CHAPTER XXIV.

But, though Ancenis is a pretty little town, and the fare is good and the wine by no means bad, Edward Langdale was not inclined to lose time by the way. One hour for refreshment was all that was allowed for man or horse, and then on again they went toward Angers. It is true that Angers is somewhat more than fifty miles from Nantes, that the road in those days was not remarkable for its excellence, and that a broiling July sun had shone upon the travellers from break of day till night; but Edward saw with his own eyes that the horses were well cared for; and all was prepared for departure early the next morning. Here, however, for the first and only time during the journey, the safe-conduct was demanded by an officer of the governor. All was in order, however; no suspicion was entertained, and on the little party went, to Suette, Duretal, La Fleche. The sweet little valley of the Loire passed with all its beauties unseen; and, after two hours' repose at La Fleche, Fouletourte, Guecelard, and Le Mans were reached. Nearly one-half of the journey between Nantes and the first place to which Edward had been directed was now accomplished; but the horses—especially the two ridden by Pierrot and Jacques—showed evident signs of fatigue, and it was found necessary to have their shoes removed and give them somewhat more time for repose.

Edward could not reach Chartres upon the third night, as he had hoped; but reflecting, with some apprehension, that if one of the horses were to fall sick he had not funds sufficient to purchase another, he proceeded more quietly to Nogent le Rotrou, where he paused for the night before the sun had gone down.

Now, the dear but hasty reader has come to a conclusion that I have been engaged in writing an itinerancy, rather than a romance or a true history. But in this he is mistaken; for it was necessary to mention two little incidents which befell Lord Montagu's page on his way toward Paris; and one of these occurred at Nogent le Rotrou. It was therefore requisite to show that Edward got there; for an incident cannot happen to a man at a place where he is not. It was necessary, also, to explain how he arrived at that place later by some eight hours than he at first expected; for, if he had been able to continue the same galloping pace with which he set out from Nantes, the incident would not have happened at all.

At Nogent, the young Englishman—as is the case with most Englishmen—had looked to the accommodation of the horses in the first instance, and, having seen that they had a good dry stable, that the saddles were taken off and that they were well rubbed down, he directed them to be walked up and down before the house for a few minutes; when, to his consternation, he perceived that one of them was going somewhat lame. It was the horse ridden by long Pierrot la Grange, and one of the best of the three; and a consultation in regard to the poor animal was held immediately. One proposed one thing, another another; but, none being particularly skilful in the veterinary art, and as Edward did not choose to trust to a common blacksmith, it was determined to rest upon cold water applied to the lame foot and fetlock, and the horse was led back to the stable.

The inn was a neat little auberge, and the landlord a fat, well-doing, clean-looking sinner as ever shortened a flagon or lengthened a bill. He promised worlds in the way of edible refreshment, trout and crayfish from the Huisne, pigeons from his own dove-cot, and capons equal to those of Maine; and, while all these delicacies were in preparation, Edward took post before the door, standing beside the tall pole with a garland upon it, which in those days appeared at the entrance of many a little cabaret in France.

As he thus stood, in not a very happy mood, two new travellers on horseback trotted up. Their dress was coarse, and evidently not the costume of any part of France that the young gentleman was acquainted with; but that which attracted his attention more particularly was the lameness of one of their horses, who limped much after the fashion of Pierrot's beast, but a great deal worse. The riders dismounted, and one of them, passing him, gave him "Bong jou," in a strange sort of patois. Edward advanced to the side of the other, who was holding the beasts, saying, "That horse seems very lame, my good friend."

"Oh, it is nothing," answered the man, in the same sort of jargon as that of his companion. "He'll be well before morning: we are maréchaux de chevaux, and will soon set him right. You see us go away to-morrow: he not lame then."

Shortly after the horses were led into the stable, and the young gentleman's dinner was announced; but, before partaking of any of the good things, he followed the two strangers, and found that they were provided with all the tools of the blacksmith and all the oils and essences of the veterinary surgeon of that day. "Let him cool, and then we see," said the master, speaking to his companion; and the whole party adjourned to the salle-à-manger. Five more hungry men never sat down to dinner, if they might be judged by their consumption of food; but all the other guests, and the landlord more particularly, remarked that the two last-arrived strangers ate none of the admirable crayfish. Now, when at a house of public entertainment you eat none of the especial dish of the place, it is not only an affront to your host, but an insult to his country. The landlord shook his head and declared the men must be some outlandish cannibals, for they neither spoke French nor ate crayfish. In this conclusion nobody gainsaid him,—not even the two men themselves, who did not seem to understand, but finished their dinner and went to attend to the lame horse.

Now, it may seem very strange in the author to entertain a reader with a lame horse, with which, though fully as good as a dead ass, that reader seems to have nothing on earth to do. But I declare it is neither for the purpose of filling up a vacant chapter, nor in any spirit of perversity,—such as frequently seizes every writer,—nor from a desire to delay till I have made up my mind how to proceed, nor from any caprice, that I pause upon that lame horse. On the contrary, it is a piece of genuine, serious history,—in fact, the only pure and dignified piece of history in this whole book,—mentioned by authors of high repute, and confirmed by a long train of consequences, which involved at least the three next years of Edward Langdale's life in their network; and so the fate of that lame horse cannot be omitted. With one of those sympathetic movements of the mind which we can neither direct nor restrain, and which lead us on the course of destiny whether we will or not, the youth felt a personal interest in that lame horse,—was not one of his own horses lame?—and he went to the stable to see the treatment the animal was to undergo. Need I pause to tell how one of the uncouth travellers took off the shoe, examined the foot, poured some fluid which he called oil of vipers into the hole left by one of the nails, wrapped an old rag round the hoof, and did sundry other beneficent acts to the affected part? No: suffice it to say that he seemed to treat it so skilfully, and with so much of that decision which continually passes for skill and nine times out of ten has as good a result, that Edward determined he should try his hand on Pierrot's horse also.

The immediate result was relief to both the beasts, and when their several riders mounted next morning no sign of lameness was visible.

The score was paid, and Edward with his party rode away first; but they had not gone half a mile before they were over-taken by the two blacksmiths, who seemed to desire company on the way, which they accounted for by telling the companions of the young cavalier that they were wandering Savoyards, who, having some skill in horse-medicine, had come to France, made a little money, and were returning to their own country to live upon the fruits of their toil.

