CHAPTER XIX.

THE SACK OF ST. SOLIDORE.

Like all who are so subordinate in rank, we fell in and formed, in total ignorance of where we were going, or what we were to do; who we were to attack, or by whom we might be attacked; and, perhaps, not caring much about the matter, provided we were to do something.

In the dusk the roll was called; the troop "proved" and formed in column with the other light troops under Elliot, the future "Cock of the Rock." We loaded our carbines and pistols, and then the order was given—

"Threes right—forward—trot!" and away we went.

Though we had been imbibing only French wine, we three comrades were not in a very reputable condition; but, fortunately, this could not be perceived in the twilight; though Charters was unusually lively, and my skill was frequently tested, as I was generally the flanker of a squadron, being completely master of my horse.

In the leading section of three, there was a gigantic trooper before us, named Hob Elliot.

"By Jove, Hob, what a noble pair of shoulders you have!" said Charters, as we trotted on; "what a mark your back will be for our friends the French!"

"If they ever see it," growled the Borderer, for he was a Liddesdale man.

"Bravo, Gauntlet," hiccupped Charters, then turning to me; "head up, and thumb on the bridle—you have quite the air of a soldier!"

"I always study to be what I wish to seem," said I.

"So said Socrates," added Tom Kirkton, remembering his classics.

"Ugh! he quotes Socrates on the line of march."

"Well," rejoined Tom; "he was a private soldier like ourselves, and saved the life of Xenophon."

"Be silent, my lads," said Captain Lindsay; "we have work in hand that requires you to be so."

As we quitted our bivouac, I was more than ever struck with its picturesque aspect. Some regiments of infantry (among them the 8th, 20th, and 25th), which had not yet been ordered under arms, were lying around their watchfires in a green clover field. These fires could not have been less than ninety or a hundred in number, and their united glare fell redly on the sunburned faces and scarlet uniforms of the scattered groups who sat around them; on the lines of those who lay asleep with their knapsacks for pillows; on the long rows of muskets, piled with bayonets fixed, and on the silk colours, that drooped before the guarded tent of each commanding officer.

Beyond these were the dark figures of the active artillery, limbering up, tracing their horses to the field guns, and preparing for immediate service; and as fresh fuel was cast on those watchfires, and the weird light flared up anew, it brought out in strong relief objects at a greater distance; trees and rocks were visible for a time, and then, as the flame wavered and sunk, they faded into obscurity. Add to all this, that the night was intensely dark, and the atmosphere dense and sulphury.

Nor moon nor star were visible; the wind was still, and the flames of the crackling watchfires burned steadily and high.

"Where are we going—what are we to be about?" we now inquired of each other as we rode on; and ere long, from mouth to mouth, as the staff officers, perhaps, unwisely informed those commanding troops, and these, in turn their subs, we learned that the Duke of Marlborough had, during the day, reconnoitred the harbour and suburbs of St. Malo, with the shipping and government stores, and had resolved on their destruction; so we were now to cover the advance of a body of infantry and artillery who were to perform this duty, with shot, shell, and hand grenades.

While advancing, I overheard Captain Lindsay say to Cornet Keith of ours—

"Marlborough has heard that the youngest and favourite daughter of the Marshal de Broglie, who now commands in Germany, resides in a chateau near St. Malo; and he thinks she would prove an important capture."

"Nay—pshaw—zounds, gallantry forbid!" responded the cornet, who was carrying the standard.

"I heard him say he would give a hundred and fifty guineas for her," continued Lindsay.

"For what purpose?" asked Keith, laughing.

"To send to London as a trophy, like the brass guns we hope to take at Cherbourg."

"A sorry capture, unless the girl is beautiful."

After proceeding about half a mile, our troop was ordered to press forward to the front, while the others reined up; then, as the artillery halted, and the deep hollow rumbling of the wheels and shot-laden tumbrils ceased, we could hear the flowing tide chafing in the dark on the bluff rocks of St. Malo, and, ere long, we saw the red lights that twinkled in its streets and fortress which towered above the ocean.

