With that strange, dizzy sensation which we feel when awaking from the first stunning effects of any great catastrophe, Bernard de Rohan continued to gaze around him for some minutes, as the morning rose brighter and brighter upon the wild scene of destruction in the midst of which he stood. He was himself much bruised and injured: blood was upon various parts of his garments; his strong, muscular arm would scarcely support him as he leaned against the rock, and his brain still reeled giddily from time to time with the fall and the blows he had received: but his own corporeal pain engaged less of his attention than the terrible picture which the rising light displayed. Everywhere appeared vestiges of the desolating phenomenon of the preceding night. The order of all things around him, and especially to the northeast, seemed to have been entirely broken up and changed. The granite rocks from the higher summits of the mountain were now piled up in immense masses below, mingled with vast tracts of the most dissimilar substances, slate, and sandstone, and common vegetable earth, with here and there a thick layer of snow protruding through the chasms, marked in long streaks by the various kinds of earth over which it had passed. Shivered fir-trees, and immense fragments of oak, with their green foliage still waving in the air, stuck out here and there in scattered disarray from the tumbled chaos of rock, and sand, and earth; and the fragments of a cottage roof, which lay reversed high up the side of the mountainous pile that now blocked up the valley, showed that the sweeping destruction had, at all events, reached one of the homes of earth's children.

Such was the scene towards the northeast: but it was evident that the fallen masses had not yet firmly fixed themselves in the position which they were probably to bear for ages afterward. From time to time a rock rolled over, but slowly, making its way down into the valley with increasing speed, sometimes pausing and fixing itself in a new bed part of the way down. None of these, however, in their descent, reached the spot where Bernard de Rohan stood, for he was at least three hundred yards from the base of the mountain which had thus been produced during the night. As it came down, indeed, the immense body had been accompanied by the fall of large masses of stone, which were scattered on all sides, so that the green bosom of the valley—which, on the preceding day, had been carpeted by soft and equal turf, only broken here and there by a tall tree, or clumps of shrubs and bushes, or else by large fantastic lumps of rock or stone, fallen immemorial ages before, and clothed by the hand of time with lichens or creeping plants—was now thickly spotted with fresh fragments, which from space to space had shivered the trees in their descent, and in other places was soiled with long tracks of various-coloured earths, which had showered down like torrents as the great mass descended farther on.

The stream, swollen, turbid, and furious, was rushing on amid the rocks in the middle of the valley; but the traces of where it had lately been evidently showed that it was rapidly decreasing in volume, and had already much diminished. Bernard de Rohan traced it up with his eye to the spot where it descended from the hill, crossing the road, which ran along the top of a steep bank on the opposite side. The cataract through which he had forced his horse the night before was there visible, and still showed a large column of rushing water, though it, too, was greatly lessened. This waterfall, however, gave the young cavalier some mark by which to judge of the distances; and he found that he must have been carried down the stream nearly three hundred yards before he recovered himself and got to land. He thus perceived how near the chief mass of falling mountain must have passed to the spot where he had been standing, and he felt that the detached rock, which had struck his horse and cast him down into the stream before the whole fell, had probably saved his life.

But what had become of his companion? he asked himself. What had become of that being who, strange, and wild, and erring as he doubtless was, had contrived, not only to fix himself strongly upon his affections, but to excite, in a considerable degree, his admiration and esteem? Had he perished in that awful scene? Had he closed his wild and turbulent existence in the tremendous convulsion which had taken place? He feared it might be so; and yet, when he looked up and saw distinctly that—though ploughed up by the heavy stones that had fallen, and thus, in many places, rendered impassable—the road was still to be traced by the eye for some thirty yards beyond the cascade, he did hope—though the hope was but faint—that Corse de Leon might have escaped.

If so, traces of him and of the way that he had taken might yet be found. But another possibility soon presented itself to the mind of Bernard de Rohan, The brigand might have been thrown over the precipice by some of the falling rocks, like the young cavalier himself, and might even then be lying mutilated and in agony not far off. Without a moment's delay, Bernard proceeded to search along the course of the stream, which was far too much swollen to permit of his passing it.

Nothing of Corse de Leon could he see, however; not a vestige, not a track; but a few yards from the spot where the cascade, after striking the road, bounded down again into the valley below, he found, in the bed of the stream, crushed and mangled in an awful manner, the carcass of the poor horse which he had himself so lately ridden. The size of the animal had caused it to be entangled sooner among the rocks in the bed of the stream than he had been, but it had evidently been killed by the blow of the first fragment of stone which struck it, for its two front legs were broken, and its chest actually dashed in.

It was a painful and a sickening spectacle in the midst of a scene so wild, so awful, and extraordinary; but one additional horror which might well have been there was wanting. The vultures, which are said to be scared from their pursuit of prey by no portent, had, nevertheless, not approached as yet; and Bernard de Rohan, with his arms crossed upon his chest, remained for a moment looking at the dead body of the animal, as it lay half out of the water and half hidden by the rushing stream, with many a dark and gloomy association crossing his mind, though vaguely and unencouraged.

As he stood and gazed, a small bird upon an opposite tree, which had escaped uninjured throughout the late catastrophe, burst out in a wild and somewhat melancholy song; and Bernard de Rohan, with his heart heavier than before, turned and retrod his steps, in the hopes of finding some place where he could cross the torrent farther down the valley. In this expectation he was disappointed; the stream only grew larger, and deeper, and more impetuous, swelled by the different rivulets that were pouring down the sides of the mountains; and at length, after wandering on more than three miles, it plunged through a deep chasm in the rock, which left no footing for the young cavalier to make his way farther on that side of the valley. Could he have passed the waters, it would have been easy to have made his way up to the little mountain road by which he had passed the preceding night, and which was now before his eyes. But he was shut in between the torrent on one side and the high mountain on the other; and, although he saw some sheep-paths and other tracks, he knew not where they led to, but had only the certainty that they must take him to a distance from the spot which he wished to reach immediately, in order to relieve the darkest anxiety of all the many that were at his heart. Turning back, then, he made a desperate, but ineffectual effort to pass the masses of the mountains which had been thrown down, and by midday he was forced to retread his steps nearly to the same spot where he had found himself in the morning.

In much pain from the bruises he had received, and exhausted with exertion and want of food, he sat down for a time to rest, and drank of the waters of the stream, although they were still troubled. He then took the resolution of endeavouring to climb the mountains which formed that side of the valley where he then was, trusting that he might find some one to show him the nearest way to the inn on the eastern slope of the hills. The path was rugged and winding, the mountain bleak and arid, and several hours elapsed while he wandered on, before he heard the sound of any living creature, or saw any moving thing, except when once or twice some object of the chase started away from his path, and when the golden lizards, basking in the sun, turned round their snake-like heads to gaze on the unwonted human form that passed them.

At length, however, towards five o'clock in the evening, completely tired out, without having tasted food, and with no drink whatsoever but that one draught from the stream, he heard—as may well be supposed, with joy—the barking of a dog; and, looking up, he saw upon a point of the crag above a noble animal of the Alpine breed, baying fiercely at the step of a stranger.

Bernard de Rohan went on; and, following the dog as it retreated before him, he soon heard the bleating of some sheep, and, in a minute or two after, beheld a small white wreath of smoke rising in the clear mountain air, with the roof of a little cottage in a sheltered nook of the hill. It was as poor a habitation as can be conceived; but the sight was a glad one to the young cavalier, and he approached the little low-walled yard, which served as a sort of fold, with feelings of infinite joy.

