SECOND TO NONE.


  A Military Romance.



  BY

  JAMES GRANT,

  AUTHOR OF
  "THE ROMANCE OF WAR," "THE CAPTAIN OF THE GUARD,"
  "THE YELLOW FRIGATE," ETC. ETC.



  IN THREE VOLUMES.

  VOL. III.



  LONDON:
  ROUTLEDGE, WARNE, AND ROUTLEDGE,
  BROADWAY, LUDGATE HILL.
  NEW YORK: 129, GRAND STREET.

  1864.




  CONTENTS

  OF

  THE THIRD VOLUME.

  CHAP.

  I. WE TAKE THE FIELD AGAIN
  II. THE TWO PRESENTIMENTS
  III. BATTLE OF MINDEN
  IV. PRINCE XAVIER OF SAXONY
  V. THE BRIDGE OF FREYENTHAL
  VI. LES VOLONTAIRES DE CLERMONT
  VII. THE DUC DE BROGLIE
  VIII. AN OLD FRIEND ARRIVES
  IX. MONJOY
  X. THE STORY OF MONJOY
  XI. A SAD CONCLUSION
  XII. THE FROZEN FORD
  XIII. LAST OF THE EMERALD RING
  XIV. THE WHISPERED ORDER
  XV. THE DEAD HUSSAR
  XVI. ARNAUD DE PRICORBIN
  XVII. THE HEIGHTS OF CORBACH
  XVIII. A NIGHT ATTACK
  XIX. IN LONDON AGAIN
  XX. THE DRAWING-ROOM
  XXI. COUSIN AURORA
  XXII. THE LAST




SECOND TO NONE.



CHAPTER I.

WE TAKE THE FIELD AGAIN.

While we were in quarters at Paderborn, a mixed detachment (composed
of men for various corps) arrived to join the army, and with it came
Major Shirley, looking quite the same as when I had seen him last, on
the morning we marched from Wadhurst--his uniform new and spotless,
his aiguilettes glittering, his wellfitting gloves of the whitest
kid, above which he wore pearl rings; his hair curled and perfumed,
with his handsome figure, suave and courtly bearing, his sinister and
unfathomable smile.

He was one of those lucky fellows who have mysterious interest
(feminine probably) at head-quarters, and who, whether at home or
abroad, are always on the staff, and never with their regiments; thus
he had been appointed extra aide-de-camp to Lord George Sackville,
and thus we chanced to meet on the day of his arrival at an old
windmill which did duty as a staff-office for the British
head-quarters.

"Did you see my cousin, Miss Gauntlet, before leaving England?" I
inquired, though in reality caring little whether he had or not.

"Oh yes, frequently--especially when I was last in London; she is the
reigning toast at White's and elsewhere."

"She was well, I hope?" said I, dryly.

"Well, and looking beautiful as ever."

"Did she charge you with any message to me?"

"None, Sir Basil.  Zounds! none, at least, that I can remember,"
replied the major, colouring.

"Is there any word of her being married yet?" I asked, having a
natural anxiety to know _who_ might next be proprietor of my paternal
acres.  "So handsome a girl, and so rich, too, should certainly not
lack offers."

"Nor does she, 'sdeath--nor does she." replied Shirley, as a shade of
vexation mingled with his perpetual smile.

"Aha, major," thought I; "an unsuccessful wooer--eh!"--"And so you
have no message for me?"

"None; but I have just delivered one of more importance than that of
a London belle--one for the army."

"Indeed!"

"Yes; we are to take the field at once, and advance into Hesse."

"Against whom?"

"The Duc de Broglie."

On hearing this, to me, familiar name, it was my turn to feel a tinge
of vexation.

"Our muster-place is Fulda; there the allies are to be concentrated;"
and with his constant smile which showed all his white teeth, with
his gold eyeglass in his right eye, and his gilt spurs ringing, our
gay staff-officer left me.