Girt as it was by deep waves and lofty walls, "the city of the corsairs," as some one names it, was secure from us then; so we rode on till we reached an open space, when the order came to form line on the leading section, and then the whizz, whizz, whizzing of balls, together with the rapid flashing of carbines in front, announced that the foe was before us.

My temples throbbed; there was a wild glow in my heart, and then an emotion of terror, as a bullet struck me fairly in the centre of the breast, above my pouch belt. For an instant I thought it was through me, and breathlessly dropped my reins; then, instinctively, I placed my hand within my coat, and expecting to find it covered with blood, drew forth—what? Aurora's handkerchief. It had saved me from the ball, which pierced my coat, though half spent.

I pressed it to my parched lips in gratitude; and perfume was lingering about it still. I had scarcely replaced it and recovered my equanimity, when I heard the clear, firm voice of Captain Lindsay, as he rode to the front, with young Keith by his side, carrying the standard advanced.

"Cavalry are before us, and we must clear the way. March—trot! keep your horses well in hand—press on by leg and spur!"

We advanced, with drawn swords, the troop riding on, boot to boot, and thigh to thigh—moving like a living wall. Then rapidly followed the words—

"Gallop—charge!" mingling with the sharp blast of the trumpet, and totally ignorant of what was amid the darkness in our front, whether a column of cavalry, a yawning chasm, or a stone rampart, we rushed blindly and furiously on with a loud and ringing cheer.

We charged with tremendous force, and in the heat, hurry, and confusion of such a moment, performed at racing speed, I sat in my saddle and guided my horse with a combined coolness and steadiness that certainly resulted from mere instinct or force of habit, rather than reason. I felt as in a dream, till suddenly, out of the darkness in front, there came before me a line of horses' heads, with another line of human faces, and uplifted swords above them. Then there was a wild crash, as if the earth had opened, when horse and man went tumbling under us, as we swept over the enemy, cutting and treading them down.

"Tuè! Tuè!" cried they; "St. Malo for Brittany!" But their provincial patron availed them not.

They proved to be a mere handful of hussars, led by the Chevalier de Boisguiller, who was nearly killed by the sword of Charters; but escaped by having an iron calotte cap within his fur cap. We lost only three men in this charge; but found nine of the enemy lying dead on the ground next day.

In vain the Chevalier, an officer of the most romantic courage, endeavoured to rally his men.

"En avant, mes camarades—Mes enfans, en avant!" we heard him shout, while brandishing his sabre; "Voilà—voilà, c'est la voye à l'honneur, à la gloire, à la victoire! Vive le Roi!"

As they fled there was no pursuit, for the trumpet sounded to recal stragglers.

Then we reformed line and wheeled back, to permit the infantry and artillery to pass to the front. After this, our orders were simply to guard and patrol the approaches to St. Solidore, against which our comrades on foot commenced the most active operations.

I have no intention of detailing the whole of these, nor could I do so, perhaps, if willing; but never shall I forget the splendour of the terrible scene which ensued, when the fires of destruction spread along the suburbs of St. Solidore and St. Servand, and all around the harbour of St. Malo.

Through the dark sky we saw the shells fired by our artillery describing long arcs of light, and bursting like fiery stars or flaming comets among the rigging of the ships in the basin, or on the roofs of the stores and houses on the quay. Then the shrieks and cries of the fugitive people came towards us through the still night air, together with the incessant explosion of the hand grenades, which our grenadiers, as they advanced alongside the ships, threw point blank on their decks, and down the open hatchways.

The most deadly missiles were the anchor balls, fired by our artillery.

These were filled with powder, saltpetre, sulphur, resin, and turpentine, and had an iron bar, one half of which was within and the other outside the shell. The latter half was armed with a grappling-hook, which caught the rigging of the ships, or the walls or roofs of houses, as the heaviest end flew foremost, and by these chiefly the whole place was soon sheeted with flaming pyramids, amid which we saw walls crumbling and descending, and masts and yards disappearing amid mountains of sparks and burning brands, while torrents of red fire poured from every door and window round the whole circle of the harbour.

The sky was full of red clouds and sheets of red sparks; the harbour and the bay beyond were all ruddied, as if changed to port wine, and the whole air became filled with roaring flame.

