It was
at once the Bourse and the Royal Exchange of Quebec: there were
promulgated, by the brazen lungs of the city crier, royal
proclamations of the Governor, edicts of the Intendant, orders of
the Court of Justice, vendues public and private,--in short, the
life and stir of the city of Quebec seemed to flow about the door
of St. Marie as the blood through the heart of a healthy man.
A few old trees, relics of the primeval forest, had been left for
shade and ornament in the great Market Place. A little rivulet of
clear water ran sparkling down the slope of the square, where every
day the shadow of the cross of the tall steeple lay over it like a
benediction.
A couple of young men, fashionably dressed, loitered this afternoon
near the great door of the Convent in the narrow Street that runs
into the great square of the market. They walked about with short,
impatient turns, occasionally glancing at the clock of the
Recollets, visible through the tall elms that bounded the garden of
the Gray Friars. Presently the door of the Convent opened.
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