"At length! at length! Bernard," said the voice of the young lady; and the heart of Bernard de Rohan echoed the words "At length! at length!" as he pressed her hand in his.

"At length! at length! Bernard," she said, "you have come back to me."

"Did you not send me from you yourself, Isabel?" he said, thinking there was something almost reproachful in her tone. "And have I not returned the moment you told me I might; the moment you called me to aid, and, I trust, to deliver you? Would I ever have quitted you but at your own word?"

"It is true! it is all true!" she said, in a gentle tone: "but I knew not, dear Bernard, all that was to befall me; all the painful, the anxious circumstances in which I was to be placed. We were then too young, far too young, for me to press my father's promise. I had no right to rob you of so many years of glory. My brother, too, wanted protection and guidance in the field. At that time, everything looked bright, and I thought that you, Bernard, would lead him forth to honour and bring him back in safety. I knew you would, and you have done it. But in those days I little dreamed that my mother, in her widowhood, would willingly wed a stranger, and make her hand the hire of this Savoyard, to serve the cause of France against his native prince. But you have returned to me, Bernard," she continued, in a more joyful tone; "you have returned to me, and all will be well again."

So ever thinks the inexperienced heart of youth, when, even for a single moment, the dark clouds break away, and a ray of sunshine, however transient, brightens up a day of storms.

"Be not too sure of that, lady!" said the deep voice of the brigand; "be not too sure of that! There have been more dangers around you already than you know of. They have not yet passed away, and, perchance, may fall upon him as well as you."

"Heaven forbid!" she cried, turning her eyes first upon the countenance of the man who spoke, and then with a softer and a tenderer look upon her lover. "If it is to be so, I shall wish you back again, Bernard."

"Not so," said the brigand, "not so! We are fools to think that life is to be a bright day, uncheckered with storms or misfortunes. There is but one summer in the year, lady: the winter is as long; the autumn has its frosts and its sear leaves; and the spring its cold winds and its weeping skies. In the life of any one the bright portion is but small, and he must have his share of dangers and sorrows as well as the rest. They will be lighter if you share them, and if he shares yours. Let us go forward on our way, however. Will you mount one of these horses, baron, or walk by the lady's side? Oh, walk, will you? Then follow the onward path. We will come on some hundred yards behind, near enough to guard you, but not to interrupt."

Bernard de Rohan and the lady proceeded on their way. Nor did they fail to take advantage of the moments thus afforded for conversing alone, though no one in such circumstances does take sufficient advantage of the moments. Our minds are so full of thoughts, our hearts so full of feelings, that they crowd and confuse each other in seeking to make their way forth. But a small part is ever spoken of that which might be spoken; and, had the time of their journey been more than doubled, there would still have been questions to ask, and plans to arrange, and hopes, and wishes, and fears to express; and Love, too, would have had a world to tell and to hear; and many a caress would have remained to be given, and many a vow would yet have required to be renewed.

Thus, when at length, after advancing for nearly two hours, several distant lights were seen upon the side of a dark hill beyond, as if issuing from the windows of some building, they found that they had not said half that they might have said, and wished that the minutes could come over again. It is not, indeed, in such circumstances alone that man casts away opportunities. It is all his life long, and every moment of his life. Those opportunities are like the beautiful wild flowers that blossom in every meadow and in every hedge, while, heedless or careless, unseeing or unknowing, man passes them by continually, or walks upon his way, and tramples them under his feet.

When they reached that spot, however, and the castle of Masseran was before their eyes, the brigand came up at a quick pace, saying, "Let us pause a moment, and see whether our companions have arrived before us. It might be dangerous for his deliverers to come too near the Lord of Masseran's gates without sufficient numbers."

As he thus spoke, he put the peculiar whistle which he carried to his lips, producing a lower sound than before, but sufficiently loud to be heard around, and call forth many an answer up to the very gates of the castle itself.

"They are here," continued the brigand, "and the good lord is in his hold. Now, lady, you have doubtless promised things which you may find it difficult to perform. You have promised to see this noble cavalier, and give him—if needs must be, by stealth—the happiness of your presence; but I know better than you do how things will befall you. You will be watched; you will never be suffered to leave that castle's gates without a train, which will cut you off from speaking with any one. The gardens of the castle, however, will doubtless be free, for the walls are high, the gates securely locked, and the way up to them watched. Nevertheless, there is the small postern in the corner of the lowest terrace, hid by a tall yew-tree: lay your hand upon the handle of the lock at any time of the day you please. If it open not at the first trial, wait a moment, and try it again. You shall never try it three times without finding that door give way to your hand."

"But he tells me," said the lady, speaking more directly to what was passing in the brigand's thoughts than to what he actually expressed, "but he tells me that he is actually on his way to visit my mother's husband, charged with messages of import to him from the noble Marquis of Brissac, and that to-morrow morning he will be there, openly demanding admittance."

"See him in the evening also, lady, whatever befall," replied the other. "There are more dangers round you than you wot of. But I will speak to him farther as we return. Now you had better go on."

A few minutes more brought them nearly to the gates of the castle. The brigand had remained behind to wait the coming up of his people. Bernard de Rohan turned to see if they were approaching; but he could now perceive no one upon the road but a single figure coming slowly on at some distance, and leading a horse by the bridle. It was a moment not to be lost. Once more he threw his arms round the lady beside him, and she bent her head till their lips met. There were no farther words between them but a few unconnected names of tenderness, and in a minute or two after they were joined by the wounded servant, who had remained behind with the lady and those who accompanied her when the Lord of Masseran and the rest were sent on.

"Ah! my lord," he said, looking wistfully in the face of the young cavalier, "you have forgotten me, but I have not forgotten you; and if it had not been for my love and duty to my young mistress, I would have been with you in Italy long ago, especially when the countess sold herself to her stranger husband."

"No, indeed, Henriot, I have not forgotten you," replied Bernard de Rohan; "and I beseech you, for love of me as well as your young mistress, stay with her still, and be ever near her. I much doubt this Lord of Masseran, and have heard no little evil of him. She may want help in moments of need, and none can give her better aid than yourself; but I fear you have been much hurt," he added, "for you walk feebly even now."

"It will soon pass, my lord," replied the man; "but I see a light at the gate: we had better go on quickly, if, as I judge, you would not be recognised."

Bernard de Rohan took one more embrace, and then parted with her he loved. He paused upon the road till, by the light which still shone from the gate of the castle, he saw her and her follower enter and disappear beneath the low-browed arch. He then turned away, and retrod his steps along the side of the hill. He was left to do so for some way in solitude, though he doubted not that the hillside and the valley below him were both much more replete with human life than they seemed to be. At the distance of little more than half a mile from the castle he was forced to pause, for the moon had now sunk behind the mountain, and there were two roads, one branching to either hand.

"Keep to the right," said a deep voice near him, as he stopped to choose his path; and the next moment the brigand, coming forth from the bushes among which he had been sitting, walked on upon his way beside him.