High over all this towered St. Malo on its rock, and on its embattled walls, its gothic spires and storm-beaten cliffs, redly fell the glare of destruction; while at times we heard the barking of the watch dogs, and could see the gleam of arms along the ramparts, for every citizen was in harness, and from mouth to mouth went the cry.

"St. Malo for Brittany! the women to their homes, and the men to their muskets!"

But, though they knew it not, we had no idea then of assailing a place so strong by art and nature.

The naval storehouses, full of sails, ropes, tar, pitch, oil, paint and powder, blazed the whole night, exhibiting every variety of prismatic colours, but ere morning, ships, houses, and magazines were all confounded in one mass of charred and blackened ashes.

We destroyed in the docks and in the harbour thirteen vessels of war, mounting two hundred and thirty-four guns, with seventy-three merchant ships, and £800,000 worth of property, after which we retired with the loss of only twelve men, three of whom were seamen, killed by a single random shot from St. Malo.

During this wild scene, there was something singular, almost touching, in the terror of the poor birds, when the air became alive with soaring and bursting shells, with showers of shot, thick with smoke, laden with the booming of the ordnance and the ceaseless roar of the conflagration.

Crows, larks, pigeons, and sparrows seemed to become paralysed by fear; they fluttered, panted, and grovelled among the long grass and under the hedgerows, in some instances crouching and hiding themselves in little coveys close to the dead and wounded Hussars (who lay where we had charged), as if to rebuke the spirit in man that made of earth a hell!

And so thought I, when weary, wan, and pale, I retired with the troop towards our camp on the hills of Paramé.

CHAPTER XX.

AN EPISODE.

As the column of light cavalry wheeled off by sections to return to the camp and bivouac, a staff officer who was riding hurriedly past in the dark addressed me—

"Young man," said he, "do you see those lights twinkling in the hollow yonder?"

"Yes, sir; the port fires of the artillery."

"Exactly; ride with all speed to the officer commanding the brigade of guns, and say it is the order of General Elliot that he falls back at once towards the hills of Paramé."

I bowed, for the speaker was the general in person.

To execute this order, I had to ride nearly a mile to the rear, skirting the wide stretch of sand that lies between St. Malo and St. Servand. The morning was still quite dark, and the fires yet smouldered redly in the dockyards and harbour, while a heavy smoke and odour of burning loaded the air, which was very still and oppressive.

I rode towards the place, where the matches of the artillery shone brilliantly; but I had scarcely reached the flank of the brigade, when the whole force got into motion at a rapid trot, the gunners on their seats, and the drivers plying well their whips, as they wheeled off towards the hills with a tremendous noise, chains, shot, rammers, spunges, and buckets all swinging and clattering. Thus I had no occasion to deliver the anticipated orders of General Elliot; but as the artillerymen were driving with such fury, I reined up to let them pass, and followed leisurely in their rear.

Day was now beginning to break, and the summits of the hills and the spires of the city of St. Malo—in the dark ages the abode of saints, in more modern times the asylum of criminals—were brightening in the ruddy gloom; but smoke hung like a sombre pall over all the harbour below.

From time to time I could hear in the distance the hollow bay of the fierce dogs which watched the city walls, a custom that was not abolished until 1770, when one night they tore to pieces and devoured a naval officer.

The sound of water plashing by the wayside drew my horse towards it. The poor animal was thirsty after the long and weary patrol duty of the past night. The stream poured from a rock, and through a moss-green wooden duct fell into the stone basin of a wayside well, and there, while my horse drunk long and thirstily, I heard the rumble of the artillery as they passed away among the echoing mountains and I was left alone in the rear.

By the roadside near the fountain, there grew a dense thicket of mulberry trees and wild broom-bushes, from amid which—just as I was turning my horse to ride off—there rung a half-stifled cry, followed by a fierce and very unmistakeable malediction in French—for that language, and not the old Armoric, is spoken by the Bretons of Dol and St. Malo.