As it is my object to confine these pages as much as possible to my
own adventures, avoiding anything like a general narrative of the
war, the reader may learn briefly, that when summoned to the field,
the Scots Greys marched to Hesse, "through roads which--as our
records have it--no army had ever traversed before," and encamped at
Rothenburg, in a pleasant vale, sheltered by high hills.

In April we moved to Fulda, from whence Prince Ferdinand began to
advance at the head of thirty thousand men against the Duc de
Broglie, whom we found strongly posted near the village of Bergen,
which occupies a wooded eminence between Frankfort and Hanover.  This
village was defended by earthen works, along which were rows of
_corbeilles_, as the French name those large baskets which, on being
filled with earth, are placed close to each other, and serve to cover
the defenders of a bastion.  They are usually eighteen inches high,
and are always wider at the top than at the bottom; thus the opening
between forms a species of loophole, and through these apertures the
red musketry was flashing incessantly as we came within range.

On the 13th of April we attacked the duke.

Early in the morning our corps took post in the line of battle; but
it was not till ten a.m. that the columns of attack moved across the
plain in front of the French army, whose artillery bowled long and
bloody lanes through them.

"Preston," said Major Maitland, as we formed squadrons to attack a
body of cavalry; "that column consists of at least fifteen hundred
tried men, under the Count de Lusignan, and you have but five
hundred----"

"True--but mine are _tried soldiers_," was the old man's proud reply;
"soldiers _second to none_ in Europe."

These were no vain words, for in less than two minutes, by one
desperate charge, we had routed them.

The grenadiers of all corps had commenced the action, supported by us
and other dragoons, but were repulsed.  They rallied again, but were
again driven back and forced to retire, under cover of several
charges made by us and by the Black Hussars of Prussia.

"Well done, my own hussars--and well done the Scots Greys!" cried
Prince Ferdinand, as we re-formed after a furious charge, without
having a saddle emptied.  "Colonel Preston, you ought to be proud of
commanding such a regiment."

"_I am_ proud," was the quiet reply of our old colonel.

In all this affair, our only loss was a single horse--mine, which was
killed under me by a six-pound shot; but Prince Ferdinand was
compelled to fall back, leaving five guns on the field, where the
Prince of Ysembourg and two thousand of our soldiers were slain.

By this victory the French army was plentifully supplied with
provisions of every kind, while we suffered greatly by the lack of
food and forage.  By it, also, their armies formed a junction and
advanced together under the command of Maréchal de Contades, while
Prince Ferdinand, with his British and Hanoverians, had to retire,
leaving garrisons in Rothenburg, Munster, and Minden, to cover his
retreat.

But vain were these precautions!

Rothenburg was surprised by the Duc de Broglie; his brother the Count
de Broglie, and his nephew the Count de Bourgneuf, "with sixteen
companies of grenadiers, one thousand four hundred infantry, the
regiments of Schomberg, Nassau and Fischer," took Minden by assault,
and found therein ninety-four thousand sacks of grain.  Then Munster,
though bravely defended by four thousand men, fell after a short but
sharp siege.  It was severely, I may say savagely, proposed by de
Bourgneuf, to put all in Minden to the sword, on the plea that the
garrison of a place taken by assault had no right to be received as
prisoners of war; "but," as a newspaper informs us, "General Zastrow
and his men owed their safety to the noble generosity of the Duke and
Count de Broglie."

Considering the conquest of Hanover as certain, the court of
Versailles was now occupied mainly by considering how that Electorate
should be secured to France for the future, when we advanced to have
a trial of strength with their armies on the glorious, and, to us,
ever memorable plains of Minden.

Prior to this, my friend Tom Kirkton had been promoted to the rank of
cornet and adjutant, for taking prisoner with his own hand, during
our first charge at Bergen, the Comte de Lusignan, a Maréchal de Camp.




CHAPTER II.

THE TWO PRESENTIMENTS.