Now, Savoy is a fine country, and the people are a very good people, very much like other people who live amongst rocks and stones,—not quite so wise as serpents nor so innocent as doves. "Poor, patient, quiet, honest people," says Sterne, "fear not. Your poverty, the treasury of your simple virtues, will not be envied you by the world, nor will your valleys be invaded by it." Now, why I quoted this author in regard to Savoy was simply because the most interesting account of any country is always given by a man who knows nothing about it. He has such a wide field to expatiate in! There are exceedingly good people in Savoy, and exceedingly good people come out of it; but there is a tolerably large minority as cunning and as selfish as I ever met with. Now, Edward Langdale had few prejudices upon the matter. He had never seen a Savoyard before, or one who pretended to be so; but he had heard a good deal of their "simple virtues," and, therefore, if the balance leaned either way it was in their favor. But somehow the faces of his two new companions did not please him, and he said not a word of the probability that he would himself be obliged in the end to direct his steps toward their mountain-land. Indeed, with a remarkable degree of discretion in one so young, he had kept his own two immediate followers in ignorance of that and many other facts, and they went like lambs to the slaughter with their heads hanging down, and thinking the journey somewhat long, but without the slightest idea where it was to end. When they had reached Chartres, however, he had to make many inquiries as to his further course; and, though he conferred with the landlord of the Ecu Royal himself, Pierrot la Grange stood provokingly near, and it is probable—for his ears were long and sharp—he heard every word that was said, and drew his own conclusions.

The two Savoyards, or whatever they might be, had adhered to Edward and his two companions with the tenacity of a bramble-shoot, and Edward had no objection to their accompanying him a stage or two farther; but, as he was now coming to one of the dangerous passes of his expedition, he determined to cut them loose at the end of the first thirty miles. Those thirty miles, however, were destined to be performed slowly and with difficulty.

The morning, when they quitted Chartres, was bright and beautiful; a pale pink tint was in the sky, varied by brown clouds with golden edges; but ere they had half crossed the rich plain which lies between Chartres and Maintenon the rain began to fall, and a deluge poured down from the sky, rendering the roads wellnigh impassable. Still Edward rode on, passed Maintenon without stopping, and first drew bridle at Rambouillet. It was then beginning to grow dark, for the progress made had been very slow, and every man in the party was drenched to the skin. To go farther immediately was out of the question and not exactly suited to Edward's plans. Indeed, what between fatigue and a sudden change in the weather, the face of Pierrot la Grange had become very blue, his limbs shivered, and his teeth chattered. Dinner—or rather, as they called it, supper—was soon served, and the young gentleman so far relaxed his stern rule as to order some bottles of good wine for his drenched companions, bidding Pierrot himself partake. The long man looked somewhat doubtfully at his master, but the temptation was too strong, and the fatal cup approached his lips. Edward soon left the party and went out to make some inquiries. No one attempted to follow him, for the room was warm and comfortable, and mirth and conviviality reigned.

Pierrot's first cup was the Rubicon. It was but wine, it is true; but he had drunk nothing but water for wellnigh two months, and the first draught made him feel so comfortable that the second, and the third, and the fourth, and the fifth were added in rapid succession. His tongue, which had been marvellously still for many weeks, was unloosed, and the unruly member did its part in setting free every thing that was a secret, or which he thought was one. In five minutes he was in full career, and by the time that Edward returned—he had not been absent half an hour—the two Savoyards were made aware that the young gentleman had probably gone to inquire his way minutely to Dampierre, the place of retreat of the Duchesse de Chevreuse. "For," said Pierrot, "he was asking about it at Chartres; and the people there could not give him half the information he seemed to want."

On their part, too, the Savoyards were wonderfully free and confidential; and the only one who retained his full discretion was Jacques Beaupré, who was remarkably taciturn, and kicked Pierrot's shins under the table,—a hint which he did not choose to take.

The entrance of Edward Langdale instantly silenced Master Pierrot, however, for he was not in the least drunk. In the ladder of inebriety there are many rounds, and he had only reached the first, which with him was always talkativeness. But Edward looked grave, for he had heard much speaking, with Pierrot's voice predominant; and, when the host entered to inquire whether the guests would take some more wine, the young gentleman's "No" was uttered in a tone that went home to his follower's consciousness.

"What a fool I am!" thought Pierrot. "If it had been brandy, now, instead of wine, I should have been drunk again to a certainty."

The following morning at an early hour the whole party were once more in the saddle, and the two Savoyards were ready as soon as the rest, seeming to think that they had fixed them-selves upon the young gentleman's party. Edward examined the priming of his pistols before he set out, and ordered his followers to do so likewise; but, as the day before had been rainy, the precaution excited no remark, and the day's journey was begun.

Four or five miles only had passed, however, when, at a spot where a road branched off through the forest to the left, the young Englishman suddenly drew in his rein and turned to the Savoyards, saying, "Here, my good friends, we have to part. That is your road, and this is mine."

The two men seemed much surprised, and even ventured to remonstrate, commending highly the safety and sociability of travelling in company, and magnifying the great advantage it would be to him to have two such skilful smiths and horse-doctors in his train. They offered even to wait for him, if he had business on the road, and to attend to his horses without pay.

But Edward Langdale was peremptory. "You said you were going to Savoy," he remarked. "The only way to get there is to follow the road before you. Moreover, it will be safer for you to go in other company than mine; for I am subject to fits of choler, and apt to shoot people if they offend me, as that good gentleman, Monsieur Pierrot la Grange, can inform you."

"Ay, that he is!" exclaimed Pierrot. "I have got the bullet in my leg now."

The two men looked at each other in astonishment, and made some exclamation in a language which Edward did not understand, but which did not sound like any species of Italian.

"Ah!" said Jacques Beaupré, solemnly, "it is a sad infirmity he has. I always ride on the right side of him, for he does not aim so well on that side as on the left."

The two men smiled; but a slight movement of Edward's hand toward his pistols soon restored their gravity, and he added, "Take my advice. Go on your way, and let me see you go, for I do not choose to be followed."

A shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the rein was their only answer, and they rode away along the highroad before them.

Edward watched them for some distance, and then turned into the smaller path on the left. "I do not like those men," he said, speaking to his followers. "Both their countenances are bad; and, as for the taller one of the two, I am certain I have seen him at Nantes. I think it was in the court of the chateau, the day we set out for Deux Rivières."

"I think so too," said Jacques Beaupré. "He is too ugly to be forgotten easily; and, as for their tongue, I think it is Basque. I once heard that language spoken; and theirs is much more like it than Savoyard."

Poor Pierrot was conscience-stricken, and heartily wished his tongue had been cut out before it had run away from his discretion on the preceding evening; but he kept his own counsel, and Jacques Beaupré had too much of the laquais' spirit about him to tell of a companion before he was found out.