"Ours is a busy life, you see," he said; "but yet it is not every night that we have so much business to do as we have had lately."

"Nor, I should think," replied Bernard de Rohan, "is it every night that you have upon your hands business which can leave so much satisfaction behind."

"I know not," answered the brigand, "and yet, in some sort, what you say is true. For I have had pleasure in what I have done: I have had pleasure in serving that bright lady; why, it matters not: I have had pleasure in serving you; why, it matters not: I have had pleasure in frustrating a base and villanous scheme; why, it matters not. But you must not think, baron, that in the ordinary business of my everyday life there are any of those weak thoughts about me which poison its enjoyments and make the memory of each day bitter. You and I are different beings, born for a different course."

"We are both men," said Bernard de Rohan.

"Ay!" answered the brigand; "and so are the dove and falcon both birds. As well might that dove think that the life of the falcon must be miserable because it is a bird of prey, as you judge of my feelings by your own. I am a bird of prey; I am the brother of the eagle on the rock. Our joys and our pursuits are the same; and they leave no more regret with me than they do with that eagle, when he folds his wings in his eyrie after the day's chase is done."

The comparison was one which, as Bernard de Rohan very well understood, was pleasant and satisfactory to his companion's feelings, but he could not admit its justice to any great extent. He cared not to point out, however, where it failed, and merely replied, "But there is a difference between men and brutes. Man has his reason to guide him, and must be governed by laws. The eagle has no law but the instinct which God has given him."

"Is not God's law the best?" exclaimed the brigand. "God gave the eagle his law, and therefore that law is right. It is because man's law is not God's law that I stand here upon the mountain. Were laws equal and just, there would be few found to resist them. While they are unequal and unjust, the poor-hearted may submit and tremble; the powerless may yield and suffer: the bold, the free, the strong, and the determined fall back upon the law of God, and wage war against the injustice of man. If you and I, baron," he continued, growing excited with the heat of his argument, "if you and I were to stand before a court of human justice, as it is called, pleading the same cause, accused of the same acts, would our trial be the same, our sentence, our punishment? No! all would be different; and why? Because you are Bernard de Rohan, a wealthy baron of the land, and I am none. A name would make the difference. A mere name would bring the sword on my head and leave yours unwounded. If so it be, I say—if such be the world's equity, I set up a retribution for myself. I raise a kingdom in the passes of these mountains: a kingdom where all the privileges of earth are reversed. Here, under my law, the noble, and the rich, and the proud are those that must bow down and suffer; the poor, and the humble, and the good those that have protection and immunity. Go ask in the peasant's cottage: visit the good pastor's fireside: inquire of the shepherd of the mountain, or the farmer on the plains. Go ask them, I say, if under the sword of Corse de Leon they lose a sheep from their flock or a sheaf from their field. Go ask them if, when the tyrant of the castle—the lawless tyrant; or the tyrant of the city—the lawful tyrant, plunders their property, insults their lowliness, grinds the face of the poor, or wrings the heart of the meek, ask them, I say, if there is not retribution to be found in the midnight court of Corse de Leon, if there is not punishment and justice poured forth even upon the privileged heads above."

Bernard de Rohan felt that it would be useless to argue with him; for it was evident that he was not one of those who are doubtful or wavering in the course they pursue. There was some truth, too, in what the man said: truth which Bernard de Rohan ventured to admit to his own heart, even in that age, when such sentiments could only be looked upon as treasonable. He was silent, then, considering how to reply, when the brigand himself went on.

"Think not," he continued, "that I have chosen my part without deep thought. There are some—and perhaps you think me one of them—who are driven by circumstances, led by their passions, or their follies, or their vices, to a state of opposition with the rest of mankind, and who then, when cast out from society, find a thousand specious reasons for warring against it. But such is not my case. Ever since my youth have such things been dwelling in my mind. I had pondered them long. I had fully made up my mind as to what was right and what was wrong, years before injustice and iniquity—years before the insolence of privileged tyranny drove me forth to practise what I had long proposed. Here I exercise the right that is in man. I take the brown game upon the mountain, which is mine as much as that of any noble in the land. I pay no tax to king or to collector. There is no duty on the wine I drink. There is no toll upon the roads I follow. You will say that I do more than this: that I take from others what is not mine and what is theirs; but I have told you why I do so. They have taken from me what was not theirs; and I wage war against a world which first waged war against me; in which, even among themselves, the hand of every one is against his brother; in which, whether it be in camp, or court, or city, or mart, or church, injustice and iniquity are striving to snatch from one another the rod of oppression, and keep the humble beneath their own yoke."

"I cannot think," replied Bernard de Rohan, willing to answer as generally as possible, "I cannot think that the state of society is so terrible as you represent it. There may be occasional instances of corruption and oppression, and doubtless there are. I have seen some myself, and endeavoured to prevent them; but still these things are by no means general."

"Not general!" exclaimed the brigand, turning upon him almost fiercely. "Sir Baron, I say they are universal. There are one or two exceptions, it is true. You are one of those exceptions yourself. You are one of those who deserve to be convinced; and I can convince you. I can show you men who pretend to be holy, and humble, and good, oppressing most basely those who are in their power. I can show you tyranny and injustice at every step and in every station throughout the earth, from the tradesman's shop to the monarch's throne. I can show it to you in every garb, and in every profession, and in every place. I can, ay, and will show it to you, within these twelve months, in such forms of cruelty and blood that you shall say the brigand on the hillside is mild compared with the man of courts or the man of refectories; that he may be an eagle, but that these are vultures."

"I see not," replied Bernard de Rohan, with a smile, "I see not how you can show me all this. You forget that we shall most likely part here in Savoy. That, as soon as I can rescue Mademoiselle de Brienne from the situation in which she is placed, I shall hasten onward to my own country, and we shall most likely never meet again."

"Not so, not so," replied the brigand. "We shall meet again. Either with her or without her, you must, as you say, go thither soon. My steps are bound likewise towards France; for think not that I dwell always here, or appear always thus: were it so, my head would soon be over the gate of Chamberry. I will find means to show you a part of what I have said, perhaps to give you some assistance likewise, when you most need and least expect it. But remember," he added, "if misfortunes should befall me, or danger threaten me, it is a part of our compact that you do not strive to give me any aid; that you neither raise your voice nor your arm in my behalf."

"Nay, nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I cannot promise that. I must ever remember the generous assistance you have afforded me this night, and must do my best to prove that I am grateful for it."

"The best way of proving it," replied the brigand, "is by doing what I ask you. You are held wise for a young man: now ask yourself if you can judge so well of what is for my advantage as I can judge myself. I tell you that I have many means of deliverance which you know nothing of; and, therefore, any attempt to aid me, without my asking you, might ruin me and ruin yourself likewise."

"If you will ask me," replied Bernard de Rohan, "when aid can be serviceable to you, I shall be contented."