On the night before the action at Minden, while we were bivouacked in
a wood near the bank of the Weser, there came under my observation
two instances of that remarkable and undefinable emotion or
foreboding termed presentiment; and I believe there are few men who
have served a campaign without meeting with something of the kind
among their comrades, though the dire foreboding may not always have
been fulfilled.

One of these instances was the case of Lieutenant Keith of ours; the
other was that of the aide-de-camp, Major Shirley.

Under a sheltering tree, and near a large watchfire, a few of our
officers, among whom were Captain Douglas, Keith, Tom Kirkton, Dr.
Probe, and myself, were making themselves as comfortable as our poor
circumstances would admit.  We had plenty of wine from the regimental
sutler, "whose princely confidence" Kirkton ironically urged us not
to abuse; we had plenty of brandy captured from a French caisson; we
had water in plenty from a stream hard by; we had ration beef boiled
in camp kettles; we had biscuits too; nor was Tom's usual song
wanting on the occasion, and he trolled it so lustily that many of
our men loitered near to hear him.

We were in high spirits with the expectation of meeting the French in
the morning; young Keith alone was sad, melancholy, and silent, and
it seemed to me that he drank deeply, an unusual circumstance with
him.  Then suddenly he appeared to reflect, and ceasing his
potations, resolutely passed alike the wine-jar and the cognac bottle.

"Are you ill, Keith?" asked Douglas, kindly.

"Not a bit of it," interrupted Tom Kirkton; "it is only the
Westphalia wine that partially disagrees with him.  Is it not so,
friend Probe?  Try some more brandy.  I took it from a French baggage
cart; 'tis the spoil of my sword and pistol.  Come, Jamie Keith--

  "How stands the glass around?
    For shame, ye take no care, my boys!"


But Keith shook his head and turned away.

"Pshaw, boy! don't imitate any virtue of the Spartans to-night," said
Probe, our surgeon; "who can say that we shall all be together at
this hour to-morrow?"

"Ah, who indeed!" muttered young Keith, with an air so melancholy
that we all paused to observe him.

"Look at me, Keith," said Captain Douglas, gravely; "there is
something wrong with you to-night."

"I grant you that there is," replied the young lieutenant, turning
his pale and handsome face to the inquirer.  "I have in my heart--and
I cannot help telling you--a solemn presentiment that I shall not
survive the battle of to-morrow.  Yet observe me, gentlemen, observe
me well and closely all of you, and see if I shall blench before the
enemy, or belie the name of my forefathers."

With one voice we endeavoured to ridicule this unfortunate idea, or
to wean him from it; but he only replied by sadly shaking his head.
After a pause, he said--

"I trust that you will not laugh at what I am about to tell you; but
indeed I care little whether you do so or not.  An hour ago, after
our halt, I fell asleep in my cloak at the foot of that tree, and
while there I dreamed of my home, of my father's house at Inverugie.
I saw the Ugie flowing between its banks of yellow broom, I heard the
hum of the honeybee among the purple heather bells, while the sweet
perfume of the hawthorn passed me on the wind.  Then I heard the
German Sea chafing on the sandy knowes in the distance, and all the
sense of boyhood and of home grew strong within me.  But when I
looked towards our old hall of Inverugie, it was roofless and
windowless, the long grass grew on its cold hearthstone, and there
the nettle and the ivy waved in the wind, while the black gleds were
building their nests by scores in the holes of the ruined wall; and
that dream daunts me still.

"Why--why--what of it?" we asked together.

"Because when one of our family dreams of a gled the hour of death is
nigh.  I have never known it fail, and so it has been ever since
Thomas the Rhymer sat on a block near the castle (to this day called
the Tammas stane), and as a vision came before him, he stretched his
hands towards the house, saying--

  "When the gleds their nests shall build
  Where erst the Marischal hung his shield;
  _Then_ Inverugie by the sea,
  Lordless shall thy lands be."

I am the last of the old line, and there is a conviction in my heart
that the prophecy of the Rhymer is about to be fulfilled."