The day was dull and gray, but not actually raining, and the road was muddy and heavy to travel; but the forest was soon passed, and at the end of two hours Edward judged, by the descriptions he had received, that he was entering the vale of Chevreuse. Hidden in a dense shroud of mist, it did not indeed look beautiful to his eyes, as he had been led to believe; and, in some doubt, he stopped to ask a peasant, whom they overtook driving an ox-cart, if the Chateau of Dampierre was near.

"Why, there it is, seigneur," said the man. "Dame! don't you see it?" And, looking forward, Edward caught a faint sight of some towers and pinnacles rising over the distant trees.

CHAPTER XXV.

Edward accordingly rode on, and, though the distance was not more than three hundred yards, he perceived that his coming had created more sensation at the chateau than at the gates. There were heads at several of the windows, and two or three men came forth upon the terrace and watched the approaching party. Edward rode slowly to give time for a full examination; for, from all he had heard at Nantes, he could very well conceive that the fair duchess might be inclined to stand somewhat upon her guard before she admitted strangers. Dismounting before the chateau, he gave his horse to Jacques Beaupré to hold, and advanced toward one of the servants at the door, who showed no disposition to advance toward him, inquiring if the duchess was at Dampierre and would receive him. "Come in, sir," said another servant, who had just come down the steps. "Go up that staircase and turn to your right through the first door. You will soon find somebody who will inform you."

Edward obeyed, thinking the manners of the Chateau of Dampierre somewhat strange, it must be confessed, but being perfectly prepared to follow the old adage of doing at Rome &c. The stairs were wide and low-stepped, of dark polished oak, with richly-ornamented balusters; and the walls of the staircase were covered with rich pictures both of Italian and Flemish schools. At the top was a broad landing-place or vestibule, with doors all round; but, following the directions he had received, the young Englishman opened the first on the right and entered a splendid saloon, where, seated in a great arm-chair, was a lady of gorgeous and dazzling beauty, with a little girl of some seven or eight years old at her knee, nearly as beautiful as herself. The eyes of both were fixed upon the opening door with a gay look of expectation; and the moment that Edward was fairly in the room the little girl ran forward, sprung up, and kissed him. The beautiful lady followed and kissed him likewise, laughing gayly as she did so.

It was certainly a surprise, though not a very disagreeable one, and Edward would not have objected to go over the same scene again; but, fancying there must be some mistake, he said, "I beg pardon for my intrusion. I imagine, madame, that you have—happily for me—taken me for some one else, by the honor you show me. I am merely a page to Lord Montagu, whom I hope to find here."

"No mistake at all, monsieur," said the gay lady. "It is a vow, sir,—altogether a vow,—which I and my daughter made, to kiss the first gentleman that came to relieve our solitude; for my magnificent lord has chosen to take himself away with all his people, and we have seen no faces but those of the old servants for two whole days. It was a vow, sir, we accomplished; but, even had it not been, I suppose I am not the first duchess who has kissed a page, and probably I shall not be the last."

"Heaven forbid!" said Edward, entering into the humor of the hour, "if all duchesses' kisses are as sweet. But I presume I am in the presence of Madame de Chevreuse, for whom I have a letter."

"Well, well," said the bright, reckless woman, "sit down here beside me and tell me more. So you are my friend Lord Montagu's page. He has expected you long, and told me all about you. How happened you to linger on the road? Now, I warrant you met with some pretty little maiden, and could not tear yourself away till you had beguiled the poor thing."

Edward took the seat to which she pointed beside her own chair, and proceeded to tell her all he thought necessary to account for his long delay, but without alluding in any way to Lucette. The explanation was somewhat long, and the duchess listened listlessly, sometimes gazing at his face, sometimes looking down at her own beautiful hands and shifting the rings about in an absent manner. Edward, as was customary at that period, nourished two locks of dark silky hair, twisted into those long pendent curls which brought forth at an after-period the famous puritanical tirade upon "the unloveliness of love-locks;" and, a little to his surprise, as he went on he felt the fair duchess's hands busy with the curls and twisting them round her fingers. Suddenly, however, she started, exclaiming, "What am I about?" and Edward innocently thought she was shocked at the familiarity into which a fit of absence had betrayed her. Not a bit of it; and he was soon undeceived.

"Surely I saw two attendants with you as I was looking from the window," she continued; "and I have totally forgotten the poor men and the poor horses. Run, my child, and tell Paton, the Savoyard, to have the men and horses monsieur brought here taken care of; and bid somebody carry his baggage to the chamber Lord Montagu had, next to mine. It is strange, you will think," she continued, as her daughter tripped away: "I have not a soubrette in the house, nor any woman but the old housekeeper and my own girl; but I came away from Britanny in such haste, not knowing whether I should be suffered to come away at all, that the fewer people I brought with me the better. Now let me hear the rest, and give me the letter you mentioned,—after which you shall have some food."

Edward had little more to tell, except the execution of poor Chalais, and the permission given him by Richelieu to pursue his journey. The first he touched but slightly, as the common rumor of something more than the mere relations of friendship between the unhappy count and Madame de Chevreuse had reached him; but the duchess would hear all, and for a time she seemed greatly moved, although her love was so very minutely divided that there could be no great portion for any individual lover. At his account of his last interview with Richelieu,—which was somewhat lame, from there being various circumstances which he felt bound to keep back,—Madame de Chevreuse mused.

"The cardinal has some object," she said: "in fact, he always has. It was not for your good mien he let you go on, depend upon it,—though you are a handsome boy, I do not deny, and if the fox had been a woman I could have understood his favor for you better,—though probably he would then have kept you with him, as I intend to do."

"Indeed, madame," replied Edward, "I fear my duty requires me to go on immediately, if, as I gather from your conversation, Lord Montagu is not here. I need not tell you how much I should like to stay."

"Why do you not add something about bright eyes and beautiful lips, &c. &c. &c., in true page style?" said Madame de Chevreuse; and then, giving him a playful box on the ear, she added, "Were not you told to take my orders and follow my directions, sir? It was so explained to me; but I see I have a great deal to teach you yet. You will have to wait till the day after to-morrow. Here; listen; put down your head." And as Edward obeyed she brought her rosy lips so near his ear that the perfumed breath fanned his cheek. "To-morrow night," she whispered, "I shall have news of Montagu, and the day after, perhaps, I shall find it convenient to take flight for Lorraine myself. The neighborhood of the court is somewhat dangerous for me; and my head looks prettier upon my own shoulders than in the hands of the executioner. In the mean time, you have to stay here and console my daughter and myself. We live the life of two nuns just now: you know how nuns live, I dare say,—young nuns, of course, I mean. And now, let us talk of any thing but business: you have to amuse me, and I have to be amused. I do not much care how."