"I will, I will," answered the brigand; "and now tell me, What have you arranged with fair Isabel of Brienne? for I take an interest in your fate and hers."

"You seem indeed to do so," replied the young cavalier; "and yet I know not why it should be so, for I cannot remember that we ever met before."

"Once," replied the brigand, "only once. Several years ago we were side by side, but for a moment. You and I, and that fair girl, and her brother—her brother, the young Count Henry, who is now in Paris. It was but for a moment, but that moment was one by me never to be forgotten."

"I cannot recall it," replied Bernard de Rohan. "It is strange, too, if it was a moment of such importance. But you say that her brother is in Paris: I wrote to Henry to meet me in Grenoble, and I think he must be there by this time."

"Oh! he is in Paris still," replied the other. "He is a good youth; but he is weak and young—ay, younger than his years. He will be easily persuaded to stay in Paris, and flutter in bright silks, and flaunt at tournaments, run at the ring, or fence at Moors' heads upon a turning pole. He is at Paris still, depend upon it; and, if you count upon his coming ere you claim the lady's hand, you must seek him in the capital, and bring him with you."

"I shall demand her hand at once," replied Bernard de Rohan; "but we doubt that there will be opposition from one who has no right to make it; and, to bear down that opposition, Henry de Brienne must be with me. He is the guardian of his father's promise solemnly given to me before I first went to Italy. But I will write to him as soon as day breaks to-morrow. Hark! do you not hear voices coming up the pass?"

"Most likely your servants and the priest," replied the brigand.

"I wonder they have not joined us before," replied Bernard de Rohan. "We should have fared ill if their assistance had been all we had to trust to."

"They could not do better," replied the brigand. "The other party had caught a sight of us when you stood to argue with me at the corner of the rock, and they broke down the little wooden bridge behind them. Your servants know none of the paths; the priest knows not that which we took; so doubtless, by this time, they think that we are hewed into mincemeat. However, remember at that spot, by the broken bridge, a loud halloo, a blast of your horn, or a whistle thrice repeated, will at any time bring some one to you who can lead you to me should you want my assistance. Now, jolly priest, now," he added, raising his voice, "here we are safe, though no great thanks to you."

"If you are safe, and sound, and sober," said the priest, coming up with the attendants of Bernard de Rohan, "it is more than I expected; for we could not reach you for our lives; and as we were scrambling over the hills, and each losing his way according to his fancy, we heard as much noise as at a boor's wedding, though the concert was somewhat different. But now let us hasten back as fast as possible: why, we are a league and a half from the inn, and I shall be so hoarse with shouting and the night air that I shall not be able to sing matins."

The Count de Meyrand was awake early, and dressed with the most scrupulous exactness of appearance, without a riband tumbled or a point out of place. He descended slowly about seven of the clock from the chamber in which he had passed the night, by the long black double-railed staircase, that led at once from the rooms above into the kitchen, which, as I have said before, served also as the saloon of the inn. His air and his countenance bore the same appearance of indifference which they usually displayed, and he made no inquiry whatsoever regarding the events of the preceding evening, although he had retired to rest more than an hour before Bernard de Rohan had returned to the inn. His servants came and went, seeking directions concerning this thing and that, and communicating with him, from time to time, in a low tone. The aubergiste, with many a lowly reverence, asked his distinguished guest manifold questions concerning his breakfast; but still the Count de Meyrand was not heard to ask any questions either regarding the fate of his friend, or the somewhat remarkable events which had lately taken place.

At length, however, the jovial priest made his appearance; and whether it was that the count was in a better humour for raillery than on the night before, or whether he remarked, by the keen twinkling of the other's eye, that he was about to commence an attack upon him, which would not easily cease, he chose to be the first to open the encounter, saying, "Well, good father, though I know it is not an easy thing to cool a priest's courage, yet I trust your last night's expedition has rather diminished your chivalrous ardour."

"Not a whit," replied the priest. "Everything depends upon how much a man's courage wants cooling. Yours, noble count, seems not of a quality very likely to boil over; and, doubtless, ten steps from the door of the inn would have sent you home shivering. Mine carried me, however, a little farther."

"Ay, doubtless," interrupted the count, "up to the point where you met with these rogues; and then you waited behind a great stone to see who had the best of the fray. Is it not so? I see you have brought home no desperate wounds with you."

"None," replied the priest, "that I cannot bear as tranquilly and well as you, my noble lord, could bear the sorrow of your best friend. My trade, however, is not bloodshed; I love not hard blows, and shall always keep out of their way as far as I can. So my confession is made; but here comes one who has a greater liking for wounds and bruises than I have; and now Heaven send us all as good food as I have a good stomach. Mine host! mine host! that omelet will be overdone, and the sin of burned eggs is one to which I refuse absolution. By Hercules! as the Romans used to say—Body of Bacchus! as the Italians say—Dame! as we say in France, did ever mortal man see such a basket of fine trouts? Why, it is a gift for an abbot! Look! my noble baron, look!" he continued, turning to Bernhard de Rohan, who now made his appearance; "did you ever see such fair river-gods in your life? Put them upon the ashes, host, put them upon the ashes!"

Bernard de Rohan did not pay so much attention to the fishes as the priest, by his commendation, seemed to think they deserved; but, turning to his friend, he shook him by the hand, saying, "Well, Meyrand, you certainly always were a very unaccountable sort of personage, or I should be inclined seriously to quarrel with you for suffering me to go last night without assistance, at the imminent risk of getting my throat cut for want of your help."

"If you risked getting your throat cut, De Rohan," replied his companion, "that was your fault; I had nothing to do with that; I even deviated so far from my usual habits as to ask you to stay, and not do it. I have always a reason for everything I do, good Sir Bernard, and I take it for granted that other people have a reason too. I supposed that you had some motive for going and getting your throat cut, and therefore did not in the least blame you for doing so, if you chose; but I had no reason for anything of the kind, and therefore I stayed where I was. Indeed, I had every reason in the world not to go: I was warm and comfortable, and had good wine and good viands before me; I was tired with a long day's hunting, and had got my boots off. Then what to me was the Lord of Masseran, that I should try to save his life or liberty? I had no motive for serving him: indeed, quite the contrary. Every one knows him to be an egregious scoundrel, and at this moment he owes me thirty thousand crowns, which he will never pay, and which I have no chance of getting, unless some honest brigand should cut his throat, when the King of France would doubtless take possession of his lands and pay his creditors."

"Good faith, you are better acquainted with him than I am," replied Bernard de Rohan. "Pray let me know something of his history; for I never heard anything of him till some six months ago, when letters from France informed me that the widowed Countess of Brienne, the mother of my friend and comrade, Henry of Brienne, was about to be married to a Marquis of Masseran."

"Oh! his history is told in a few words," replied the Count de Meyrand, laughing; "but serve the breakfast, my good host, and do not stand with your mouth open listening to the venerable character of your noble lord, for I take it we are here upon his domain."