But for the well-known bravery, worth, and high spirit of the young
subaltern, and the hereditary valour of the house he represented, we
might have laughed at his strong faith in such an extremely old
prediction--a faith in which, doubtless, his mother, his nurse, and
many an old retainer had reared him; but as it was, we heard him in
silence, till after a time, when Douglas endeavoured to reason with
him on the folly of surrendering himself to such gloomy impressions,
but in vain.  His mind was sternly made up that he would fall on the
morrow, and that he would die with honour to the attainted house he
represented among us--the old lords of Inverugie and Dunotter, the
earls marischal of Scotland.

While I was thinking of this--as we deemed it, fantastic idea--a hand
was laid on my shoulder.  I looked up and saw Major Shirley, who
requested me to accompany him a little way apart.  I could perceive
by the light of the moon on one hand, and that of our watchfire on
the other, that he was remarkably pale and somewhat agitated.

"Gauntlet," said he, with a smile, but with a very sickly one, "I
have here a letter for you."

"From whom?"

"Your cousin; a letter which I quite forgot to deliver to you when I
joined the army in Paderborn."

"This is somewhat odd--you forgot, eh?"

"Exactly; very awkward, is it not?"

"Rather," said I, somewhat ruffled.  "Seven months have elapsed since
you came from England, and you only remember it now!  Do you recal
that you stated she had not sent even a message to me?"

"Zounds! 'tis a fact, however odd," he replied, calmly, and in a very
subdued voice.  "I only bethought me to-night that the letter was in
my dressing-case.  We are to be engaged to-morrow; I may be knocked
on the head as well as another, and thus have no wish to leave even
the most trivial duty unfulfilled.  You understand me?"

"Precisely," said I, with some contempt of manner.

"Here is your letter--adieu.  I have an order for the Marquis of
Granby.  Where is his tent?"

"On the extreme right of the Inniskilling Dragoons."

"Good."  He mounted and rode hurriedly away.  I saw it all: this
simpering staff officer was in love with Aurora, and dreaded in me a
rival.  Thus he had concealed the letter till his presentiment--shall
I call _his_ emotion apprehension?--of the coming day, impelled him
to deliver it to me.

It was sealed and bordered with black.  I tore it open and read
hurriedly by the wavering light of our watchfire.  The whole tenor of
the letter was melancholy, and at such a time and under all the
circumstances, it moved me, though one or two sentences were rather
galling in their purport.

Aurora informed me that she had lost her mother at Tunbridge Wells on
the day after we sailed.  Save twice, and under rather cloudy
circumstances, I had never seen the good lady, and so I had no tears
for the occasion.

"Dear cousin Basil," she continued, "my father is dead; my beloved
mother is dead; my poor brother Tony and a little sister whom I loved
dearly, are also dead: so I feel very lonely now.  The loss of mamma
has been my most severe calamity, for she was the person in whom all
my thoughts, feelings, and anxieties centred.  You are a soldier, and
I know not whether you can feel like me--that each link of the loving
chain as it breaks unites us closer, by near, dear, and mysterious
ties, to those who are beyond the grave--the beloved ones who are
gone, and to be with whom would be life in death.  For a time after
poor mamma left me I felt more a denizen of the world to come than of
this, and I feel that though dead she can still strangely control or
inspire my actions, my emotions, and my conduct here.

"Oh yes, Basil, when my poor mamma died I felt eternity _close_ to
me--I felt that the circumstance of her going _there_ before me
instituted a strange and endearing tie between me and that mysterious
state of being; that my heart was drawn towards the land of spirits;
that it yearned for the other world rather than to linger in this.
(The deuce! thought I; is Aurora about to take the veil--or whence
this sermon?)

