But there comes an end to all things, and relief came ere long to the agonised mind of Roland. He was seated in his billet--a miserable wood-cutter's hut at Chambly,--when, one morning, Hector Logan burst in upon him like a gale of wind, bringing a tempest of snow with him.
"News for you, Ruthven!" he cried, shaking himself like a Newfoundland dog; "splendid news! We are to march at once."
"St. Eustache!" exclaimed Roland, starting to his feet.
"St. Eustache it is. I have just seen the Colonel with the General's order in his hand."
"Thank God!" exclaimed he, with great fervour; "we shall soon gain tidings now--you know of _whom_?"
"Yes--and vengeance too, perhaps!" added Roland, but his heart sank at the thought of how unavailing might be all human vengeance _now_!
Never did soldier prepare to take the field with greater alacrity than Roland Ruthven. The chances of Fate or of war might have compelled him to remain where he was, like Tantalus, in his pool, or to move in some other direction than St. Eustache!
The severity of the weather had abated a little, and even while it lasted rapine and outrage had reigned supreme in the disaffected districts. Sir John Colborne, on the 13th December, with all his disposable forces, set out on his march from Montreal, and Wetherall's little column was to join him on the way to St. Eustache to seize that place and scour the country about the Lake of the Two Mountains, where the insurgents under Papineau, Smash, and others had barbarously driven out all the loyal inhabitants, leaving many of them to perish miserably among the snow; and a vast extent of country was ravaged and pillaged.
Sharing Roland's anxiety, Hector Logan was in the highest spirits, when the troops moved off and turned their backs on Chambly, as they devoutly hoped, for ever.
Evening was approaching when the march began, without music, and the drummers had their drums slung behind them. The soldiers had their buff belts above their great coats. The musket-locks had been inspected and fresh ammunition served to all, which, as the men said to each other smilingly, "looked like business."
"No 'beauty and the bowl' for us to night, Roland, by Jove," said Logan, as he set his face to the fierce northern blast, which came sweeping from the Pole itself over half a world of snow, rasping the cheek like the roughest file.