"No, no!" replied the host, "he is no lord of mine, noble sir; this is ducal domain we stand upon."

"It matters not," answered the count; "this Lord of Masseran, then, Bernard, though his mother was a Frenchwoman, was born on the other side of those Alps, a Piedmontese vagabond; half Frenchman, half Italian; a sort of water-snake, neither adder nor eel; though a sort of third-size sovereign, an underling of the Duke of Savoy. He who would have been beggarly for a French gentleman, was ten times more beggarly for a prince; and thus, in all probability, he would have gone on living—filled with all the small Italian vices of our day; sharing, it is said, with the brigands who take refuge on the territories of such small lords; and employing the stiletto or the drug when it suited his purpose to get rid of troublesome friends—thus, I say, he would have gone on living what is considered in Italy a very respectable, quiet, insignificant life, had a fancy not suddenly come into the head of our worthy king to take possession of the dominions of his friend and cousin, the Duke of Savoy, which fancy at once raises this Lord of Masseran into a person of importance. He has, it seems, upon his lands one or two small towns and one or two small castles; but these towns and these castles are so situated as to command several passes and defiles valuable to France. Now my Lord of Masseran is a conscientious man, and, of course, nothing would ever induce him to take part with any one who could not pay him for the same. From the poor Duke of Savoy not a livre tournois was to be expected. The King of France himself, though a perfect Cr[oe]sus in promises, was known to be somewhat threadbare in the treasury. He, however, was the more hopeful speculation of the two, for he had power if he had not money, and there was a probability of his paying one friend out of what he pillaged from another. With him, then, my Lord of Masseran chose to deal, and promised to give free passage to the troops of France upon certain conditions, which are, of course, a secret. One thing, however, is evident; my Lord of Masseran did with the king as some of our followers do when they take service of us. He asked, in short, for something in hand. Now the worthy monarch of France had nothing to give but the hand of a fair widow in her fortieth year. With that hand, however, went a dowry of some twenty thousand crowns a year, and the Lord of Masseran came to Paris and opened the campaign against the widow's heart. She has the repute, as you should know better than any one, of being somewhat hard and stern in her purpose, and cutting with her tongue. She was inconsolable, too, for the death of her noble husband; always wore black, like the mother of the late king, and looked the picture of widowhood. My Lord of Masseran, however, with his Piedmontese eloquence, found means to win the widow, with the support of the king. The lady thought, it would seem, to spend her days in Paris; but that city soon became a residence unsuited to the health of her new husband. There were strange stories current regarding him; but there was one thing certain, namely, that he was marvellously fond of those small, square, spotted pieces of mischief, which have the art of conveying so many fortunes from hand to hand. He played largely; he won generally; and his fortune seemed immense. One night, at the Louvre, he borrowed from me the large sum I have named, with a promise to repay it the next morning; but it would seem that, after I left the hall, either fortune went against him, or he took an irresistible longing for Savoy. His lady raved and raged, we are told: but she found that she had now to do with one, upon whose dull ear the sweet sounds of a woman's tongue, raised to ever so high a pitch, had no effect. The Lord of Masseran paid not the least attention to anything that she said; he did not seem to hear her; but, with the most kind courtesy and ceremonious respect, handed her to the carriage which was prepared to bear her away; and she found herself on the road to Savoy before she could arrange any scheme for resistance. This is his history; mine is soon told: I choose not so easily to abandon my hold of my Lord of Masseran; and I am here hunting his game, riding through his woods, and visiting his castle gate; for he seems to me to be as deaf to my sweet solicitations for repayment as he showed himself to the melodious intonations of his lady's voice. Now, priest, though your clerical appetite may be good, do not devour all the trout in the dish, for I am hungry as well as you, and have told a long story."

"And a good one too," replied the priest, laughing, and putting over the dish to the count; but he suddenly added, "Have you never got within the gates of his castle, then, my noble lord?" and he fixed his eyes full upon the face of the Count de Meyrand.

A very slight change of colour took place on the count's cheek; but he replied at once, "Oh yes, I have been within, but to no purpose."

"He must be an obdurate man indeed," said the priest, "if your persuasions, my noble lord, can have no effect upon him. I wonder what mine would have! Perhaps he might listen to the voice of the Church: I will go up and try."

"Why what hast thou to do with him?" demanded the count, suddenly turning his eyes sharply upon the priest. "On what pretext wilt thou go thither?"

"To exercise my calling," replied the priest, with a sly smile; "to exercise my calling in one of its various ways."

"I knew not that your calling had various ways," replied the count, his usual air of indifference verging into a look of supercilious contempt.

"Oh yes it has," replied the priest, well pleased, as it seemed to Bernard de Rohan, that he had piqued the count out of his apathy. "Our calling has various ways of exercising itself. We address ourselves to all grades and classes. If I convert not the Lord of Masseran, I may convert his cook, you know. My efforts for the good of his soul may prove for the benefit of my own body; and the discourse that is held over venison and capons comes with a fervour and an unction which is marvellously convincing."

There was a sly and jocular smile upon the priest's countenance, especially while addressing the Count de Meyrand, that somewhat puzzled Bernard de Rohan, and evidently annoyed the count himself. It was not difficult to see that, in the most serious things he said—though, indeed, there were few that he did say which were serious at all—there was a lurking jest, that seemed pointed at something which the hearer did not clearly see, but which might or might not be something in his own character, purposes, or pursuits.

The significance of his tone towards the Count de Meyrand, however, did not pass without that gentleman's observation; and, after listening to him for several minutes more, while the party concluded their breakfast, he turned towards him as he rose, saying, "It seems to me, priest, that you would fain be insolent. Now let me tell you, that, though you are very reverend personages in Savoy, and men meddle with you warily, in France we have a way of curing clerical insolence, which is a good scourging with hunting-whips. Perhaps you do not know that this is the way French gentlemen treat those who are insolent."

"I know it well," replied the priest, turning upon him sharply, "I know it well, as I happen to be a French gentleman myself."

He instantly changed his tone, however, and added, with his wonted smile, "Nay, but now, Heaven forbid! that I should be insolent to the noble Count de Meyrand. He being a generous and well-bred gentleman, and, like every other gentleman, indifferent to all things upon earth, can never take offence where no offence is meant; but, as he looks furious, I will take myself out of harm's way. The blessing of a whole skin is great. Adieu, my son! adieu! We shall meet some time again, when I shall find you, I trust, restored to temper, and as lamb-like and meek as myself."

While he thus spoke, the priest gradually made his way to the door and issued forth; while the Count of Meyrand, calling one of his attendants to him, whispered something which Bernard de Rohan construed into an order unfavourable to the safety of the jovial priest's shoulders.

"Nay, nay, Meyrand," he said, "let him have his jest, for pity's sake. Recollect he is a priest."