Supposing that some unfortunate English straggler or wounded man might be lying there at the mercy of some of the enemy, I drew a pistol from my holsters and dismounted. My horse was so well trained, that I knew he would remain where I left him, while penetrating into the thicket. The gloom of the latter was excessive, but day was breaking, and a faint light stole between the slender stems of the trees.

Two figures now appeared—those of a man and woman. Having come close upon them unobserved, I now shrunk behind a bush to watch. The woman was on her knees, and her left shoulder reclined against the root of a tree; her whole attitude indicated weariness or despair, or both together. Her hands were tied with a scarf or handkerchief, and her dark hair hung over her face so as to conceal her features entirely. Close by her, and with one hand resting against the same tree, the man stood erect, but looking down, and surveying her with some solicitude, or at least with interest. He wore a peasant's frock of blue linen, girt at the waist by a belt with a square buckle. He was armed with a small hatchet and couteau de chasse, and carried in his right hand a knotted cudgel.

They were quite silent; at least I heard only from time to time the half-stifled sobs of the female.

"Here is some mystery or premeditated mischief," thought I; "let me watch warily."

At last the woman said faintly—

"Release me!"

The man uttered a growling guttural laugh.

"Release me, I implore you!" she continued in a voice of great softness and pathos.

"For the hundredth time you have thus implored me, mademoiselle, and for the hundredth time I reply—never."

"My father——"

"Tonnerre de Ciel! don't speak to me of your father," said the man, grinding his teeth; "I was an honest woodcutter in the Black Forest of Hunandaye till he ruined me."

"Impossible! my good father is incapable of such a thing."

"Nothing is impossible to dukes and peers of France, who have the Bastille and the dungeons of their own chateaux at their command."

"But he ruined you? Alas! how?"

"By permitting his nephew—the Comte de Bourgneuf—to carry off my sister; and because I resented the act, he had my cottage demolished, my mother driven into the forest where she was devoured by wolves, and myself he chained to work like a felon on the roads and ramparts of St. Malo and the aqueducts at Dol."

"Alas! monsieur, I swear to you that my father was blameless in all this, and even were it not so, why are you so merciless to me—why make me thus your prisoner?"

"Because you are beautiful," said the fellow, with a grating laugh. "Despite these wrongs, I risked my life for France, or rather for French gold. I have been at the bottom of the sea, pardieu! and am now on firm land. I have been dead, and am come alive again! Ha! ha! Bourgneuf carried off my sister. I carry off you—chacun à son gout—(every man to his taste.")

"Ah! have mercy. See how I weep."

"Of course; weeping is a complaint that is very common among women. The count took my sister to Paris, and she was never heard of again. I shall take you to the Black Forest of Hunandaye, and never shall you be heard of either, unless your friends are rash enough to seek you in the subterranean torrent of St. Aubin du Cormier."

"This fellow is mad; but whether mad or not, I must save the poor girl at all hazards," thought I, while shaking the priming in the pan of my holster pistol.

"Have you no dread of punishment, for thus daring to molest me?" demanded the lady.

"No. Neither here nor hereafter. You shall live with me in the forest, and when tired of you——"

"I shall escape and proclaim you."

"Pardieu! you won't, my beauty; because I shall kill you, and your disappearance will, like the king's ships, be set down to the score of these pestilent English, who have come hither to turn our Brittany upside down. Besides, who knows that I have carried you off?"

"And you will kill me—I, who never harmed you in thought, in word, or deed?" said she, with a shudder.

"Yes," he hissed through his clenched teeth.

"Oh, horror! Will no one rescue me?"

"Oui! Sacré! Kill you quietly and secretly, even as I killed quietly and surely the English captain of the Chevaux Legers in the wood near Cancalle yesterday."

I started on hearing this, for the assassin of poor Captain Brook of the 11th was now covered by the muzzle of my weapon. The speaker was a tall, rawboned fellow, whose form exhibited great strength and stature; he had a shambling gait, and a dirty visage of a very bilious complexion. His hair was black and shaggy; he had dark lacklustre eyes and large, fierce, blubberlike lips, yellowed as his broken fangs were by coarse tobacco juice. I had somewhere before seen this hideous face, the features of which gradually came to view as the increasing light stole gradually through the mulberry wood. How was it that this countenance, so pale and repulsive, the forehead which receded like that of a hound, the immense frontal bones, and the square jaw like that of a tiger, were in some sort not unfamiliar to me?