The barking of the dog brought forth the shepherd, holding a large pot of boiling ewe-milk in his hand. He was a small, plain-featured man, not very intelligent, who, notwithstanding his solitary life, had not acquired that desire of knowing more of his fellow-creatures which is so constantly the result of voluntary seclusion in monasteries. He was, however, hospitable and kind-hearted, and received the young stranger with a gladdening welcome. He set before him, in the very first place, the best of all he had; and asked, with some eagerness, of news from the valley; for he was already aware of what had occurred during the preceding night, and, indeed, knew far more than Bernard de Rohan himself.

The young cavalier told him all that he had to tell, and then questioned him rapidly and anxiously in turn. His first question, as may be easily supposed, referred to Gandelot's inn; and oh! how much more freely did he seem to breathe when the old-man replied, "Oh, that is quite safe! The fall did not come within half a league of it."

"Are you sure, quite sure?" demanded Bernard de Rohan.

"My son was down there to-day with cheeses," answered the man, "and saw them all. He will be home with the rest of the sheep presently, and will tell you more about it."

"Was there a young lady there?" Bernard de Rohan inquired, with as much calmness as he could command.

"Yes, he talked of a stranger lady from France," replied the shepherd, "with a number of soldiers and attendants belonging to some French lord, for whom they were all grieving and weeping bitterly, because he had been killed somehow."

"How long will it be ere your son returns?" asked Bernard de Rohan, eager, notwithstanding all the fatigues that he had suffered, to reach the inn that night.

The answer he received was one of those vague and indefinite replies which are always given on such occasions by persons to whom, as to the shepherd, time seems of little or no value. He said that the lad would be back very soon; but hour after hour passed, and he did not appear.

The young cavalier became impatient; and, finding that it was impossible, from any direction the old man could give, to learn the path which he ought to pursue, he urged him, with many promises of reward, to conduct him to Gandelot's small hostelry himself.

Had he proposed to the good shepherd, however, a pilgrimage to Jerusalem, it would not have seemed more impracticable. He declared that it was perfectly out of the question; that, now his wife was dead, there was nobody to remain in his cottage; that the distance was fully four leagues, and that it would take them as many hours to go. "It will be dark in half an hour," he continued, "and we should but break our necks over the rocks and precipices."

Bernard de Rohan found that it was impossible to move him; the son did not come home till the evening was beginning to grow gray, and the young cavalier was obliged, unwillingly, to resign all hopes of rejoining his bride before the next day.

With the shepherd and his son, the use of any other light but that of the broad sun was unknown except in the depth of the winter; and, though Bernard de Rohan could have sat up for many an hour questioning the younger man upon all he had seen and heard at the inn, but a short period was allowed him for so doing ere they retired to repose.

The information that he obtained was but little, for neither the elder nor the younger mountaineer was very intelligent or very communicative. The latter, indeed, seemed to divine at once, what had never struck the old man, that the young cavalier who had become their accidental guest was no other than the person by whose supposed death the lady whom he had seen at the inn had been plunged into such deep grief.

"She will be mighty glad to see you," he said, taking the matter for granted; "and, if we set off by daylight to-morrow, you will just catch her as she wakes, for you nobles are sad lie-abeds."

"Pray tell me, however, before we sleep," said Bernard de Rohan, "how the lady obtained information of the danger I have so fortunately escaped. Was it from Corse de Leon?"

The young man started, and gazed earnestly in his face by the dim light which still found its way into the cottage. "Corse de Leon!" he said, "Corse de Leon! that is a name we never mention in these parts of the country. No! no! I know nothing about Corse de Leon, though they do say that he has as many poor men's prayers as rich men's curses."

Bernard de Rohan found that that name had effectually closed the young shepherd's mouth, and not a word more upon the subject could be obtained from him.

He interrupted their habits of early sleep no longer, but made the best of such means of repose as they could give him, and, wearied out with long exertion, soon fell asleep, with the happy certainty that she whom he loved was free, and corporeally well, while the mental anguish which he knew she must be suffering he had the means of joyfully removing on the succeeding day.

The pain of the bruises which he had received woke the young cavalier as soon as excessive fatigue had been in some degree relieved. But the nights were at that season short; daylight soon appeared; the shepherds rose with the first ray of the sun; and, without other breakfast than a draught of warm milk, Bernard and his guide set off across the mountains. The time occupied by their journey was fully as much as the old man had said; for mountain leagues are generally long ones, and the road was rough and difficult to tread.

At length the view of a plainer country broke upon the eye; and as they descended a steep hill by a footway upon the open mountain side, Bernard de Rohan saw before him the rich lands towards Chambery, and, at the distance of about half a mile, the little inn of Gandelot, seated quietly at the foot of the passes. It looked tranquil and happy in the morning light; but why or wherefore the young gentleman could not tell, a feeling of uneasiness took possession of him at the very quietness which the whole scene displayed. There were none of his people hanging about the door, passing a morning half hour in listless idleness. There were none at the gates of the stables rubbing down horses or cleaning trappings and arms. There was no busy bustling about of attendants and stable-boys. There was nothing, in short, to be seen, but one or two domestic animals at the entrance of the farmyard, and the servant of the auberge, in a bright-coloured petticoat, cleaning some culinary utensils at the door of the inn.

The young cavalier hurried his pace, and, getting before the guide, advanced close to the girl before she saw him. She looked up at the approaching step, and then uttered a loud scream, which Bernard de Rohan easily understood to be her comment upon seeing the dead alive again. He passed on at once, however, through the half-opened door into the kitchen, but, to his dismay, it presented the complete picture of an inn after guests have departed. Everything had been put in order, and looked cold and vacant. The neatly-swept hearth possessed not more fire than might have lain in the hollow of one's hand, and over it the hostess was cooking a mess for the breakfast of herself and her husband; while the aubergiste stood at a well-washed table, counting some money, which he covered over with his hand at the girl's scream, and looked anxiously towards the door.

The surprise of good Gandelot seemed scarcely less than that of the servant, although it only took the outward form and expression of a deadly paleness. He recovered himself in a moment, however, and then, with a look of honest joy and satisfaction, in spite of all difference of rank and habitual restraint, he seized Bernard de Rohan by the hand, exclaiming, "Jesu Maria! Well, there have been many tears shed to no purpose. Why, bless my soul, how happy the poor lady's heart will be!"

"Where is she?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, eagerly. "Where is she? It seems as though there were nobody here."

"No, indeed," replied Gandelot. "What you say is very true. There is nobody here but your lordship's humble servant and his good wife. Why, what a pity that you came not yesterday at this hour! You would have saved the poor lady many a weary minute."

"Where is she, then! Where is she?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, more eagerly than ever. "When did she go? Where is she gone to? Where are my servants, too, and my men-at-arms?"