"His gown sha'n't save him," replied the count. "Those priests have too much immunity already in all parts of the world. But what do you now, de Rohan? Will you hunt with me to-day, and we will drive this Lord of Masseran's deer from one end of Savoy to the other? or do you go on to Paris at once, and deny me your good company?"

"I write to Paris," replied the cavalier, "and send off a messenger immediately. But I myself go up to seek this Lord of Masseran. I have despatches for him from the Maréchal de Brissac, and also some orders to give by word of mouth."

"I hope they are not disagreeable orders," replied the count, turning towards the door of the inn; "for he is not one of those whom I should like to offend in his own castle."

"Oh no, I shall say nothing that should offend him," replied Bernard de Rohan. "But, besides that, I shall not go till after the arrival of the rest of my men, who come across the mountain this morning; and he might find it rather dangerous to do me harm."

"His ways of dealing with troublesome friends are various," replied the count. "I should love neither to dine nor to sleep in his dwelling. A word to the wise, good friend, a word to the wise! Now, my men, quick! quick! get ready the horses, bring out the dogs. You will not be tempted, De Rohan?"

"I cannot now," replied his friend. "Another day, if I stay so long. I wish you sport, I wish you good sport;" and, turning towards his chamber, he caused a table to be brought, and materials for writing to be placed before him. He there remained for nearly an hour and a half, busily tracing upon paper those small black characters which, since some man—whether Cadmus, who, if he did it, may well be said to have sown dragons' teeth and reaped a harvest of strife, or whoever else the learned world may have it—those black characters, I say, which, since some man, not contented with what mischief the tongue can do, invented writing for the propagation thereof, have worked more of wo and mischief, as well as of happiness and prosperity, than any other invention that the prolific mind of man ever brought forth. At length the sound of a trumpet coming down the hill saluted his ear, and in a few minutes after it was announced to him that the rest of his train had arrived.

We must now conduct the reader at once to the entrance of the castle of Masseran. The gate itself was shut, though the drawbridge was down and the portcullis was up. There was a little wicket, indeed, left ajar, showing the long, dark perspective of the heavy archway under the gate tower, gloomy and prison-like, and the large square court beyond, with its white stones glistening in the sun; while the gray walls of the castle and part of a window, as well as the door of the keep, appeared at the opposite side. On either side, under the archway, but scarcely to be seen in its gloomy shadow, was a long bench, and on the left hand a low door leading up to the apartments in the gate tower. The right-hand bench was occupied by one of the soldiers of the place, and at the door was the warder's wife talking to him, while our friend, the jovial priest, who had escaped without harm or hinderance, notwithstanding the threats of the Count de Meyrand, was waiting at the wicket, from time to time looking through into the court, and from time to time turning round and gazing upon the mountains, humming an air which was certainly not a canticle.

After a pause of some ten or fifteen minutes, the warder himself appeared, a heavy man, past the middle age, and dressed in rusty gray. "He won't see you, Father Willand," he said. "He's walking in the inner court, and in a dangerous sort of mood. I would rather not be the man to cross him now."

"Poh! nonsense," replied Father Willand, laughing. "Go in again to him, good warder: tell him I have business of importance with him, and I know that this refusal is only one of his sweet jokes. He will see me, soft-hearted gentleman! Go and tell him—go and tell him, warder!"

"Faith, not I," replied the warder. "That business of last night seems to have galled him sorely, and he is just in the humour to fire a man out of a culverin, as we know his father once did; but in these days it won't do: culverins make too loud a report, you know. I will not go near him again."

"Then I will go myself," replied the priest. "He won't hurt me. Nay, warder, you would not squeeze the Church in the wicket gateway! By Heaven—or, as I should say less profanely, by the blessed rood—if you pinch my stomach one moment more you will pinch forth an anathema, which will leave you but a poor creature all your life."

"Well, be it on your head," cried the warder, with a grim smile; "though a two-inch cudgel or a fall from the battlements is the best thing to be hoped for you."

The priest was not to be deterred, however; and, making his way onward, he crossed the outer court, turned to the right, and, passing through a long stone passage, feeling damp and chilly after the bright sunshine, he entered a colonnade or sort of cloister which surrounded the inner court. It was a large, open space of ground, with tall buildings overshadowing it on all sides. The sun seldom reached it; and there was a coldness and stillness about its aspect altogether—its gray stones, its small windows, its low-arched cloisters, its sunless air, and the want of even the keen activity of the mountain wind—which made most people shudder when they entered it.

But there was nothing the least chilly in the nature of Father Willand. His heart was not easily depressed, his spirits not easily damped; and when he entered the cloister, and saw the Lord of Masseran walking up and down in the court, an irresistible inclination to laugh seized him, notwithstanding all the warder had said of his lord's mood at that moment.

It is true—although, from the description of the worthy officer of bolts and bars, one would have expected to see the Lord of Masseran acting some wild scene of passion—he was, on the contrary, walking calmly and slowly backward and forward across the court, with his eyes bent on the ground, indeed, but with his countenance perfectly tranquil. It was nothing in his demeanour, however, that gave the priest a desire to laugh, for he was very well aware that the passions of the Lord of Masseran did not take the same appearances as those of other men, and he saw clearly that he was at that moment in a state of sullen fury, which might, very likely, have conducted any other man to some absurd excess. His personal appearance, also, had nothing in it to excite mirth in any degree. He was a tall, thin, graceful-looking man of the middle age, with a nose slightly aquiline, eyes calm and mild, lips somewhat thin and pale, and a complexion, very common in the northern part of Italy, of a sort of clear, pale olive. His dress was handsome, but not ostentatious; and, on the whole, he looked very much the nobleman and the man of the world of those times. The priest, however, laughed when he saw him; and, though he tried to smother it under the merry affectation of a cough, yet the effects were too evident upon his countenance to escape the eye of the Lord of Masseran as he approached.

"Ha! Father Willand," said the marquis, as their eyes met, "I told the warder to say that I did not wish to see you to-day."

"Ah, but, my excellent good lord," replied the priest, bowing his head low, with an air of mock humility and reverence, "it was I who wanted to see your lordship; so I e'en ventured to make my way in, though the warder—foul fall the villain—has so squeezed my stomach in the wicket, that, like a bruised tin pot, it will never again hold so much as it did before."

"You are somewhat of a bold man," said the marquis, with a cold, bitter, sidelong look at the priest; "you are somewhat of a bold man to make your way in here when I bid you stay out. You may come in once too often, Father Willand."

"Heaven forbid, my lord," replied the priest; "I shall never think it too often to serve your lordship, even though it should be at your funeral: a sad duty that, my lord, which we must perform very often for our best friends."

"I should imagine, priest," replied the marquis, somewhat sternly, "you would laugh at the funeral of your best friends."

"I will promise your lordship one thing," replied the priest, "to laugh at my own, if death will but let me. But surely, my lord, this is a time for merriment and gayety! Why, I came to congratulate your lordship upon your escape from those who attacked you last night—Ugh! ugh! ugh!"