Though torn and in wild disorder, the dress of his prisoner, grey silk brocaded with white, evinced that she was of some rank, and her arms, which her tattered sleeves displayed almost to the shoulder, were beautiful in form and of exceeding delicacy.

"Nombril de Belzebub!" said he, suddenly, as he ground his teeth. "Come, come, we've had enough of this. Let us begone, lest those English wolves return."

Then the girl uttered a pitiful cry, as his huge knotty hand grasped her slender wrists.

"Kill me now!" she implored; "for mercy's sake, kill me now!"

"By no means, my beauty—you must first see the black dingles of Hunandaye. I may kiss you as often as you please, but as for killing, until I weary of you, pardieu! there is no chance of that."

He was now proceeding to drag her along the ground, when I rushed forward, and by a blow of my sword, felled the savage to the ground. A small cap of thick fur which he wore saved him from being cut, but not from the weight of a stunning blow.

With a dreadful Breton oath he leaped up, and with uplifted cudgel was springing on me, when on seeing my levelled pistol he paused and shrunk back, with a terrible expression of baffled rage and ferocity in his eyes.

Judge then of my astonishment on recognising in this hideous fellow the pretended French deserter, the spy, Theophile Damien or Hautois, whom I had met at Portsmouth—whom I had seen run up to the yardarm of the Essex, and from thence consigned to the deep with a cold thirty-two pound shot at his heels!

CHAPTER XXI.

JACQUELINE.

Had this man a charmed life? was he a vampire, a devil, or what? thought I, as we surveyed each other, and I have no doubt he recognised me, as he had seen me thrice before. I released the lady's hands from the handkerchief which bound them, and then raised her from the ground.

Hautois again lifted his bludgeon menacingly, but lowered it when I levelled my pistol straight at his head.

"Pass on, fellow—begone," said I, "or I shall pistol you without mercy. After our work last night, you cannot imagine that taking a Frenchman's life—especially yours—is a matter of much importance to me."

"Sangdieu!" he growled, "what business have you to interfere here?"

"Business—rascal!"

"Yes—this woman is my wife, who wishes to run away from me."

"Oh, horror! oh, absurdity!" exclaimed the young lady, as she gathered her dark hair back from her face with her pretty hands, and shrunk close to me.

"Sangdieu—yes, my wife, I tell you," shouted the fellow, with a hand on the couteau de chasse in his girdle; but I replied—

"I have overheard enough to prove that you lie, villain; so begone at once, I say, or be punished as you deserve. Come, madam, permit me to assist you; my horse is close by, and from our camp at Paramé you shall have a safe escort to your home."

She took my proffered hand with a very mingled or doubtful expression of face, for I was a stranger, a soldier, an enemy; but she had only a choice of evils, and knew that probably she could not fall into worse hands than those from which I took her. Then as I was leading her away, with her dark eyes fixed in terror and aversion on Hautois, she uttered a shrill cry which made me start and turn round; and I did so just in time to escape a deadly thrust aimed at my back. Indeed, the sharp blade of the couteau de chasse passed through my coat, grazing my left ribs, and almost severing my buff waist-belt.

Exasperated by this, I resolved to pistol the ruffian at once, and shot him through the jaws. On this, he fell on his face, wallowing in blood, and rolled among the long grass, with his hands pressed upon the wound in each cheek. The wretch was only wounded, however, not killed. The girl whom I had rescued was fainting with terror at this scene, so I hurried her off to where my horse still stood quietly by the wayside well.

Day had completely broken now, and I could perceive that my fair companion was undoubtedly a young lady of great beauty and polished manners. She was ghastly pale, doubtless with the terrors of the past night, and the extreme darkness of her hair and eyes served but to increase, by contrast, the pallor of her complexion. Her hands, which were without gloves, proved her high breeding and delicate nurture, by their charming form and whiteness. The morning air was chill and damp, for the dews of night yet gemmed every leaf and blade of grass; and she shuddered with cold or fear, for she was without a head-dress, and her general attire was rather thin and scanty.