"Alack, and a well-a-day, sir!" replied the host, "they have all taken wing, and are scattered away like a flock of plovers. Here the lady arrived at the inn, with good Father Willand and some ten or twelve of your men, on the day before yesterday, late in the evening; and then there were consultations after consultations as to what was to be done, for every one knew and had heard by that time that you were a prisoner in the castle of Masseran; and the gentleman who came at the head of your men—not the servants, but the men-at-arms that came after you—vowed that he would attack the castle, and blow open the gates with a petard, and set you free. But when he had talked very high in this way for some time, Father Willand told him to hold his tongue; for, in the first place, the walls of the castle of Masseran were made of stones hard enough to break his teeth, and, in the next, as he had got no petard to blow the gates open with but the one in his mouth, it would be of very little service. With that there came not long afterward a messenger from one whom I must not name, telling the lady and the priest and all to keep as quiet as might be, for that you would be liberated before daylight on the next morning; and, as his word never fails, they all did keep quiet, but we sat up and watched to see what would come of it. A terrible night you know it was; but we were to have a more terrible morning, for by daylight news came up the valley—"

"That I was killed in the land-slip," said Bernard de Rohan, interrupting him.

"No, no," replied the aubergiste, "not that at all; but that the tower which was called the prison-tower of the castle of Masseran had taken fire and fallen, crushing the dungeon in which you had been placed, and you along with it, in the ruins. The lady went half-distracted, though she would not believe that it was true till Father Willand himself went up near the castle, with a body of your men to prevent any of the Masseran people from taking him, and then came back and told her it was all too sure. He told her, besides, that the people of the castle vowed it was some one on her part seeking to deliver you who had set fire to the tower, and the good priest advised her to get across the frontier with all speed. But she was so cast down with grief that she seemed to care little more about herself in this world, and lay, my wife said, partly kneeling by her bedside, partly lying upon it, with her face buried in the clothes, and the sobs coming so thick and hard that it was painful to hear. She could not be got to speak or answer a word to any one; and in the midst of all this came in some one whom you know."

"Who? who?" demanded Bernard de Rohan.

The aubergiste whispered, in a scarcely audible voice, the name of Corse de Leon; and the young cavalier exclaimed, with feelings of as much joy as he could feel at that moment, "Then he is safe, at least; that is some satisfaction."

"Ay, so far safe," replied the man, "that he is not killed as he might have been. But when he came here his left shoulder was out, and would have been useless for ever if he had not made four of us pull it in by main force, and never winked his eyes or uttered a word till it went in with a great start, and then only shut his teeth close."

"But he could have told them," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan, "he could have told that I had escaped before the tower took fire."

"I don't know how it is," replied the landlord; "but, sure enough, he thinks you dead as well as they do. He had a long conversation apart with Father Willand in that little room, out of the corner there, which you have never seen, and, mayhap, did not know of, for the door is in the dark, behind the closet and the chimney. What they talked about I don't know, but in the end I heard him say, 'Tell her nothing about it till she can bear to hear more. As he is dead, it matters not much how it happened.' Then the priest went to the lady, and, with great persuasion, got her down from her chamber, and made her take some wine, and, in the end, got her to set off, with some eight or ten of your people accompanying them. That was about twelve o'clock yesterday morning; and, in an hour or two after, the rest of your people went away over the mountains to join the good Maréchal de Brissac, by the directions of the person you know."

"This is unfortunate," said Bernard de Rohan, musing, "this is most unfortunate. Do you know which way the lady has taken?"

"She went first to Bonvoisin," replied the host; "but whither she was to turn her steps after that, I know not."

"And I am left here alone," continued the young gentleman, "without horse or arms, at the moment I need them most. Can you furnish me with a horse, good Gandelot?"

"Faith, I have none to give, sir," answered the man, "or I would willingly trust you, if you did not pay me till this time twelvemonth."

"Nay," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I wanted not to be your debtor, Gandelot. Money, thank God, I have with me, but my resource must be Corse de Leon. Where can he be found?"

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the aubergiste, terrified at the loud tone in which his companion pronounced the name of the brigand. "Hush! hush! for Heaven's sake. There is somebody talking all this time to the girl outside the door."

"It is but the shepherd who guided me hither," replied the young cavalier. "But answer my question, good Gandelot: where is he to be found?"

"If you will sit here for an hour or two," replied the other, "my wife shall get you something ready to break your fast, and I will go up the side of the hill to see after the person you mention."

"But I wish to proceed immediately," exclaimed Bernard de Rohan. "If I could but get a horse, I would set out at once."

"There is no one who can get you either horse or arms within five leagues," replied the aubergiste, "except the man we were talking of. He can do both, and more too, for he can tell you where the lady is to be found, which I can't. So you have nothing for it but to confer with him. However, it will be better to send this shepherd back at once to his own place, and for you either to go into that little room there to the left, or up the stairs into your room above, for it would be a sad thing to be stopped again; and, although we stand on free land here, yet this Lord of Masseran's people are no ways scrupulous into whose face they poke their fist, or into whose soup they dip their spoon."

Though feeling sick at heart with impatience, the young cavalier saw that the plan suggested was the only one he could follow. Having rewarded the shepherd for his trouble in guiding him thither, he allowed the good aubergiste to lead him to his place of concealment; and, urging him in the strongest terms to lose no time, he sat himself down to while away the hours as best he might, with all the checkered thoughts of the past and the future.

Bernard de Rohan waited long; and, though his imagination was not an active one in regard to difficulties or dangers in his own case, yet, when he thought of Isabel de Brienne, nurtured with care, and tenderness, and softness, never having known during life the want of protection, or the necessity of acting for herself, never having been an hour without protection—when he thought that she must now go forward to Paris alone, without any one loved or known to sooth and guide her; without any other protection but that of a few menials; with the bitter thought of having lost him she loved for ever, as the chief recollection of the past, and with the expectation of meeting her mother, who had been always harsh, and her stepfather, who had treated her with treachery and baseness, as the chief anticipation of the future—his heart burned to speed on, without the loss of a single moment, to protect, to console, and to relieve her from the deep sorrow which he knew too well must overshadow her.

Still one hour passed after another, the sun began to decline from the meridian, and the good hostess only visited him on two occasions. In the first place, to tell him that a party of travellers who stopped for half an hour at the inn were only peasants from a neighbouring village; and, in the next place, to beseech him not to go near the windows, or to show himself in any way, as a party of the Lord of Masseran's men had just passed, and another was speedily to follow.

At length the aubergiste himself appeared, heated and dusty, and, closing the door carefully, told him that he had found the man he went to seek, and had brought back with him a few words written on a strip of leather. They were deciphered with difficulty, but were to the following effect: "I thought you gone for ever. But, as you are still destined to remain with the rest of us, so let it be. I will visit you to-night, and you shall soon find the lady; but on no account go on till you have seen me! By so doing you will endanger her, endanger yourself, and delay your meeting."

Bernard de Rohan gazed upon the writing, and then turned a dissatisfied look towards the sky. "This is trifling," he thought: "I must be across the frontier as speedily as possible. Well might Isabel think me cruel if I remained here an hour longer, knowing that she is in danger, sorrow, and anxiety."

"Have you heard aught of a horse, my good Gandelot?" he said: "I cannot wait as he requires me. How far is it to the frontier?"

"Two hours' journey on horseback," replied the host, "and four or five afoot. But there is no horse to be found, and you must not think of trying it on foot, my noble lord. You do not know that the people from the castle are scouring the whole road between this and Bonvoisin."

"But they do not know me," answered Bernard de Rohan. "There is scarce one among them that has ever seen me. Five hours? that is long, indeed! But I could buy a horse at Chambery."

"Not before nightfall," replied the host; "and you had a great deal better wait here to see one who can help you more speedily than anybody else."

"Why cannot I go to him?" demanded Bernard de Rohan. "If you can find him, so can I."