I think it may be as well to drop for the present the further conversation of the gay young duchess and her still younger companion. She had all her life been famous for free speaking, and a little celebrated for free acting; and, had it not been necessary to show something of the life and manners of the times, I might have been tempted not to bring her on the stage at all,—although, in writing the adventures of Lord Montagu's page, Edward's visit to Dampierre could hardly be left out. It must be remembered, however, that, though somewhat more beautiful, more gay and witty, than most of her courtly compeers, Marie de Rohan was but a type of French society at that time. Few of the high dames of that day were at all more virtuous than herself, although she had the candour—or the impudence, as it may be—to make very few pretensions.

She had said that she had many things to teach Edward, and certainly hers was not a very good school for a young lad; but he learned there more perhaps than she imagined, and in the midst of her light coquetries the sweet pure image of his Lucette came up to his mind, like the odor of a fresh flower in the midst of some scene of revel. He thanked God with all his heart that she whom he loved had never been subjected to the guardianship of such a woman; and he even felt pained that the poor young child her daughter should be witness to the reckless levity which the mother displayed. There is a holiness about childhood; and the heart of every man not impious revolts at the very thought of any thing which can profane that shrine of innocence.

Edward dined well; for the Duc de Chevreuse was one of the most luxurious—the French writers call it splendid—of the nobility of the day. He is reported at one time to have ordered six magnificent coaches merely to try which was the easiest; and he was not a man to have any of his many houses at any time unprovided with a good cook.

After dinner is the time for sober but not heavy chat: the most persistent of appetites is satisfied; the blood has something to do in the process of digestion, and frolics less freely than at other times; and the brain itself turns hard work over to the stomach, and neither sports like a young horse set free from harness, nor lies down to sleep like an ass upon a common. The Duchesse de Chevreuse went to lie down upon her bed and rest after dinner, as was then common; but, as was fully as common, she asked the young Englishman to come and sit beside her. There were no triclinia in those days, nor chaises longues, nor sofas; and, although piles of cushions had been introduced into a few houses by those who had served against or with the Turks, they had not found their way into the Chateau de Dampierre. Her conversation was much more sober, however, than it had been in the earlier part of the day; and from it Edward learned that Lord Montagu had talked to her much about him, had told her his whole history, and had even left with her a purse of five hundred crowns for his use, expressing a conviction that some unforeseen accident had delayed him on his journey and might have exhausted his finances.

"He seemed to take a vast deal of interest in you," said the duchess, "and made me long to see you. But, Monsieur Langdale, this conduct of his Eminence of Richelieu toward you puzzles me, and to my mind augurs little good. Tell me: did any thing particular happen to you on the road? Did you meet with any of the cardinal's people? Are these two men you have brought with you sure and faithful?"

The remembrance of the two strangers who had endeavored to force themselves upon him, instantly recurred to Edward's mind, and he related the whole adventure.

"Spies! spies, on my life!" cried the duchess. "I trust they did not discover you were coming here?"

"Not from me," answered Edward Langdale; "for I suspected them from the first."

"Ah! then you have learned to suspect betimes," said the duchess; "and I dare say you suspect women as much as men,—though we are more sincere by half. I say not we are more faithful, for men are so unfaithful that we should lose at that game; but we show more openly what we feel, and therefore are more true. Now, tell me: were you ever in love, Monsieur Langdale?"

Thus she rambled on, with less gayety, and less familiarity, perhaps, than before dinner; but there was a sort of languor about her, a soft sleepiness, which was perhaps more attractive, especially to a young man. One of the greatest charms of that extraordinary woman was her infinite variety. Was it now a desire merely to coquet with a young and handsome lad? Was it only with the purpose of amusing a vacant hour or two? Was it without purpose at all, and that she simply gave way to the passing feelings of the moment and with listless carelessness left the results to chance—I know not; and probably she herself and Edward Langdale were the only persons who ever knew.

Authors will get into difficulties sometimes, dear reader,—will come to sticking-places where they find it as difficult to go back as to wade through. The only way in such circumstances is to take a great jump; and, thank Heaven, the horses we ride are equal to any leap.

The next morning Edward and the duchess and her daughter met at breakfast; and Madame de Chevreuse, if not in great spirits, was cheerful and gay, and full of plans for passing the day pleasantly. She would go and show the young Englishman the grotto and the rocks; they would kill a stag in the adjoining forest; they would visit the curé of Chevreuse, and astonish the good man,—a sport which she by no means disliked: but while they were arranging all these schemes on the open space before the chateau, a courier was seen riding up from the gates, and when he came near he handed the duchess two letters.

The blood left her cheek as she read, and, instantly drawing Edward aside, she said, "We must part at once. You go on as fast as possible to Gray. Wait there two days, and, if you hear no more, ride forward to Turin. As for myself, look here." And she put a paper into his hand. It was a copy of the decree banishing her to Lorraine, there to remain upon her own estates till the king's further pleasure.

"Order your horses quickly," she said. "Then come to my chamber for the sum Montagu left for you. Glimpses of sunshine! glimpses of sunshine in this April-day life! and then dark clouds and heavy showers."

In an hour, Edward Langdale rode away from Dampierre. He was grave and silent. What was in his heart who can tell? but he certainly did not view the world more brightly, or feel more confidence in human nature, than he had done before that short visit.

CHAPTER XXVI.

Those were not pleasant days to live in; and it is a very difficult thing for any one born in and accustomed to the bad comfortable modern days to realize those good old times. Espionage was then a great science, an honorable profession, practised by great dignitaries and men of high degree. Words brought men's heads to the block, and thoughts often conducted to a prison. There was no need of overt acts: intentions were quite sufficient; and friends and foes were so continually changing places that no one could tell that the thoughts uttered in the confidence of familiar intercourse would not be brought forward a few days or weeks later to lead one to the dungeon and the rack. Yet it is wonderful, unaccountable, how freely and daringly men spoke their mind,—how the grave condemnation, the witty lampoon, or the hideous libel, was disseminated without ceremony. Men laughed and had their heads chopped off,—and would have laughed still if they could have been fixed on again, I do believe; for nothing seemed a warning or a restraint.