While the priest, unable to restrain himself, thus laughed aloud, the marquis bit his lip, and eyed him askance, with a look which certainly boded no great good to the merry ecclesiastic. They were at that moment close to a spot where a door opened from one of the masses of building into the cloister, and the Lord of Masseran, raising his voice a little, exclaimed, in a sweet Italian tone, "Geronimo!"

For a moment the priest laughed more heartily than before; but, seeing the marquis about to repeat his call, he recovered himself, and, laying his finger on the nobleman's arm, said, "Stay a moment, my lord, stay a moment before you call him. First, because the sweet youth must not exercise his ministry upon me. It would make too much noise, you know, and every one in the valley is aware that I have come hither. Next, because there are certain friends of mine looking for me at the bottom of the slope, and expecting me within half an hour, so that I cannot enjoy your Geronimo's conversation—"

"It is, in general, very short," said the marquis.

"And, thirdly," continued the priest, "because I have come up to tell you two or three things which require no witnesses. I am here upon a friendly errand, my good lord, and you are such a niggard that you refuse me my laugh. However, I must have it, be it at you, at myself, or at any one else; and now, if you behave well and civilly, I will tell you tidings that you may like well to hear. If you don't want to hear them, I will take myself away again, and then neither priest nor warder is much to blame. Shall I go?"

He spoke seriously now, and the Lord of Masseran replied, in a somewhat more placable tone, a moment's reflection showing him that the priest, in all probability, would not have come thither except upon some important errand: "No, do not go," he said, "but speak to me, at least, seriously." He looked down upon the ground for a moment, and then added, "You may well think that I am angry, after all that took place last night; for you, who hear everything, have doubtless heard of that also."

As he spoke, he suddenly raised his keen dark eyes to the countenance of the priest, as if inquiring how much he really did know of the matter in question.

"Oh yes," replied Father Willand, "I do hear everything, my good lord, and I knew all that had happened to you last night before I sat down to my breakfast this morning: I heard of your happy deliverance, too, from the hands of the daring villains who captured you, for which gracious interposition I trust that you will keep a candle burning perpetually before the shrine of Saint Maurice."

The priest spoke in a serious tone, but still there was an expressive grin upon his countenance; and, after pausing for a moment or two more, he added, as the marquis was about to reply, "You think I am jesting, or that I do not understand what I am talking about; but I know the whole business as well as you do yourself, and somewhat better. I tell you, therefore, that it is a great deliverance that you have met with, though perhaps you think it less a deliverance than an interruption."

The priest paused as if for the marquis to reply; but the Lord of Masseran was silent also, regarding his companion with a quiet, sly, inquiring air, which, perhaps, could be assumed by no other countenance upon earth than that of an Italian. It might be interpreted to say, "You are more in my secrets than I thought. A new bond of fellowship is established between us."

As he remained actually silent, however, the priest went on to say, "What I come to talk to you about is this very matter; for you may chance be outwitted, my good lord, even where you are putting some trust. But what I have to say," he continued, "had better not be said among so many windows and doors."

"Come with me! come with me!" said the Lord of Masseran; and leading the way through the cloisters, he thridded several long and intricate passages, none of them more than dimly lighted, and many of them profoundly dark. He was followed by the priest, who kept his hand in the bosom of his robe, and, if the truth must be said, grasped somewhat firmly the hilt of a dagger, never feeling perfectly sure what was to be the next of the Marquis of Masseran's sweet courtesies. Nothing occurred, however, to interrupt him in his course, and at length the lord of the castle stopped opposite to a doorway, over which a glimmering light found its way. As soon as it was opened, the bright beams of the day rushed in, and the marquis led the way into a wide garden, which sloped down the side of the hill, and lay between the walls of the castle itself and an outwork thrown forward to command one of the passes of the mountain. It was walled on all sides, and nothing could be seen beyond it; but in itself it offered a beautiful contrast to the wild scenery round, being cultivated with great care and neatness, and arranged in the Italian style of gardening, which was then very little known in France, where it had been first introduced some years before by Catharine de Medicis. Long and broad terraces, connected together by flights of steps, formed the part of the garden nearest to the chateau, while below appeared many a formal walk, sheltered, even in that mountain scene, by rows of tall cypresses and hedges of other evergreen plants.

"Here we can speak undisturbed," said the marquis, as soon as he had taken a few steps in advance. "Now what is it you have to tell me, priest?"

"Did you ever hear of such a person as Bernard de Rohan?" demanded the priest, fixing his eyes upon the countenance of the Lord of Masseran.

"I have—I have heard of him," replied the marquis, turning somewhat pale. "What of him? what of him? Is he not still beyond the Alps?"

"He is within a few leagues of your dwelling," answered the priest.

"I thought so, I thought so," exclaimed the Lord of Masseran, striking his brow with his hand. "But he shall find he has come too soon."

"You must take heed what you do," replied the priest, grinning. "Did you ever hear how the fox vowed vengeance against the lion, and was wroth, and forgot his cunning, and flew at the lion's muzzle, and the lion put his paw upon him, and squeezed the breath out of the poor fox's body? My very good lord, you do not know that this Bernard de Rohan has men-at-arms at his back, and despatches to you from the Maréchal de Brissac, which may not be pleasant for you to receive; and, moreover, he is a great friend of a certain Count de Meyrand, and they have been conferring earnestly together both last night and this morning, and the name of the Lord of Masseran was more than once mentioned. So now, my son, you see what is going forward, and must take your measures accordingly."

The wily Piedmontese sunk back into himself as he heard the unpalatable tidings communicated to him. From the few significant words which the priest had spoken, it was evident enough to the Lord of Masseran that, by some means or another, all the plans and purposes in which he was engaged in at the time were nearly as well known to the personage with whom he was then conversing as to himself, and yet he could not bring himself to speak with him freely thereupon. He wanted advice. He wanted assistance. The priest appeared to know more than he said; and, to arrive at certainty upon that point, the Marquis of Masseran now applied himself with all the skill and shrewdness of which he was master; but in good Father Willand he met with more than his match; for, with equal dexterity and shrewdness, the ecclesiastic had resources which the Lord of Masseran himself had not. He could evade a question by a laugh, or a jest, or a figure, or a pun, and never did diplomatist more skilfully turn and double in a conference than he did in his conversation with the Marquis of Masseran.

At length, driven to speak more clearly, the marquis paused suddenly on the terrace across which they were walking, and, fronting the priest, demanded abruptly and sternly, "Tell me, then—tell me what is this situation in which you say I am placed, which you always allude to and never explain. Tell me this, and tell me how I shall meet the danger, or, by the powers of Heaven and hell, you shall never quit this place alive."