"Oh, surely," replied Gandelot, "but you run a great risk of being taken."

"If that be all," answered the young cavalier, "I should think that there was less chance of being taken on the hillside than here. Something must be risked, at all events, Gandelot. Get me a peasant's frock, good friend, and a large hat: my own I lost in the fall, you see. When I am so dressed, I shall pass unknown, I'll warrant, should it be through the midst of this Lord of Masseran's men."

"I must show you the way, however," replied the innkeeper. "But stay a minute, and I'll get what you want: it is no bad plan."

Thus saying, Gandelot left him; but the aubergiste was not long before he returned, bringing with him a peasant's frock and belt, and a large straw hat, such as we have mentioned in describing the dress of good Father Willand at the beginning of this true history. The very act of putting them on was a relief to the mind of Bernard de Rohan; for, to a man accustomed to action, inactivity adds an almost insupportable burden to grief and anxiety. When the frock, however, was cast over his shoulders, and his head was covered with the hat, Gandelot gazed upon him with a smile, saying, "I must take care, my lord, that I don't mistake you for a peasant, and ask you to sell me eggs. Well, I did not know how much the dress made the man before."

Passing over the bad compliment of his host without notice, Bernard de Rohan only expressed his eagerness to set out; and Gandelot, after having gone down to look round the inn on every side, and to ascertain that no one was watching, returned in a few minutes, carrying in his hand a short sword and dagger, such as were worn commonly by what were called the New Bands, warring in Piedmont for the service of France.

"Nobody can tell what may happen, my lord," he said, "so you had better tuck those up under your gown; but don't draw the belt too tight, or the hilt will appear."

Bernard de Rohan grasped the weapon as he would the hand of an old friend, and, concealing it carefully under the frock, he followed the innkeeper, who led him out through the back court of the auberge upon the side of the mountain, where a steep pathway led up between the rocks, and over the lower part of the hill, into one of the valleys, which, without plunging deep into the alpine scenery around, led through a softer but still uncultivated country, in the direction of Albens. The innkeeper strolled on, and the young nobleman followed, both keeping a profound silence till the inn and all the neighbouring objects were out of sight.

When they had fully plunged into the valley, however, good Gandelot spoke, but still in a low voice, saying, "We are pretty safe here; the danger was up yonder."

Bernard de Rohan made no direct reply, but asked whether the road they were taking did not lead him farther from that which he had afterward to travel. Assured, however, by the good innkeeper that it did not, he went on in silence, finding by the length of way that his companion had lost no time upon the previous journey he had made during the morning. At length Gandelot turned a little towards the north, up a smaller valley, which, winding away with many bends and angles, never exposed more than one or two hundred yards of hillside to the view at once. At the end of about a quarter of an hour after entering this dell, a solitary house presented itself, as desolate in appearance as well might be. It was old, and built of cold gray stone, with a roof of slates; and a low garden wall which surrounded it enclosed a space of ground amounting to perhaps an acre or an acre and a half, but in no degree impeded the view of the house.

The hills in that spot were quite bare: much lower, indeed, than the scenery from which Bernard de Rohan had just come, but far more naked and arid. Not a shrub, not a tree was to be seen. Nothing but scanty turf, broken by scattered stones, with occasional crags here and there, covered the slopes; and, had it not been for those thin, short blades of grass, one might have fancied one's self in the world before the vegetable creation had been called into being.

"You will find him there, my good young lord," said Gandelot, pointing forward to the house: "I will stay here. But you had better whistle, as you know how, when you go up, that he may know you are coming. If you find that you are not likely to come back before night—and it is getting somewhat late now—send me out word, and I will hie me home."

"Nay, leave me, leave me, good Gandelot," replied the young cavalier. "I will find my way back: I never forget a path I have once trodden."

Thus saying, he advanced towards the desolate-looking house which stood before him, and, at a short distance from it, imitated, as well as he could, that peculiar whistle which he had heard more than once among the companions of Corse de Leon. The sounds had scarcely issued from his lips ere the brigand himself appeared at the door, and, apparently without the slightest apprehension or hesitation, walked forward to meet him. He was habited in the same large cloak and hat which he had worn on the night when Bernard de Rohan first beheld him, so that the young nobleman could plainly see he bore his left arm supported by a bandage from his neck.

The moment they met he grasped Bernard warmly by the hand, saying, "So you are living! you are living! I never thought we should see each other again in this world, though I did think we might meet in that where the compensations are reserved to confound the workings of the great bad spirit to whom this earth is given up for evil. But I fell into a sad mistake, and have let your sweet lady go away in the belief that you are dead."

"It is on that account," said Bernard de Rohan, "that I am so eager to set out, in order to put her mind at ease; but I know not where she is to be found, or which road she has taken. Neither have I horse nor arms, nor, I fear, enough in my purse both to buy them and carry me on my way also."

"And you come to me for all!" said Corse de Leon, with a smile: "who would ever have thought this, some seven or eight years ago, when the young Lord of Rohan struck down to the earth the intendant of the Countess of Brienne for wronging the sister of a poor soldier far away fighting for his country? Who would have thought that the poor soldier would ever have been able to aid the young lord in marrying her he loved, or to furnish him with horse, and arms, and money, in an hour of need? There is a retribution in this world! Ay, there is a retribution even here! But come, my lord, I am your humble servant; but, perhaps, a truer friend than any whom you meet with in your own rank and class. Let us into the house, and rest you for the remainder of the day. You will travel quicker, better, more safely in the night. Ere the sun goes down you shall have all that you want; and between this and tomorrow's nightfall you may well overtake the lady."

Corse de Leon saw that, notwithstanding the reasons he gave, Bernard de Rohan was not well pleased with even the short delay that he proposed. He was not one who loved long explanations of any kind, but he could feel for an impatient disposition; and he added, as if in reply to his companion's look, "It cannot be otherwise: I have had to send a four hours' journey for the horses, and they cannot be here till night, though the messenger has been absent now near two hours. You would make no greater speed by going back to the inn. Come in, sit down, then, rest you, and bear what is unavoidable as patiently as may be; for, though half the difference between great men and little ones in this world lies in their judgment of what can be done and what cannot be done, and though half the things men despair of are as easy as to drink from a stream, yet, nevertheless, there are things that are impossible, and in those cases it is useless to struggle."

Thus saying, he led the young nobleman into the house, the door of which had remained unclosed. Though Bernard de Rohan could hear several voices speaking in one of the rooms as he walked along the passage, it was into a small vacant chamber, on the left-hand side, that Corse de Leon conducted him. The windows commanded a view down a considerable part of the valley, but still the aspect of the whole place was so undefended and unguarded, that the young cavalier, knowing the state of hostility with the great and powerful in which Corse de Leon lived, could not help feeling some surprise at his choosing such an abode.

"Are you not," he said, gazing from the window, "are you not in a sadly-exposed situation here? Why, the Lord of Masseran, or any other of those small tyrants, could attack you at any time without the possibility of your escape."

"You are mistaken," replied Corse de Leon, shortly: "before he came within two leagues of me, I should know his whole proceedings, and either scatter over the hill, and reach coverts which it were wiser to search for the deer or the chamois than for Corse de Leon, or else offer the good lord some hospitality on his coming which he might neither be willing to receive nor able to return. We have resources that you are not aware of, and neither he nor any one else knows more of them than to make him fear."