Edward, however, born in a country where neither the reign of the Tudor nor of the Stuart had been able to crush out the spirit of liberty, loved not to be watched; and there is always something more alarming in the indefinite than the definite danger. He could not divine what was the object of the two strangers, if, indeed, they had any object, in thus persisting in following him. The cardinal had lacked no opportunity of detaining him at Nantes, or of arresting him on his journey, if he had thought fit; and yet he could not clear his mind from suspicion till he reached Franche Comté and found himself beyond the power of the French minister.

It may be necessary to remind the reader that Franche Comté was not annexed to France till the year 1668; and at the time of which I now write the important town of Gray was a fortified place, consisting of the city on the high ground strongly walled, and a suburb on the bank of the Saône, defended merely by a small battery. For a long period of troublous times, so frequent had been the visits of French exiles to Lorraine, Burgundy, and Franche Comté, that safe-conducts or passports from one country to another were very generally dispensed with in the country and in open towns; but in fortresses some trouble was experienced; and it is probable that the directions which the Duchesse de Chevreuse had given Edward Langdale to stop in the faubourg were intended to guard against his detention. The inn which she had named to him was good, however,—perhaps better than that in the upper town; and the appointed two days of Edward's stay passed dully but not unpleasantly. The horses were refreshed and the two men none the worse for the repose. For Edward himself, too, perhaps two days of thought were beneficial. Every man, in the toil and tumult and hurry of the world, requires some moment to pause and consider his position, to decide upon his future course, to apply the lesson of past errors, to take breath as it were amidst the bustle of existence. Edward was like a stout swimmer who had been suddenly plunged into a torrent, and was likely to be carried away by the flood which for the last three months had been whirling confusedly round him; and those two days at Gray were like a little island of dry ground where he could rest and scan his way to the opposite bank, avoiding the rocks and eddies which might impede or destroy him. It is a quaint old proverb, but a true one, that "a man who does not look clearly before him will often have to look sadly behind him;" and happy is he who has both the will and the time to do so.

Those two days then with Edward passed in almost uninterrupted thought; but at last the night of the second day came, and yet neither message nor letter had arrived. Supper had been eaten, and the horses had been ordered for daybreak on the following morning to proceed to Turin, when, toward nine o'clock, the landlord brought in a scrap of writing, asking Edward if that was intended for him. It was addressed in English,—"Master Edward Langdale,"—and underneath was written, "Join me at Chambéry or Aix. I shall be there from the twenty-ninth till the first."

No name was signed, but the writing was Lord Montagu's; and the landlord, on being questioned, said the paper had been given to him by a courier from Arnay le Duc going to Vesoul, who had gone on his way as soon as he had left it.

Now, Edward's knowledge of geography was considerable, and, as far as France and England were concerned, minute; but he had at Gray got somewhat out of his latitude, and the landlord had to be consulted as to the road to Aix and Chambéry. The good man was learned upon the subject, however, knew every inch of the road, he said, and could find his way in the dark. It was true, he added, that it was rather a wild way, and carriages could hardly go one-half the distance; but, as the gentleman had horses, it would be easily managed. He must first go straight to Dole, then from Dole to Lons-le-Saulnier, from Lons-le-Saulnier to Bourg or Nantua, and thence to the Pont du Sault. After that, he said, came Bellay and Aix and Chambéry; but there the traveller would have to ask every step of his way. It was a five days' journey, he remarked, and, ride as hard as you would, it would take four and a half.

Edward did ride hard, and the first part of the way was overcome in a much shorter space of time than the good host had anticipated; nor was it till the party had passed Bourg that any thing like difficulties occurred. It is as pleasant a ride in fine weather as any one can take, for the roads are now good and the scenery exceedingly picturesque without being fatiguingly grand; but neither Edward nor ourselves have any time to pause upon the beauties of nature. The roads, however, were then in a very different condition from that which they now display; and, indeed, the wonder-working eighteenth and nineteenth centuries have done more for few countries than for the districts lying between the Jura and the Rhone and Saône.

On the twenty-seventh of July, Edward Langdale and his party were within one short day's journey of Aix, and the early morning when they set out was fresh and beautiful. The hot summer sun was shaded by the rocks and forests, and the air was cooled by the mountain-breeze. As he was earlier than the first of the days named by Lord Montagu, the young traveller suffered his horses to proceed leisurely. But in this he made a mistake. Man always wants more money and time than he calculates upon; and nobody can tell what the want of an hour or a guinea may bring about.

As every one knows, the country which Edward had now to traverse is a land of rocks and mountains, of rivers and lakes. Not three miles can be passed without encountering some stream or torrent hurrying down to join the great Rhone; and at every mile, as the road then went, was some steep ascent or descent, flanked with rugged cliffs, sometimes covered with dark forests, sometimes naked and gray, with immense masses of stone impending over the traveller's head without the root of a single tree to bind them to the crag, while high up in front the Mont du Chat was seen from time to time rearing its rugged front and seeming to close the pass. About one o'clock, over the edges of the hills some heavy clouds were seen rising, knotty and dull, and of a deep lead-color, except where the sun tipped their edges with an ochrey yellow. The wind was from the northeast, and the clouds were coming from the south. But they did not heed the breeze, which soon began to fail before them.

"Let us ride faster," said Edward: "the road is good here." And on he went, keeping his eye on the heavy masses, but fearing no greater inconvenience than a wetting. He had never travelled in Savoy before. However, by quick trotting he saved himself and his followers for about two hours; but by the end of that time the sun was hidden and great drops began to fall. Then came the thunder echoing through the hills, and then a complete deluge. Every thing turned gray, and the old castles which strew that part of the country could hardly be distinguished from the rocks on which they stood.

Two more hours were passed by the travellers under an overhanging shelf of rock, which afforded some shelter, not only to themselves, but also to their horses. But at the end of that time the rain had had the effect of loosening some parts of the cliff, and several large masses of stone began to fall, giving them warning to retreat as soon as possible.

The thunder was now more distant and the flashes of lightning farther apart; but the rain continued to fall, not so heavily, but in a dull, incessant pour. There was nothing to be done but to ride on, and, even then, but slow progress could be made; for the roads were cut up in a terrible manner, the smaller streams were swollen so as to be well nigh impassable, and here and there the way was nearly blocked up by piles of rock and gravel. Night was rapidly coming on; no human habitation was in sight except a scattered old tower here and there, and that in ruins.