"You will permit me," said I, taking the cloak from my saddle and wrapping it round her; "and now say, to where can I escort you?"

"Not to the British camp, if possible, I pray you," she replied, while beginning to weep freely.

"I dare not be absent long," said I; "my duty leads me there, and by straggling, or loitering here——"

"True—true, ah, mon Dieu! how selfish of me! you risk your life, perhaps, at the hands of our exasperated peasantry."

"Madam, I risk my life daily for a trooper's pay," said I, smiling: "so freely may I peril it for one so—so lovely as you."

She coloured at this reply, and drew back, on which I added, with a low bow, while my cheek reddened also—

"Pardon me—I forget myself."

"This is not the bearing or the language of an English private soldier," said she, approaching me again, placing her pretty hand upon my arm, and looking pleadingly in my face.

"Madam, though but a simple soldat—un Ecossais Gris, I am a gentleman, and have never done aught to disgrace my name."

"Then you will protect me, sir, will you not?"

"As I have already done, at the peril of my life."

"And not take me to the camp?"

"Not if safer shelter can be found."

"Even if I tell you who I am?" she continued, with a proud smile.

"Yes; but who——"

"I am the daughter of a French soldier."

"Thus you have an additional claim on my honour, madam."

"Mademoiselle—I am unmarried," she urged, with the faintest approach to coquetry in her dark eyes.

"And the daughter of a soldier, say you?"

"Le Maréchal Duc de Broglie."

"Who now commands in Germany?" I continued, with growing interest.

"The same, monsieur."

The scrap of conversation I had overheard between Captain Lindsay and Cornet Keith, during the night march, now flashed upon my memory.

"Pray tell no one else who you are," said I, hurriedly, while looking around me.

"Pourquoi, monsieur?" she asked, with almost hauteur.

"Because I heard an officer of rank say, that he would give a hundred and fifty English guineas to have you taken prisoner, and sent to London as a trophy."

She trembled and shrunk back on hearing this, lifting up her white hands deprecatingly.

"Oh be not alarmed, Mademoiselle de Broglie," said I, "for I would rather die than betray you."

"And how much may this reward be in French money?"

"About two thousand livres."

"Two thousand livres," she exclaimed, with a haughty laugh and a flashing eye; "they hold me cheap, indeed, who offer this!"

"Pardon me, mademoiselle," said I, anxiously, "but I have no time to lose in having you conveyed to a place of safety. If absent from morning roll call, my punishment will not be slight. The peasantry have all fled inland——"

"But surely in some farmhouse or cottage I may find shelter."

"How comes it to pass the ruffian Hautois is still alive?" I asked, as we walked along the road with the bridle of my horse over my arm. "He was cast into the sea from the yard-arm of our commodore's ship, with a cannon shot at his heels."

"From which the shot parted, by the rope giving way, as he sank into the water."

"Parted?"

"Oui, monsieur; so he told me; and thereupon he immediately rose to the surface and swam to the shore, while his less fortunate companion was instantly drowned."

"And how came you to be in his power? pardon my curiosity."

"It is most natural; I shall tell you, monsieur. Fearing that the province was to be overrun by your troops, we left our Chateau of Bourgneuf——"

"We, mademoiselle?"

"My aunt, Madame de Bourgneuf, and myself, to take shelter in the city of St. Malo; but our carriage arrived at St. Solidore too late last night, and Captain de Boisguiller, commandant of the redoubt at Cancalle——"

"Ah, that little redoubt cost us some trouble."

"Gave us his own residence. You know what ensued. Cannon shot fell through the roof of the house, on which my aunt, our servants, and I rushed forth into the streets, and were separated by a crowd of terrified fugitives. Ignorant alike whither to turn my steps, or where to seek shelter, while shells were bursting, flaming rockets and hand-grenades flying about in every direction, I rushed into a lonely alley, where I met a man who, by his attire, seemed to be one of our Breton peasantry—a woodcutter; but ah, mon Dieu! he proved to be that wretch, Theophile Hautois. Politely enough he offered to conduct me to a place of safety, and led me from St. Solidore, away out into the fields, where the country was open and lonely. There he spoke of love, and attempted to kiss and caress me; but I resisted, though sinking with terror, and struck him in the face with my clenched hand. Then he grew enraged, and tying my wrists, dragged me into that mulberry grove, where heaven surely sent you to my rescue."