"That you yourself have infinite resources in your activity and experience," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I can easily believe; but, depend upon it, if you were to trust the guidance of such hazardous matters to other men, they would soon be overthrown."

"Not so, not so," replied his companion; "I know the contrary. Twice, for ends and objects of my own, I have traversed all France, leaving my men behind me; and, though perhaps not quite so busy as when I am here—ay, and somewhat cruel and disorderly when left to their own course—no evil has happened to themselves. I am now about to do the same, and I do it in all confidence."

"Do you propose to go soon?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, in some surprise.

"Ay," replied the brigand, "soon enough to meet you in Paris some day, perchance, or even to overtake you on the road; and, as we now talk about those things, let me caution you never to speak to me unless I speak to you: then take the tone that I take, whether it be one of strangeness or of former acquaintance. Recollect, too, that there is no such person as Corse de Leon beyond the frontiers of Savoy; but that, in many a part of France, the Chevalier Lenoir is known, and not badly esteemed."

"I will be careful," replied the young lord. "But now, my good friend, tell me whither has my poor Isabel directed her steps."

"First to Grenoble," replied Corse de Leon, "in the hope of finding her brother there; but, should she not meet with him, she goes thence at once to throw herself at the feet of the king."

"But are you perfectly certain," demanded Bernard de Rohan, "that she has escaped from the pursuit of this base man who has married her mother?"

"Perfectly," replied Corse de Leon: "I saw her across the frontier yesterday. Besides, as I told you before, the Lord of Masseran himself is absent, carried by fears regarding the discovery of his own treachery into the very jaws of the lion, power. Power is the only true basilisk. Its eyes are those alone in this world which can fascinate the small things hovering round it to drop into its mouth. But the lady is safe. Be satisfied, and you can well overtake her ere she reaches Grenoble. I bade them send back a man to tell me if she found not her brother there; for, as I am going to Paris also, I thought perchance it might be better to keep near her on the road, and bring her help in case she needed it. But your own men are enough, I do not doubt, and I can but take few with me, if any."

"But is it not dangerous," said the young nobleman, "for you to travel immediately after receiving so severe an injury?"

"Dangerous!" said Corse de Leon; "oh, there is no danger in such things. I do believe these mountains that I love will crush me at last; for twice have I escaped almost by a miracle. But it is this injury, as you call it, that has determined me to go now. I can be of but little active use here till I can climb a rock again, and use this left arm as well as the right. No man has a title to remain an hour in idleness, whatever be his calling. Sleep itself I do not rightly understand: it is a lapse in the active exertion of our being which is very strange, a sort of calm pool in the midst of a torrent: I suppose it is solely for the body's sake. There could have been no sleep before death came into the world; for, not being subject to decay, the earthly frame could require no refreshment any more than the spirit. However, as I was saying, idle and inactive drones pretend that they must have rest and pause: if the head aches or the hand is hurt, they declare that they can neither think nor labour; but the wise man and the energetic man makes his spirit like that monstrous serpent which I have heard of, and which, when one head was smitten off, produced at once another. If a man cannot walk, he can ride; if a man's right arm be broken, let him use his left; if his eyes be put out, his ears will hear but the better—let him use them. Our manifold senses are but manifold capabilities; and if the mind is debarred from using one of its tools, it must use another. No man need want employment for the senses, the limbs, and the means that he has left, if he chooses to seek for it. For a while I shall be of no good upon the mountain, and therefore I am going to the city. Some time or another I must go, and therefore I may as well go now. But here comes the old woman with my mess of food. You must take some with me. No one knows better than she does how to cook the chamois, or the venison, or to roast the shining trout in the ashes, or the snow-fowl over the fire; and as for wine, the cellar of an archbishop or of a prior of a monastery could not give you better than this lonely house can produce. Nay, nay, shake not your head; you must eat and drink, let your impatience be what it may: every man needs strength; and that we should take food is a condition of our flesh and blood."

In conversation of this kind passed away the hours, Bernard de Rohan and his strange companion remaining almost altogether alone, though once two young men, dressed like herdsmen, came to the door of the room, and, leaning against the doorposts, addressed to Corse de Leon a few words, apparently of no great import, and upon ordinary subjects, but to which Bernard de Rohan imagined some occult meaning was attached.

At length, much to the satisfaction of the young cavalier, a perceptible shade of twilight came over the valley, along which the shadows of the hills had been creeping for some time. The twilight grew grayer and more gray, and Bernard de Rohan rose and walked to the window, with his impatience for the arrival of the horses increasing every moment. Corse de Leon was looking at him with a slight smile when he turned round; but, in a few minutes after, the brigand rose, left the room, and returned with the two young men whom Bernard de Rohan had seen before. They were now loaded, however, with various kinds of arms and habiliments of different sorts, which seemed to have been gathered from many a quarter of the earth. These were spread out, some upon the table and some on the floor; and this being performed without a word, those who bore them retired, only appearing again to furnish the chamber with a light.

Corse de Leon glanced his eye to the young cavalier, and then gazed upon the pile with a somewhat cynical smile.

"This seems to be an abundant harvest," said Bernard de Rohan, whose doubts as to the means employed to procure such rich habiliments were many.

"You say true," replied the brigand; "but you must remember, we are many reapers. This has been going on, too, for very many years, so that you will find here garments of various ages and of different nations. Look here," he continued, taking up a black velvet surtout richly embroidered with gold; "this is a coat cut in the fashion of forty or fifty years ago, and belonged to some fat Englishman, who doubtless came over to France with that arch heretic and blood monger Henry, who has not been many years dead. Then, depend upon it, he would see foreign countries, and go to Italy, and has left part of his fine wardrobe here behind him in the mountains."

"An unwilling legacy, I should think," replied Bernard de Rohan.

"Yes," answered the brigand; "but that is not a shot-hole you are looking at so curiously. Our traditions say, I believe—for we have our traditions—that the good gentleman got safe home, though somewhat thinner of purse and scantier in apparel than when he came away. However, choose yourself out some quiet suit that will not attract attention, for you must not go riding through France like a Savoyard peasant. There, that black hat and feather, which would become some sober student of Padua, making his first effort to look the cavalier. Then there is that stout buff coat I would recommend, with black loops and borders. Ay, it is somewhat heavy, but there is a secret in that: dagger or sword point will not well make its way through the jacked doublings of those hides, and a pistol-ball would strike but faintly, even if it did pass. Then there are those horseman's boots: they will be no bad addition to the rest. That long sharp sword, too, in the black sheath, will suit the hat, and none the less fit the hand. It is true Toledo. Now seek for two daggers somewhat like it, and a pair of pistols for the saddlebow. By the Lord that lives, if the horse they bring be but a gray Spanish charger, with a tail longer than ordinary, they will take you for some one who has been studying the black art at Salamanca, or perhaps for some lay officer of the Inquisition in disguise. Is the coat large enough? Oh, ay! it fits well. Now for a cloak to match."

With the assistance of his companion, Bernard de Rohan fitted himself with new garments, which somewhat disguised, but did not ill become his powerful form. After he had done, the brigand opened the mouth of a little sack which had been brought with the rest, saying, "Take what you will: you can repay me hereafter."

The young cavalier, however, took no more of the gold pieces which appeared shining within than was absolutely necessary, replying to the remonstrance of Corse de Leon that, as he approached nearer to Paris, there were many who would be willing to assist him.