At length, just as the sun sank, a more formidable obstacle than ever presented itself. Where the road took a rapid descent between some high rocky ground on the right and the Rhone in flood upon the left, just at the spot where one of the branches of the Guiers joins the larger river, an immense mass of rock, undermined by the torrent, had fallen across the mouth of the stream, which, thus blocked up, had flooded the whole road. By the side of the water, gazing disconsolately at the rushing and whirling current, was a group of men, some four in number. It was too dark for Edward to distinguish who they were at any distance, but when he came nearer he perceived his two old friends the Savoyard blacksmiths, and two laborers of the country, whom the fall of the rock and the consequent inundation had, it seemed, cut off from their own cottages on the other side.

"Ah! bon jour, bon jour, seigneur!" said one of the blacksmiths, who had dismounted, and was holding his horse by the bridle: "we came all along the road with you, after all, but we kept out of your way for fear of your pistols. Here is a pretty pass! We shall not get over to-night, these men say."

"Can we find no place of shelter this side?" asked Edward, whose suspicion of the two men had been greatly abated by finding they had quietly pursued their way to Savoy. The blacksmith shook his head.

"I saw an old castle about half a mile back," said the young Englishman: "it was not far up the mountain."

"All ruined! No roof," replied the other. "Ask them yourself."

But Edward could not make either of the peasants comprehend a word he said. "We must do something," he remarked. "It is growing darker every moment, and it would give us some sort of covering, were it but under an old arch. Hark! there are horses coming on the other side. Those men will be into the torrent if they do not mind." And, raising his voice, he shouted aloud to warn the horsemen, who were dashing on at furious pace from the side of Aix.

The wind set the other way, and the roaring of the water was loud, so that it is probable his shout was not heard, for the next moment there was a plunge into the water and then a loud cry for help.

Edward sprang instantly from his horse and advanced to the very verge of the stream.

"For Heaven's sake, Master Ned, for Heaven's sake, do not try it!" cried Pierrot, catching his arm.

"Here, take the horse," said Edward, sharply. "Let go my arm."

A flash of lightning came at that moment, faint, indeed, but sufficient to show him a horse carried away toward the Rhone, a horseman who had pulled up just in time upon the other brink, and a man struggling in the water and trying to hold by a smooth mass of fallen rock, just in the middle of the torrent, about twelve yards from him. He paused not to consider, but ran as far as he could up the water, dashed in, and swam with all his strength toward the drowning man, whom he could just distinguish. Borne down by the current, he drifted right to the rock, calling aloud, in French, "Do not touch me, and I will save you!"

Such warnings are usually vain. The man's first effort was to clutch him; but Edward was prepared, and kept him off, catching him tightly by the back of the neck. We have said that he was a good and practised swimmer; but neither skill nor strength would probably have carried him across that small space of twelve yards against that powerful current. But Jacques Beaupré caught sight of him, and exclaimed, "Here, Pierrot, catch my hand. Let us all be drowned in company." And, running in till the water reached his shoulders and almost carried him off his feet, he contrived to grasp Edward's arm and pull him on till he could touch ground.

The young lad was almost exhausted, for the man, of whom he had never loosed his hold, had struggled to the last to grasp him, and the few moments since he had left the rock had been all one confused scene of strife amongst the dark and eddying waters.

"Here; let me take him, sir," said Jacques: "if ever a man's life was nobly saved, it is his." And, throwing his brawny arms round the stranger, who struggled still, he carried him on to the road.

Edward paused for a moment, as soon as he could resist the stream, to draw breath, and then slowly joined the rest. They had laid the stranger down on the bank, and for a moment or two he remained quite still, though his panting breath showed that his life was in no danger.

"Here, moosoo, take some of this," said one of the blacksmiths, pouring some spirit out of a bottle into the stranger's mouth: "you owe that young seigneur something; for if he had not been here you would have been out of Savoy by this time."

"I know it; I know it," said the rescued man, faintly. "Where is he? which is he?"

"Look! look!" cried Pierrot: "there is a light up there, in one, two, three windows. That must be in the old chateau which these fellows said was all in ruins. Let us go up. We shall none of us ever get dry here, it is raining so hard."

"Are you able, sir, to walk up to that castle?" asked Edward, speaking to the stranger, who had now raised himself upon his arm. "I fear your poor horse is lost beyond all hope."

"Let the fiery brute go," said the other, petulantly: "if he would have obeyed the rein I should not have been in this plight. I will try to accompany you in a moment. But what castle is that? It must be Groslie, I think."

He did not speak very good French; but, calling to one of the Savoyard peasants, he addressed him in his own language, of which he seemed to have a perfect command.

The good man instantly began to speak fast and gesticulate vehemently; and, translating as best he could the language of signs, Edward concluded that the Savoyard was trying to dissuade the gentleman from going to the old chateau he had seen.

"What does he say?" asked the young Englishman: "he seems unwilling we should go."

"Oh, he talks nonsense," answered the stranger: "he will have it that the place is haunted, and says that no one is ever seen there by day, but that those lights appear from time to time at night,—smugglers, more likely, or coiners; but we are too many for them to do us any harm." As he spoke he raised himself slowly upon his feet and said to the friendly blacksmith, "Give me some more of those strong waters, my friend. I will pay you well for them."

The man readily supplied him, and he professed himself ready to proceed; but the two peasants could not be induced by any means to accompany the rest. One of the blacksmiths, however, produced a lantern and candle from the packs which each carried behind his saddle, and the party set out, not without fresh remonstrances from the boors.

"If they be devils, we do not fear them," replied the stranger, and then added some directions which probably referred to the servant, who had been able to stop his horse in time and remained on the other side of the torrent.

The peasants seemed to treat the stranger with much respect; but even when, by the aid of a flint and steel, the lantern was lighted, it was impossible for Edward to discern more of the other's person than sufficient to satisfy him that he was a man of distinguished appearance, tall and well formed though slight, and clothed as one of the higher classes.

The ascent was somewhat laborious but not long, after they had once discovered the right road; and about twenty minutes brought the party to an old bridge and gate under a deep arch. By the faint light of the candle, which was by this time wellnigh burned out, the place looked fully as ruinous and desolate as the peasants had represented it to be. The rugged outlines of some of the towers showed that much of the masonry had fallen, and the key-stone of the arch and a large mass of rubbish only left room for the horses to pass one at a time. Still, however, the light they had seen from below continued to stream from three windows in a great, dark, shapeless mass of buildings, and the approach of the new-comers did not seem to have been discovered by the persons within, if there were any.

"Stop a moment," said Edward, pausing under the arch. "As we do not know what sort of persons we shall find within, it is well to be prepared. The priming of my pistols may be damp, though the holsters are made as tight as possible." And, standing under the shelter of the walls, he took the weapon from his saddle-bow, threw the powder out of the pans, and primed them anew. He then took the very useful precautions of ascertaining that no water had entered the barrels and that the balls were still in their places.

