute to the Seigneur every year, as they did in the days of Vaudreuil and Louis the Saint," said Duclosse. "I've got my notice a bag of meal under the big tree at the Manor door." "I've to bring a pullet and a bag of charcoal," said Muroc. "'Tis the rights of the Seigneur as of old."
"We've had enough of the devil's dust here," said Lajeunesse. "Has he been talking to you, Muroc?" Muroc nodded. "Treason, or thereabouts. Once, with him that's dead in the graveyard yonder, it was France we were to save and bring back the Napoleons I have my sword yet. Now it's save Quebec. It's stand alone and have our own flag, and shout, and fight, maybe, to be free of England.
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