"Well, well," replied the brigand, "it matters not. I shall not be far from you. But now let us away. I hear the horses, and you are impatient to be gone. We can meet them, therefore, as they come."

Though Bernard de Rohan heard nothing of the sounds which his companion's fine ear had discovered, he gladly followed him out to the mountain-road, and walked on with him for some way before the horses appeared. Their feet were soon heard, however; and at length a man, mounted on a charger and leading another, was seen coming rapidly towards them. The animal he led was powerful, and yet apparently swift: some short time was spent in adjusting the arms and the stirrups; and then, after offering many thanks to his strange companion for all that he had done, Bernard de Rohan grasped his hand, sprang into the saddle, and rode away in the direction of Chambery.

It was in a small cabinet in the princely chateau of Fontainebleau, some eight days after the grand entertainment at the Louvre which we have before mentioned, that Henry the Second of France was seated, conversing with one of his most trusted servants and most faithful friends, the well-known Maréchal de Vieilleville. The cabinet, the ceiling of which was of dark black oak, carved and ornamented with small stars of gold, was hung with rich but very ancient tapestry, still beautiful, though the colours had faded in the passing of years. The dark green which formed the principal hue was no longer enlivened by the gorgeous red and yellow draperies which had once ornamented the principal figures, and a dim and melancholy hue pervaded the room, to which the fact of the light passing through some leafy trees without did not a little contribute.

It was not, however, the peculiar colouring of the hangings, nor the light passing through the green trees, that gave an unusual paleness to the countenance of the king, as, laying down the pen with which he had been writing, he gazed up in the face of Vieilleville, "What is it you tell me, maréchal?" he said. "Dead? Crushed under one of the towers of the castle? The very best and most promising soldier France could produce! The dear friend of Brissac—lauded even by Montmorency! Heaven and earth! Did you say he was returned, this Lord of Masseran? Send for him instantly. Let a messenger be despatched to the capital at once. By my crown, if I thought that he had any hand in this, I would have his head off in the court before tomorrow's sun set. Send off a messenger for him, I say!"

"Sire, he is even now in the palace," replied the maréchal. "It was seeing him pass along the court, in order to crave an audience, that made me intrude upon your majesty just now. I heard this sad business last night by a letter from Brissac; but I would not tell your majesty, lest it should spoil your rest after so bustling a day."

"What, you are one of those, Vieilleville, are you," said the king, with a slight smile, "who can believe that the death of a faithful subject may chase slumber from even a royal pillow? However, these despatches must be written. Leave me for an hour, and then bring hither this Lord of Masseran. Keep a good eye upon him, for he is as deceitful as a cat: but he shall find that I am not to be trifled with."

"I will venture to beseech you, sire," said the statesman, "in all that you do with this man, to recollect that he is himself a sovereign prince; for, were you to forget it, the example might be dangerous."

"If I make him an example, it shall be for good, not for evil, Vieilleville," replied the king. "Some of these petty princes need an example how they may be punished for treachery and double-dealing. I have heard more of him since he last set out for Savoy than I ever did before, and I much doubted that he would return to France again. But watch him well, good Vieilleville, and bring him hither in an hour. I shall have finished ere that."

The maréchal withdrew; and, ere the hour was expired, a page sought him again from the king, requiring his presence, with that of the Lord of Masseran, whom Vieilleville, on quitting the cabinet, had informed that Henry could not yet receive him.

The angry spot was still upon the king's brow when they entered; but he spoke to the Lord of Masseran in a courteous tone, saying, "Well, my good lord, this is somewhat unexpected. I knew not that you could go to Savoy and return so quickly. How is it that you have shortened the way so well?"

"A melancholy interruption, sire," replied the Savoyard, "a melancholy interruption caused me to return ere half my journey was complete. Somewhat on this side of Lyons, I met a messenger coming with all speed to seek me, and bearing this letter, which I beg to lay at your majesty's feet."

The king took it and read, examining every line as he did so, in order to see whether it bore about it the marks of truth and authenticity. There was nothing, however, to make him doubt it. It seemed simply a letter from some seneschal or other officer, left behind by the Lord of Masseran to command during his absence, announcing to him that the prison tower of the castle had taken fire and fallen, crushing under its ruins the chamber in which the young Baron de Rohan had been confined. It went on to state that works had been already Commenced to supply its place in the walls, and gave some account of the probable expense which those works would occasion.

"That would be dear," muttered Henry, in a low voice, and between his teeth. "That would be dear payment to get rid of a troublesome friend. I rather suspect it can be done cheaper in Savoy. Have you no news, Monsieur de Masseran," he said aloud, "of how this terrible catastrophe occurred?"

"I have shown your majesty all the information I have received," replied the Marquis of Masseran. "I returned to Paris with all speed after having met with the messenger, and, not finding you there, came hither."

"What say you, De Vieilleville?" said the king: "you had letters last night, methinks, from some one in that neighbourhood."

"They bear the same sad news, sire," replied the Maréchal de Vieilleville. "But they add, that everybody in that country marvelled much how this event could have occurred in a tower detached from the castle, built almost entirely of stone, and doubtless intrusted to a faithful guard."

"It is, indeed, most strange," said the Marquis of Masseran, thoughtfully. "There must have been some base neglect."

"This must be inquired into," said the king, "this must be inquired into. My good Lord of Vieilleville, call the page for these despatches. It behooves you, my Lord of Masseran, to make strict and immediate inquiry into the whole of this affair, in which you shall be aided and assisted by a commissary on our part. There are the despatches, boy. Why wait you? What is it now?"

"May it please your majesty," replied the page, "there is a lady without craving earnestly to see you. She calls herself the sister of the Count of Brienne, and I remember her well at the court some months ago. She seems in much grief, and—"

"Give her admission," said the king, "give her instant admission. She may throw some light upon all this affair, my good Lord of Masseran."

The marquis turned somewhat pale; for the appearance of Isabel of Brienne in the king's presence was not at all what he wished or calculated upon. He had hoped for an opportunity of telling his own tale, and causing his wife to tell hers so as to corroborate all he said, without the actual appearance of Isabel herself. He knew that the Count de Meyrand, though apparently taking no part in all that occurred since their arrival in Paris, had been continually and skilfully preparing the way for the development of his part in the transaction; had been labouring to make friends and gain supporters among those who possessed the king's ear, and had been apparently not a little successful, even with the fair Duchess of Valentinois herself.

It must not be supposed, however, that good Monsieur de Masseran was moved by any personal love or regard for the Count de Meyrand: there was but one tie between them, the tie of interest; and the moment that the Lord of Masseran saw that more was to be lost or risked by the Count de Meyrand than to be gained, that instant he was prepared to put an end to his affection for his noble friend. He was, however, as we have seen, in various respects, in the count's power; and he had trusted that their united operations would be sufficient to induce the king to act without listening to the fair girl herself. He had, moreover, believed, when he heard of the death of Bernard de Rohan, that one great obstacle being removed, the rest would be comparatively easy. The arrival of Isabel, however, was most inopportune; for he saw that, in the king's angry mood at the moment, the disclosure of all that had taken place within the last few weeks might be ruinous in another way, and not only overthrow his future schemes with regard to Mademoiselle de Brienne herself, but bring punishment on his head for what had occurred before.