"A pretty and a sweet persuasion," exclaimed the priest, laughing heartily; "but, my dear son, I am not so easily killed, even if such parricidal thoughts were anything more than a jest. You know not what a tough morsel an old priest is: hard of mastication for even stronger teeth than yours. Nay, nay, think of tenderer food! In other terms, ask me pleasantly and civilly, my good son, and you may then chance to receive an answer. If you were to kill me forty times over it would do you no good. My secrets are like the goose's golden eggs: not to be got at by slaughter."

"There is something that you want, priest," replied the marquis, in the same abrupt tone. "Quick! tell me what it is; if it be anything in reason, you shall have it."

The priest smiled with a meaning look, but thought for a moment or two before he replied; for, to say the truth, he had not, in his own mind, fixed upon that which he was to demand as his recompense. He had, it is true, an object in view, and the chief means of attaining that object was to persuade the Marquis of Masseran that he dealt with him truly and sincerely. Now he well knew that the mind of the worthy lord was so constituted that it could by no means be brought to conceive that any man dealt honestly with another, unless he had some personal object to gain by so doing, and, therefore, the priest determined to assign such an object, although he was, in reality, without one. "Well," he said, "well, you shall promise me, most solemnly, first, not to tell any one what I reveal to you; and also, if you find that what I tell you is true, and if the way that I point out to you prove successful, you shall give the priest of the church of Saint John of Bonvoison a fat buck in August every year when he chooses to send for it; you shall also give him a barrel of wine of your best vintage, and five silver pieces for alms to the poor, and this in perpetuity."

"Fy, now, fy!" replied the Lord of Masseran; "for your own life were quite enough; but in perpetuity, that is more than I can engage for: it is owning your vassalage, good father."

"It must be even so, though," replied the priest, "or you have not my secret. I care not for venison, sinner that I am, it is the good of the Church I think of."

"Well! well!" answered the Lord of Masseran, "most disinterested father, I give my promise; and now be quick, for I expect a visiter full soon, my dealings with whom may depend upon your words: what is it that I should fear?"

"That Adrian, count of Meyrand," said the priest, "and Bernard, baron de Rohan, laying their heads together for their own special purposes—"

"That can never be, that can never be," cried the marquis, with a scoff. "They both love the same woman. They both seek her. They can as soon unite as oil and water. No, no, that is all vain!" and he turned away with a sneer.

"Suppose," said the priest, smiling in a way that again shook the Marquis of Masseran's feelings of security, "suppose that the one should love her money and the other herself, and they should agree to settle it thus: We will prove to the King of France that the Lord of Masseran holds secret communication with the Duke of Savoy and the Emperor Ferdinand. Suppose this were the case, I say, do you think, my son, that there would be any chance of their really proving it? Could the noble Count of Meyrand say boldly that, to his knowledge, the Lord of Masseran conspired secretly with some troops of Savoy, to carry off, as if by force, himself, the Lord of Masseran, and Mademoiselle de Brienne, for special purposes of his own, somewhat treasonable towards France, only that the scheme was defeated by an accident? Could Bernard de Rohan say that he had seen the Lord of Masseran in the hands of his captors, going along with no great signs of unwillingness, and showing no great signs of gratitude to those who set him free."

"Was he there?" exclaimed the Lord of Masseran, eagerly. "What, a youth in a buff coat? By Heaven, his eyes have been haunting me all night. He seemed to look through me."

"The same person," replied the priest, with a loud laugh; "and he did see through you, my son. You have been very transparent lately. I ask no questions, but put it to yourself whether these two gentlemen can say these things to the King of France. Then may not the one say, 'Sire, I love this girl, and have got her father's promise for her hand; here is her brother, too, consents to our marriage: I claim as my reward your good-will and approbation.' Then may not the other say, 'Sire, the Lord of Masseran, as I have showed you, betrays your trust. He has fair castles and fortresses, beautiful lands and lordships, vineyards, olive-grounds, cornfields: I pray you, in return for having discovered his dealings with the empire, put me in possession of his lands and his lordships till your majesty shall think fit to conclude a peace.'"

The Lord of Masseran looked moodily down upon the ground; and though, to say the truth, he did not yet put great faith in the priest's sincerity, he asked briefly, "Well, what remedy? How is this to be avoided?"

"That," replied the priest, "for certain I cannot tell you; but I can tell you what I would do were you Father Willand and I Marquis of Masseran. I would order horses to be saddled and grooms to be prepared, and by the most silent, secret, and sudden way, I would betake myself to Paris, cast myself at the king's feet, accuse this Count of Meyrand of seeking to corrupt me, tell him that Savoy had offered me bribes, and, failing there, had striven to carry me off. I would do all this, and then—"

"Hush!" said the Lord of Masseran, "hush! here is some one coming to seek me:" and, leaving the priest, he advanced a few steps towards a servant who now approached from the house. The marquis asked a question in a low tone, to which the other replied, loud enough for Father Willand to hear,

"He will not come within the gates, sir, but desires to speak with you for a moment without: he says he is but in his hunting-garb, and unfitted to enter your halls."

"How many men has he with him?" demanded the Lord of Masseran.

"No one but a page, my lord, near the gates," replied the man. "The rest I saw gathered together about a mile down the road, on the other side of the valley."

"I will come!" said the Lord of Masseran, "I will come!" and he added, in a lower tone, some words which the priest did not hear, but which he judged had reference to himself, from perceiving the eyes of the speakers turned more than once shrewdly towards him. "I will be back again in a few minutes, good father," the Lord of Masseran continued. "Wait for me, for we have yet much to speak of."

"I will wait, I will wait," replied the priest; "only be not long, my good son; for, though I have much to say to you, I have little time to spare."

The Lord of Masseran gave him every assurance that he would return speedily; and then left the garden, followed by the attendant who had summoned him. The priest looked after them and listened; and, being someway connected with the race of that gentleman called in history Fine-ear, he distinctly heard the door by which he and the marquis had entered the garden locked after the latter had quitted it. "There is another door," he muttered to himself, with a smile, looking towards one of the archways upon the terrace leading to the chateau.

The next instant, however, there was a sound from that quarter also, as if somebody turned the key there likewise; but the priest continued to smile notwithstanding, and, proceeding slowly along the terraces, as if merely to amuse himself by a walk, he approached the thick wall of the garden, and stopped at the entrance of one of those little guerites, or watch-towers, with which the whole enclosure was studded from place to place. Up the narrow staircase in the stone he made his way, and then looked carefully out through the loophole which was turned towards the chief entrance of the chateau. No living object, however, was to be seen in the immediate neighbourhood of the castle itself; though, as the attendant had said, about a mile down the road which passed through the valley was a group of men, and horses, and dogs gathered together in various listless attitudes, while two large eagles were seen whirling in immense circles high up above the tops of the mountains, upon the lower part of whose tall sides a flock of sheep appeared feeding in peaceful tranquillity.

"I may as well go," said the priest to himself, as he gazed out upon this quiet scene. "I have said all that it is necessary to say, and this sweet lord may not have done all that he may think it necessary to do. I like not his whisperings, so I may as well go."