"I am, indeed, most fortunate in having been of such service to you, mademoiselle; and I shall ever remember with pride that I have seen and had the honour of speaking with a daughter of the great Marshal de Broglie, the hero of Sangerhausen."

She bowed and coloured with pleasure; but when the sound of wheels was heard, she clasped her hands and exclaimed—

"Ah, mon Dieu, how fortunate! Now, my kind friend, you shall be relieved of all further trouble with me, for here comes good and kind Father Celestine, le Curé of St. Solidore."

While she spoke, a désobligeant (as those small chaises which hold only one person are not incorrectly named in France) was driven rapidly along the road; but the driver pulled up when my companion called to him by name:

"Jacquot—Jacquot Tricot—where is M. le Curé?"

"Here, mademoiselle. Oh, Clementissime Jesu! what has happened? how are you here?—who is this man?—why in such company? and who has dared—what has he done to you? my dear child, Jacqueline, what is the meaning of all this?" cried an old gentleman, all in a breath, as he opened the door of the désobligeant and sprang agilely out. As he approached us, hat in hand, and bowing low at every pace, I could see that he was a fine looking old man—a priest, evidently, as he wore a black silk soutan, with at least fifty little buttons in front; he wore also a tippet and small gold cross, and had his white hair tied behind by a black ribbon. His pale countenance was mild and pleasing, though he surveyed me with an expression of eye which evinced that he had no particular desire to cultivate my acquaintance; and maitre Jacquot from his box regarded me with undisguised animosity and alarm.

"Ah, dearest Père Celestine," said the young lady, clasping his proffered hand between both of hers, "I have been saved from great peril by this kind soldier; but take me away with you—oh, take me away—and I shall tell you all about it."

"Kind—ha—hum. Monsieur le Soldat, I thank you," said the Curé, making a bow so profound, that a cloud of hair-powder flew about his head, and his little cocked hat, which he was too polite to assume before a lady, swept the road in his right hand; "from my soul I thank you, for Mademoiselle Jacqueline is my dearest child."

"Have I the honour of addressing——" I began, for this phraseology bewildered me.

"Le Père Celestine," said Mademoiselle de Broglie; "so I am now in perfect safety, thanks to your kindness and courage, monsieur; and now permit me to offer you that reward which any soldier may accept without reproach."

She drew a ring from her finger, and placed it in my hand, saying, with a bright coquettish smile—

"There is a language of precious stones, as well as of beautiful flowers, and if learned in such matters, you will know what this gem is significant of."

The old clergyman waved his hat, and laughed with great good humour, while the graceful girl bowed to me again and again as he handed her into the dèsobligeant and shut the door. The Curé then placed his hat on his head, for the first time during our interview, and with true French gallantry sprang on the narrow footboard behind his little carriage, which was rapidly driven off, Jacquot evincing, by his lavish use of the whip, his desire to place as great a distance as possible between himself and me.

The whole affair was like a dream. I placed the ring on my smallest finger, and thought with delight of the lovely little hand from which it had just been drawn. I gave a lingering glance after the fast-retreating dèsobligeant, which was bowling along the road towards the ruined village of St. Solidore, and then, springing into my saddle, galloped in the direction of our camp, the white tents of which were shining in the rising sun, as they dotted the southern slope of the hills of Paramé.

The stone was a fine emerald.

"Of what is it significant?" thought I, remembering her words and her charming smile.

Charters, whom I met with three mounted Greys, coming in search of me, by order of the adjutant, told me that, "according to an old superstition, the emerald was supposed to ensure success in love."

Be that as it may, this gift of Jacqueline de Broglie has yet an important part to play in the story of my adventures.

END OF VOL. I.

LONDON:
SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS,
CHANDOS-STREET.