As the interview, however, could be prevented by no means within his reach, he sought eagerly in his mind for excuses and defences for his conduct: but he had hardly time to arrange any plan ere Isabel herself entered, supported by the arm of one whom he felt far more inclined to fear than even herself. That person was good Father Willand; and his surprise and dismay were not a little increased by seeing the king receive the priest with a gracious smile as an old acquaintance, and, grasping his arm familiarly, ask him what had made him return from banishment.

"Why, to bring this poor lamb back to your majesty's fold," replied Father Willand, in his usual gay and unceremonious tone. "By my faith, sire, if all shepherds were like you, and mistook the wolf for the watch-dog, mutton would soon be dear in France."

"How so? how so, good father?" demanded Henry, laughing; and, at the same time, taking Isabel's hand in his own, he prevented her, with a kindly gesture, from throwing herself at his feet. "Cheer up, fair lady," he said, "cheer up. The king will protect you, and be a father to you. But how now, bold priest? How have I been so unwise a shepherd as to mistake the wolf for the watch-dog?"

"Why," answered Father Willand, boldly, and looking full in the face of the Lord of Masseran, "by giving one of the best of your flock"—and he pointed with his hand to Isabel—"into the care of a Savoyard wolf."

"Hush! hush! my good father," cried the king. "By Heavens! if you use such language, you will get yourself into a worse scrape, in your cure of Saint John of Bonvoisin, than that for which I was obliged to send you away from Paris, to keep your ears out of the way of knives. On my soul, we must find a bridle for that tongue of yours."

"Indeed, sire," exclaimed the Lord of Masseran, marking with pleasure a slight frown that had come upon the king's brow, "indeed, sire, such a bridle is most necessary; for that tongue is not only insolent, but mendacious."

"Hush, sir!" exclaimed the king, sternly; "you speak of one of the honestest men in France;" and he held out his hand to Father Willand, who kissed it respectfully. "Would that we had many such!" the king went on: "for the men who tell truth in the cabinet as well as in the pulpit, are those that are very needful here: albeit," he added, with a smile, "they may occasionally, in their hatred of hypocrites and knaves, give their tongue some license, and their conduct too. However, my good father, you will never be wise, so that I fear some day I shall have to make you a bishop, merely to keep you out of the way of strong fists and crabsticks. Now let us turn to the case of this young lady. The page told me, fair one, that you were anxious to see me immediately. What is it you would have?"

"Protection, sire," replied Isabel de Brienne, raising her fair face towards the king, filled with an expression of deep and hopeless grief, which touched the kind heart of the monarch, and made his tone even more kindly than it was before as he replied,

"And you shall have it, lady. But let me hear how it is that protection is needed: have you not a mother and a brother to protect and help you?"

"Alas! sire," replied Isabel of Brienne, "my mother is no more my father's wife nor my father's widow. She is now the wife of one to whose will she shows all dutiful obedience; but unto me the mother's care and tenderness are at an end."

"Fair lady," said the king, "the time that I can spare you is but short, and it may save you both trouble and grief, and, perhaps, from one cause or another, may likewise spare you a blush, if I tell you that I know the past. Lest you should suspect that my ears have been wronged and your conduct falsely told, the brief history of the facts is this: You have loved and been beloved by a very gallant gentleman, one who has served his king and country well and faithfully; and your mother, not holding him as dearly and highly as we may do or you have done, has opposed your marriage with the man of your choice, and endeavoured, as far as may be, to separate you from him. He, in the somewhat indiscreet eagerness of love, persuaded you, it would seem, to fly with him secretly, and unite your fate to his by a clandestine marriage, which, upon every principle of law and reason, must be null and void. However, at the very altar, I am told, your worthy stepfather here present surprised and separated you from this bold gentleman, took means to ensure that you should not meet again, and was bringing or sending you to Paris, when you contrived to escape. Thus far we know; what is there more? The tale that we have heard is very simple."

As the king ended, he looked round with a slight smile, which certainly might be interpreted either "This matter is very clear," or else "I know there is another version."

The person who answered it first, however, was the good priest. "That is the story, sire," he said. "'Tis a most excellent piece of goods, but smells somewhat of the manufacturer."

"How so, sir? But let the lady speak, and say if this be true or not."

"True, sire," replied Isabel de Brienne, much to the surprise of the Lord of Masseran. "It is all true; but there is much besides to be said, and some things which I must say, but which, perhaps, I cannot prove, especially now, when deep grief masters me. As your majesty has said—and no blush will stain my cheek while I do own it—I loved and was beloved by as noble a gentleman as ever graced this land; but I trust that I loved him wisely too, for to that love I have been plighted since my fifteenth year. My father—my good father, sire, who in times past has stricken in many a battle by your side, and also in many another well-fought field—joined my hand to his with promises which I, his daughter, was but too willing to fulfil. My mother, it is true, always looked somewhat coldly on him I loved, ever since he struck to the ground a base man, her intendant, for wronging an unprotected girl; but still my mother was present when we were plighted to each other; still she was present when my father, on his deathbed, made me promise that I would wed the man whom he had chosen. Oh, how willingly I promised! oh, how gladly I would have kept that promise! but they have rendered it vain;" and, unable to restrain herself, the tears burst forth, and she wept bitterly.

Henry had carried his eyes from her to the countenance of the Lord of Masseran from time to time while she spoke, and now, taking her hand kindly, he said, "Be comforted, dear lady, be comforted. This changes the matter greatly. What else have you to add?"

"Oh, much, much, sire," replied Isabel, wiping the tears from her eyes; "but I will be brief, sire; indeed I will be brief, and not waste your most precious time. Bernard de Rohan, my promised husband, went to serve his king in Italy—"

"And did serve him there right well," said the king. "But go on."

"He had been absent some time," she continued, "and I was longing for his return, when a nobleman of your majesty's court sought my hand, to my great surprise, with my mother's countenance. Thinking that he had been deceived, I told him the whole truth, but still he pursued his suit. I wish, sire, that it were not needful for me to give his name, but I fear I must."

"The Count de Meyrand," said the king. "He has already urged his suit to us. What more of him, fair lady?"

"He urged it upon me, sire," she answered, "after he knew that my heart was given and my hand was promised to another, that other being his own friend. He sought me, sire, he persecuted me, he used words that I will not repeat, nay, menaces, all with the countenance of my mother, who acted, I believe—nay, I know—under the commands of her new husband. I was in hopes of some relief when my Lord of Masseran here took us so suddenly to Savoy, but we were soon followed by the gentleman you have named. I was now told to think no more of Bernard de Rohan. I was informed that my hand was destined for the man whom, by this time, I detested, and that means would be found to make me obey. Vague and terrible fears came over me; but I obtained an opportunity of writing one letter to him I loved. Would that I had never done so! for that letter has killed him."

"Methinks, sire, it would have been better," said the Lord of Masseran, in a sneering tone, "if the fair lady was so tyrannically used in my poor dwelling, to write to her brother in the capital."

"I did," replied Isabel of Brienne, "often and most sorrowfully."

"But did you ever ask him to come to you?" demanded the Lord of Masseran. "He says not."

"Never," replied Isabel of Brienne. "On the contrary, I besought him not to come. I concealed half my grief, the daily anguish of witnessing my mother's sorrow, the taunts, the sneers, the bitterness, which, like the Egyptian pestilence, made our very food swarm with reptiles; I concealed much, much that I might have told, and still besought him not to come."