"Ay, he has got two lives there," said Pierrot, keeping close to his master; and then, fastening the horses to some chains which hung about the bridge, the whole party advanced toward the building in which the lights were seen. A low and narrow door admitted them to the foot of a small stone stair-case, and, lighted by the blinking lantern, they began to ascend. They had hardly gone half-way up—Edward with one pistol in his belt and the other in his hand—when they heard a clear, merry peal of laughter; and, somewhat hurrying his pace, lest the little candle should go out before they reached the object of their search, the young Englishman reached a little ante-room with a door on the opposite side, through the large key-hole of which a ray of light streamed out upon the floor.

The door was thrown open without ceremony; but the scene which the interior of the large hall or chamber presented was what none of the party expected. Seated round a table, on which were the remains of an abundant meal, with plenty of wine, and sundry papers and maps, was a party of gentlemen, richly dressed, with the exception of one who occupied the top of the board and who was habited as an ecclesiastic. A gentleman on the abbé's right hand was in the very act of speaking with some gesticulation when the door was flung open; but he instantly stopped. The party at the door stopped, also, in much surprise, and each group gazed upon the other for a moment in silence.

CHAPTER XXVII.

"I did not seek you here, my lord," replied Edward, "and, to say truth, if I had known you were here, I should not have come. I was on my way to Aix to join your lordship, according to your commands; but the road is impassable. Some of us have been half drowned; and, though this is a desolate-looking place, we said, 'Any port in a storm.'"

"But who are these gentlemen with you?" asked Lord Montagu, still speaking in French, but running his eye somewhat doubtfully over the group of five persons who had advanced some way from the door.

"Those two," answered Edward, in the same gay tone, which was generally affected by pages of noble houses,—"those two are my servants, or rather your lordship's, the renowned and reformed Pierrot la Grange and the facetious Jacques Beaupré. Those two—the one with the lantern and the other with the hammer—are two respectable blacksmiths and horse-doctors, who have joined themselves on to me and mine and did good service in curing one of my horses. They profess to be Savoyards returning to their own country."

"They shall be welcome," said Lord Montagu, smiling,—"most welcome, for I have no less than five good horses sick of some distemper at Chambéry. But who is the other,—that gentleman who seems half drowned?"

"He was half drowned a few minutes ago, my lord," replied the youth, "and so was I; but he will probably tell you more of himself if you will ask him. His horse leaped with him into the river, and it was a hard matter to get him out."

"I hold it but courteous in these bad times," said Lord Montagu, "to follow the old knightly rule and ask no stranger any questions,—before he has cut your throat; and therefore we will invite him to sup, and leave him to explain himself. He seems a gentleman."

"Yes, my lord," was all Edward's reply; but a very peculiar expression crossed his countenance as he uttered those three words, which, had Lord Montagu seen it, might have caused more inquiry. That nobleman, however, had turned to speak for a moment with the gentlemen who had been seated with him; and he then advanced to the stranger, inviting him courteously to be seated and take some refreshment, and expressing sorrow for the accident which had befallen him. He also bade the other four sit down and eat; and, there being no place for so many at the table, filled as it was, most of those who had already supped rose and gathered together at the end of the board, Edward taking his place amongst them without touching any thing.

Lord Montagu introduced him to the rest in kind terms, saying, "My page and young friend, Monsieur Edward Langdale, Monsieur le Prince de ——, Monsieur le Comte de ——, Monsieur l'Abbé Scaglia, the Duke of Savoy's prime minister. We came here on a little party of pleasure, Ned, and sat long over our cups, in truth, hardly hearing that the storm was still going on. Come, my good youth, sit down and eat. You must be well weary of all the adventures which the fair duchess writes me you have gone through. Eat, boy! eat!"

"Your pardon, my lord," said Edward, gravely: "I will take a cup of wine here standing: that is all. I have much to tell your lordship."

"By-and-by, by-and-by," said Lord Montagu, "we shall have plenty of time and plenty to talk of. Well, drink if you will not eat."

Edward Langdale advanced to the table, filled himself a goblet of wine, and returned with it to Lord Montagu's side. Before he could raise it to his lips, however, the stranger whom he had saved from drowning turned round his head, saying, with a polite smile, "Let me have the pleasure of drinking with you, young gentleman, in memory of the service you rendered me. I do not know your name, though your face is very familiar to me."

A dark cloud gathered upon Edward Langdale's brow, and he answered, not sharply, but with stern, cold bitterness, "I neither eat with you nor drink with you, sir."

The stranger started up with his face all on fire, and exclaimed, with his hand upon the hilt of his sword, "Do you mean to insult me, sir?"

"I mean to tell you, sir," said the youth, boldly, "that I am Edward Langdale,—your father's son; and that you have robbed me of that to which neither he nor you had any right,—my sweet mother's estates."

"Robbed? robbed?" cried Sir Richard Langdale, furiously drawing his sword.

"Ay, robbed,—swindled, if you like it better," said Edward. "Put up your sword, or sheathe it here," he continued, throwing his arms wide open and exposing his chest. "I do not fight with my brother."

The other rushed upon him like a madman.

"What is this? what is this?" cried the Abbé Scaglia, running forward.

"Back, madman!" exclaimed Lord Montagu, seizing Richard Langdale by the collar.

Pierrot la Grange also darted forward and tried to push between. But all were too late. Edward fell to the ground with a heavy fall, and his brother withdrew his sword all dripping with blood.

The burly blacksmith advanced toward him with his hammer raised in the act to strike him on the head, exclaiming, in very good French, "The murdering villain! He has killed the man who saved his life at the risk of his own, not an hour ago!"

But Lord Montagu caught his arm, saying, "Stand back. This must be inquired into by justice. No more slaughter here. Sir, give up your sword! You are a prisoner."

"Aid, all men, to arrest him!" cried the Abbé Scaglia. "I command you in the duke's name!"

Sir Richard Langdale moved not a muscle, but stood gazing at the fallen form of his brother with a face as pale as marble and bloodless lips. Such sudden changes of feeling will often take place in terrible circumstances. When the dreadful deed, prompted by the fierce fire of passion, is once done, we know all its horrors; but not before. The consummation is like the lightning-flash upon a corpse, showing every ghastly feature more livid and frightful from the remorse-like glare that darts across it. Suddenly he started, raised his hands to his head, tearing his long black hair, and exclaiming, "Curse the lands! Curse the riches!"