But, as the priest thus murmured to himself, he looked out again in the same direction, when two persons came slowly forth from behind an angle of one of the towers, and, taking their way under the garden wall, approached the very spot where Father Willand stood. There was no difficulty in recognising the Lord of Masseran and the Count de Meyrand. "Now what would I give," murmured the priest to himself, "for one of those famous inventions—those ear-trumpets—those sound-catchers—which we read about in old histories."

The good priest, however, possessed none such; and though his ears, as we have said, were very sharp; though he thrust his head as far as he could into the loophole; though the count and his companion, thinking that no one observed them, spoke loudly and vehemently; and though they passed directly under the turret where the priest stood, nevertheless, the words that he could catch were very few. "Well, my good lord, well," said the Lord of Masseran, "you blame me without cause. I have done my best, and am as disappointed as you are."

"I do not blame you," replied the other; "I only tell you what must be the result if the plans you have proposed cannot be carried through immediately."

"Not that I have proposed, not that I have proposed," replied the other; "the suggestion was your own."

"Indeed!" said the Count de Meyrand, "this is something new to me. All I know is, that I have got the whole of your scheme drawn out in your own hand; the names false, indeed, or written in cipher, but for that we will soon find a key. What I asked was this, either that you should pay me the large debt you owe, or that you should give me such assistance in my suit to Mademoiselle de Brienne as would enable me to call her my wife within two months. Those two months have now wellnigh expired, and I will be trifled with no more."

The latter part of this sentence was lost to the ear of the priest; but he guessed what it must be; and certainly the slight portion that he had heard gave him a very strong inclination to hear more. He paused, then, to consider whether this could be accomplished by any possible means, but it was evident that such could not be the case; for, even while he turned the matter in his mind, the little path along which the Marquis de Masseran and his companion walked led them farther and farther from the wall of the garden. We must now, however, follow the two noblemen, and leave the priest to his fate, which we shall very speedily see.

"Well, well, my good friend," replied the Marquis de Masseran, in answer to the last observation of the count, "the time has not yet fully expired, and it shall be your own fault if my promise is not completely fulfilled."

"How can it be my fault?" said the count. "I have nothing to do with the fulfilment of your promise."

"Yes, you have," answered the Marquis of Masseran: "I will give you the means; but if any pitiful scruple, any lady-like hesitation upon your part, prevents you from employing them, the fault is your own."

"Mark me now, my good lord," replied the count: "it was understood between us that I was to have no share in anything contrary to my allegiance to the crown of France. With your own plans I had nothing to do. If you chose to give the agents of the empire an opportunity of making you a prisoner, and taking possession of your fortresses for reasons and with purposes best known to yourself, I had nothing to do with that: that was your own affair; I would be in no degree implicated with it; I would receive no bribes from Savoy or Austria," he continued, with a sneer; "all I agreed to do was to rescue the lady, if, on any occasion, I were informed that she was travelling as a prisoner between Fort Covert and Brianzone. This I promised to do, and I should have had no scruple then to use my opportunities to the best advantage."

The Lord of Masseran smiled with a meaning look, which his companion easily interpreted. The count added with a frown, "You mistake me: I would have done her no wrong, sir! Though I would have taken care to keep her so long with me that she could give her hand to no one else, I would have treated her with all honour."

"Doubtless, doubtless," replied the Lord of Masseran; "but what I mean now, my lord count, is, that if I again, at a great risk to myself, give you good opportunity, you will have no hesitation in using a little gentle force to compel this lady's union with yourself. We have priests enough who will perform the ceremony with a deaf ear to the remonstrances that her reluctance and maiden modesty may suggest; but when we have carried the matter so far as that, remember that my safety, nay, my life itself, may be compromised if you yield to any weak supplications. Once commit ourselves, and our only safety is in her being your wife! Then she will be silent for her own sake."

"By Heavens," said the count, in a deep, low tone, "she shall be my wife if it be but in revenge for the scorn with which she treated me in Paris. If it costs the lives of her and me, and all our kin, she shall be mine, Lord of Masseran."

"So be it, then," replied the marquis; "but, to accomplish my new scheme, I must be absent some few days."

The count gazed upon him somewhat suspiciously. "Some few days?" he said. "What! long enough, marquis, to go to Paris or Vienna?"

"Neither," replied the Marquis of Masseran, coolly. "Three days will suffice, if well used. In three days I will be back again."

"And in those three days," replied the count, "this Bernard de Rohan, whom we were talking about just now, will have fair opportunity of visiting the bright lady, and even, perhaps, by the connivance of her fair mother, may carry her within the French frontier, and plead her father's promise at the court of the king."

"Not by her mother's connivance," replied the marquis. "Her mother loves him as little as you do; and, even were he at the court of France to-morrow, her protest against the marriage would be sufficient to stop it. But, to guard against all danger, and, if possible, to put the mind of a suspicious man at ease, I will tell you that one great cause of my going hence is to prevent this Bernard de Rohan from setting foot within my walls. I know his coming: I know why he comes far better than you do. I have heard his motives and his views within this hour from one who is well acquainted with them, and, if he present himself at my gates, he will find a stern refusal till I return. Then I must see him, but I shall then be prepared. Will this satisfy you? If it do so, tell me at once; for it is high time that I should mount my horse, and quit this place without delay."

Though, in reality, anything but satisfied, the Count de Meyrand expressed his consent to the proposal, determined in his own mind to watch all the proceedings of a confederate whom he could so little trust, even in the dark and tortuous schemes in which their interests were combined. He tried, as he parted from the marquis, to conceal his doubts lest they should betray his purposes; but that worthy gentleman was far too practised a reader of the human heart and human countenance to be so deceived; and when they separated, it was with the full conviction that each would endeavour to deceive and circumvent the other, unless some strong necessity continued to bind them together.

"Now," thought the Marquis de Masseran, as he paused for a moment looking after the Count de Meyrand, "now for this priest. I must have more information from him: more full, more complete. Then what is to be done with him? It might be dangerous to confine him; and yet it were easy to say that he had held treasonable discourses. A fall from the walls might be as good as anything. I will speak with Geronimo about it."

He had been standing with his back towards the castle and his eyes fixed upon the ground while he thus held parley with himself. On the other side of the valley, which was there profound, rose up the mountain, with the road into Piedmont winding along it, at the distance of perhaps a quarter of a mile, to use the ordinary expression, as the crow flies, but fully a mile by the road; and, as he ended his murmuring soliloquy, the Marquis of Masseran looked up in that direction. To his utter surprise and consternation when he did so, he beheld the figure of the priest walking quietly along the highway towards the lower ground of Savoy.

He hastened back to the castle; but he was assured at the gates by all the several persons who were standing there that no one had passed. On examining the doors of the garden, every one of them was found to be closed; and the Marquis of Masseran came to a conclusion, which was not pleasant for a man engaged in his peculiar pursuits, namely, that he was deceived and betrayed by some one of his own household.