"May I ask why, madam?" said the king, with evident surprise. "De Vieilleville, there is something under this. I must hear the whole," he added, seeing her hesitate. "Lady, it must be told."

"It was, sire," said Isabel de Brienne, in a low but distinct voice, "it was that I feared, if brother and sister should be in the same house beyond the pale of your majesty's realm—in a place where few questions are asked, and secret acts do not easily transpire—I feared, I say, I feared much for my brother's safety."

"I understand," said the king, "I understand. But there must be great objects for such doings."

"Everything reverts, sire," said Vieilleville, addressing the king in a low voice, "everything reverts to the mother in case of the death of the son and daughter without children."

"These, sire, however," said Isabel, "were but suspicions, and perhaps were unjust—"

"Oh, most unjust, I do assure your majesty," said the Lord of Masseran, who had more than once shown a disposition to break in, but had been restrained by a gesture from the king. "Such base designs never entered my mind."

"Perhaps such suspicions were unjust, sire," continued Isabel; "but to speak of facts. I had been forced out more than once to hunting-parties where the Count of Meyrand joined us; and at length, on one occasion, I was told that I must needs go forth with my Lord of Masseran to visit a house of his farther in the mountains. I went with fear, sire, on many accounts. First, the hour he chose was strange, just before sunset; next, my mother was not with us; and next, the train appointed to accompany us was smaller than usual. Scarcely had night fallen, when we were suddenly attacked and overpowered by a large body of men—"

"Was this with violence?" demanded the king. "Was any one killed or hurt?"

"None but some of the old and faithful servants of my family," replied the young lady, "who forgot where they were, and how situated, and defended their young mistress with their lives. One of them escaped, and fled to a little inn for help; but, in the mean time, we were, as I have said, overpowered and carried off farther into the hills, my Lord of Masseran as well as myself; though I cannot help thinking that he went somewhat willingly, for certainly among the assailants there was one, if not more, of the attendants of his good friend the Count de Meyrand. When we had gone some way—a long way, indeed, it seemed to me—a cavalier who had been found at the inn, none other than Monsieur de Rohan, came to our rescue, having gathered together a number of persons sufficient to deliver us—"

"A number of brigands!" said the Lord of Masseran, interrupting her: "brigands, you mean, young lady! brigands!"

"Ha! ha!" cried the priest, "wonderfully good! That bolt was smartly shot, my good Lord of Masseran. But, as you have put a word to the lady's story, I will put another; she says 'persons,' you say 'brigands,' I say anybody he could get. I was one of the number: there were other people from the inn, and the brigands, it is very true, came and joined us; not liking, as your majesty may easily conceive, that the good Lord of Masseran, or any other lord, should take the trade out of their hands. However, we refused no help where we could get it. The Chevalier de Meyrand, who was at the inn when the man came crying for aid, remained at the table with the capons and the bottles of wine, not liking, as may well be supposed, to frustrate his own schemes or fight against his own people; and Bernard de Rohan, with what assistance he could get, set free the young lady, ay, and the Lord of Masseran to boot."

"Then there were, in truth, brigands with you, my good father," said the king.

"In sooth were there, sire," replied the priest; "some of the best brigands between this and Naples; and I have a shrewd notion that Corse de Leon was there himself."

"Indeed!" said the king, with a smile; "then I wish I had been there also: I would give half a province to see that man, who seems to have been born for a general, and become a brigand by accident."

"Brissac writes me word, sire," said the Maréchal de Vieilleville, "that Corse de Leon has served you better in Piedmont than any three captains in your service."

"That may well be," said the king; "but yet we must not too openly favour such gentry. Now, lady, we have interrupted you too long."

"I have but little more to say, sire," replied Isabel de Brienne: "as those who had delivered us were carrying us back to the castle in safety, I had full opportunity—the first time for years—of speaking with my promised husband, who informed me that he came, not only to seek my hand, but to bear despatches from Monsieur de Brissac to my Lord of Masseran there. What I have to tell farther is not altogether of my own knowledge; but let him deny the facts if he can, for there are persons who can prove them if he does deny them. He received intelligence that Monsieur de Rohan brought him despatches and directions of an unpleasant kind, and he left the chateau that he might not receive them. He also ordered that admittance should be refused both to my mother and myself; and I had reason to believe that a new scheme was formed for compelling me to wed the Count de Meyrand. In these circumstances, your majesty, I saw no chance of escape but in doing as I did do. I was far from your protecting arm; I was, in fact, in the power and at the disposal, not of my mother, but of a stranger to our house and nation; and I knew that if I delayed or hesitated, even for a few days, I was likely to be borne far away beyond the power of rescue or deliverance. I held that my father's will and wishes justified me in what, at other times, might have been a rash, perhaps an improper act; and, having the opportunity both of seeing him I loved and escaping with him, I did not hesitate; our purpose being immediately to seek your presence, and cast ourselves at your majesty's feet, entreating your gracious pardon. We were afterward seized at the altar, as your majesty has been told; and I was then carried away, as if with the purpose of taking me to some remote place, but, in reality, to give the opportunity of a mock deliverance by the Count of Meyrand;" and she gave a brief account of what had taken place after the count came apparently to her rescue. "I doubt not that he was carrying me to Paris," she continued, "and might ultimately have brought me to your majesty's presence; but I neither chose to be entirely in his power and at his disposal after all that had happened, nor to quit that part of the country where I had reason to believe my brother was or might soon be, and where my husband—yes, sire, my husband, for a vow had been spoken which nothing but death could do away—where my husband lay a captive in the hands of that dangerous man. With the aid of Father Willand here I made my escape; but alas! alas! it was only to find that he who had loved me well and truly was no longer in life to protect and guide me. I found, sire, that he had died a horrible death in the castle of Masseran, by the falling of the tower under which he was confined."

She spoke, to all appearance, calmly; even the last words were distinct, though low; but she kept her eyes bent down, and, closing them for a moment, the drops of tears broke through the long black lashes like a crushed diamond.

"I grieve for you, dear lady," said the king, "and I sympathize with you also; for I loved this young gentleman well. But tell me, have you any suspicion that his death was brought about unfairly?"

"No, sire, no," she replied; "I have no cause to suppose so. I know nothing farther than that it is as I have told you."

"You see, sire," said the Lord of Masseran, "that she exculpates me from blame in this matter."

"No, my lord, no," replied the king. "Of the manner of this gentleman's death she knows nothing, but in regard to your preceding conduct she does anything but exculpate you. She says, or I am mistaken, that she had good reason to know a scheme had been formed for compelling her to marry the Count de Meyrand, and also for bearing her far away beyond the possibility of rescue or deliverance. Call you this exculpating you?"

"But I deny that this is the case, sire," replied the Lord of Masseran. "How could she tell what were my schemes or what were my plans? These are but vague suspicions, engendered by disappointment and anger."

"No, my lord, they are not," replied Isabel de Brienne. "They are not vague suspicions: they are certainties which I have never yet fully told to any one, no, not even to him I loved, because you are my mother's husband; but may I put you in mind of a German courier who was with you secretly on the twenty-ninth of last month—not the first that came that day—ay, and of the Spaniard who came two days afterward—"

The Lord of Masseran turned paler than his ruff, and clasped his hands together as if about to pray for mercy; but Isabel went on, "With his majesty's permission, I will first tell you in your ear, my lord, what I know of those couriers. Then, if you will have it so, and still deny the fact, I will speak aloud, and call on those who can prove it."