"Here!" cried Lord Montagu, "take him away, you two. Guard him safely, but do him no hurt. You stout fellow, aid us to raise this poor lad, and let us see if nothing can be done for him. On my life, I would as soon have lost my brother!"

"Let me tend him, sir," said the blacksmith with the lantern: "I have cured many a horse as bad hurt as he; and a horse and a man are much the same thing."

"Not quite," said Lord Montagu, who even at that moment could not altogether resist the joking spirit of his times and his party. "Heaven! how he bleeds! Gentlemen, he was the noblest lad—the promptest with hand and head and heart—I ever saw. Poor Edward! can we do nothing for you?"

As he spoke, they raised the youth and laid him on the table, and the blacksmith tore open his vest. The movement seemed to awaken him a little; and, probably with thoughts far distant, he exclaimed, in a faint voice, "No, never! no, not with life!" But the rough hands stayed not their work; and, after gazing for an instant at his wounded side, the man turned to his companion, saying, "Ivan, run down and bring up the pack, quick! We can stop this bleeding. Do you not see? it does not jerk. Then, if none of the vitals be touched——"

"A hundred crowns if you save him till we can get to Aix," said Lord Montagu.

"I think I can save him altogether," said the man. "The thing is, people will not treat man as if he were a beast; and so they kill him. Man and beast are only flesh, and all flesh is grass."

But it is needless to discuss or to display any further the views and principles of Edward's somewhat rough doctor, or to detail the treatment he underwent. There was the usual amount of bustle and confusion, and the much talking and the recommendation of many remedies which could not be procured and would have done no good if they had been there. Suffice it that the bleeding was soon stayed, and that Edward recovered from the fainting-fit into which the wound, probably penetrating some very sensitive part, had thrown him. The blacksmith by no means wanted mother-wit, and his treatment was probably based upon the sound principle of merely aiding nature. The lad spoke a few words, and they tried to impose silence upon him; but he would not hold his peace till those around assured him that no one had hurt his brother and that he was safe in another chamber.

All Lord Montagu's anxiety seemed to be to get him to Aix; and he went out himself and sent out more than once to see if the storm was over. Luckily for Edward, it continued all night and part of the next morning; I say luckily, for the hands in which he was were probably better calculated to bring about his recovery than any which could have been found in a small town in Savoy, as medical science went in those times.

In the mean while, the party assembled made themselves as comfortable as they could in disagreeable circumstances of many kinds; and the heavy tread of Sir Richard Langdale was heard through the night beating incessantly the floor of the room above. Toward morning that wearisome footfall ceased, and Lord Montagu, who sat by Edward's side and was still awake, said to himself, "That poor wretch has found sleep at length. Now, which is the happiest?—he, or poor Ned here? I would rather be that boy than the man who has killed his own brother. They say that Edward saved his life, too, not an hour before. Very likely! He is fit for any gallant act. Heaven! what must that man's thoughts be?"

Soon after, the Abbé Scaglia roused himself in the corner where he had ensconced him, and, moving quietly up, talked in a low tone for some twenty minutes with Lord Montagu. They then roused the rest of the party who had been supping there, and went down into the court-yard, where they found the horses of Edward Langdale and his companions. Their own were hidden in one of those deep vaults under the great tower which were common in most feudal castles, especially in border-districts, as a safe and silent receptacle of stolen cattle and horses.

Though it was still raining, most of the party mounted and rode away, promising to send up a litter and a surgeon as soon as the road was passable. Lord Montagu himself said he would remain with the poor lad, and reascended to the chamber where he had left him.

All was silent there: the wounded youth had fallen into a sleep which seemed calm, and the two blacksmiths were nodding beside him. The English nobleman then went up to the floor above, where he found Jacques Beaupré asleep across the door, and Pierrot sitting up, but rubbing his eyes as if he had not been long awake.

In answer to the nobleman's questions, Pierrot detailed all that had occurred upon the road, and dwelt upon the gallant conduct of his young master. "He little thought," said the man, "that he was risking his own life to save the very man who would kill him. But I have often heard say that it is unlucky to rescue a man from drowning. As to this man in here, sir, I believe he is mad; for he has been walking about all night,—sometimes talking to himself, sometimes groaning as if his heart would break. I had better wake him, perhaps."

"No, no! Let him sleep if he can," said Lord Montagu, quickly. "Well may he groan! Pray Heaven neither of us may ever have such cause, my man. When you hear him move, get him some wine. There is still some down-stairs. Till then, let him alone. If he sleeps, it is the best thing for him."

Thus saying, he went down again, and, finding every thing as before, approached the window and gazed at the morning light, still pale and blue, spreading up from the mountain-edges into the rainy sky. After about half an hour, Edward turned painfully and asked for some water. His lord gave it to him with a kindly word or two, and the blacksmiths woke up and examined the wound. They seemed satisfied with its appearance, and one of them said, loud enough for Edward to hear, "He will get well, sir."

Oh, what a blessed thing is hope! Those few words were a better balm than any druggist could have supplied. They brought with them, too, the thought of Lucette; and, beckoning to Lord Montagu to hold down his head, he whispered, "If I should die, my lord, I beseech you to write a few lines to the old Marquise de Lagny, to tell her the fact. She will be with the court of France, wherever that may be."

"No, no; you will get well, Ned," said Lord Montagu, in a cheerful tone. "I do not intend to part with you yet. But now you must positively be silent if you would not increase the evil."

Some four or five hours passed. The rain cleared away, the sun broke out, and Lord Montagu looked anxiously from the windows which were turned toward the road, in expectation of the promised litter. All he could see, however, was a large party of Savoyard peasantry working hard, apparently, to remove some obstruction from the highway.

He was still gazing forth, when Pierrot appeared at the door, and, finding all still, beckoned to him.

"My lord," he said, in a low voice, when Montagu had joined him, "I can hear nothing of that man above, nor Jacques either. He could not get out of the windows; and I should not wonder if he has hanged himself."

Lord Montagu started and instantly ran up-stairs, thinking the conclusion at which Pierrot had jumped not at all improbable. He opened the door gently and looked around. The sun was shining full into the room, but Sir Richard Langdale was not there. The only thing that could indicate the mode of his escape was a pair of large riding-boots, very wet, which lay on the floor; and it is probable that, opening the door cautiously while the two men were asleep, he had stepped lightly over them and then gone down the stairs.

"What a thing is the love of life!" thought Lord Montagu. "This man would rather live miserable than risk the grave. However, I cannot be sorry; and I believe poor Ned will be glad."