"Excuse me, cousin, if I weary you with my sorrow; but to whom could
I write of it, save you?  You promised to write to me, but have never
done so.  How unkind, after all you have said to me!  I am at present
at Netherwood, where the autumn is charming, and as I write the sun
is shining with a lovely golden gleam on the yellow corn-fields and
on the blue wavy chain of the Cheviot Hills.  We are cutting down a
number of the old trees at Netherwood.  (Are we really! thought I.)
Some of these are oaks that King James rode under on his way to
Flodden Field; and dear old Mr. Nathan Wylie (Delightful old man!)
recommends that the ruined chapel of St. Basil in the jousting-haugh
should be removed as a relic of Popery, which stands in the way of
the plough.  But as the saint is a namesake of _yours_, it shall
remain untouched, with all its ivy and guelder roses.

"When you return and visit us, as I trust in Heaven you shall (for I
never omit to pray for your safety), you will find wonderful
improvements in the kennels, stableyard, vinery, and copsewood."

It was very pleasant to me, a poor devil of a cornet, half-starved on
my pay, especially since the capture of Minden, with its 94,000 sacks
of grain, by Messieurs de Broglie and de Bourgneuf, to read how this
lovely interloper and her crusty Mentor cut and carved on my lands
and woods, kennels and stables.

"You will regret to hear that poor Mr. Wylie is failing fast, poor
man!  His niece Ruth--a very pretty young woman indeed--has just had
twins.  Her husband is Bailie Mucklewham, of the neighbouring town--a
grave and rigid man, and ruling Elder of the Tabernacle, whatever
that may be."

Ruth and her twins, and her husband the demure Elder and Bailie!  I
could laugh now, at the boyish hour in which I thought seriously of
marrying Ruth Wylie.

"Doubtful where to address this letter to you, I have committed it to
the care of Major Shirley, who has been hunting in this
neighbourhood, and is now proceeding to Germany, to join the staff of
mv Lord George Sackville.

"P.S.--Write me, dear cousin, and tell me all about this horrible
war, and if it will soon be over.  The major is so impatient that I
have not time to read over what I have written.  Adieu, with a kiss,
A.G."

In our comfortless bivouac, by the sinking light of the wavering
watchfire, as I read on, Aurora's face came before me, so charming,
so fair, so blooming, and so English.  She was warmhearted,
affectionate, and my only relative on earth, so could I think of her
in such a time of peril otherwise than kindly?

"Can it be--I asked of myself--that I am forgetting Jacqueline?  But
wherefore remember her now!"

Shirley had been hunting in the vicinity of Netherwood, so I might be
sure that all his time would not have been there devoted to the
sports of the field.  Aurora prayed for me!  It was delightful to
have some one at least who thought of me--whose friendship or regard
blessed me and that my course in life was not unheeded or unmarked
amid the perils of war.

Aurora might love me, if I wished; surely there was no vanity in me
to think so?  But I feared that I could never love her--at least as I
had loved Jacqueline--for she was the holder, the usurper of all that
should be mine.

I resolved to write to her kindly, affectionately, after the battle,
and then I would think of her no more; but somehow Aurora's image was
very persisting, and would not be set aside.

I put the letter in my sabretache, and was looking about for a soft
place whereon to sleep for an hour or so, when the sharp twang of the
trumpet sounding, and the voice of Tom Kirkton shouting "Saddles and
boots! to horse, the Greys!" warned me that day had broken, and that
we must stand to arms, for the bloody game of Minden was about to
begin.




CHAPTER III.

BATTLE OF MINDEN.

The morning of the 1st of August dawned fair and softly.  The sky was
a deep blue, and light fleecy clouds were floating across it.  It was
the opening of a day of battle, a day of doom to many, for who among
us were fated to fall, and who to see its close?

A gentle breeze waved the foliage of the green woods, and swayed the
ripened corn in yellow billows as it passed over the broad
harvest-fields.

Bright, clear, and sparkling amid the blue ether shone the morning
star, and lower down rolled a mass of amber-coloured cloud, on the
edges of which glittered the rays of the yet unrisen sun.

Phosphor paled, the light gradually became golden, and the last
shadows of night grew fainter as they faded away.  Then the light
breeze died, and there was not a breath to stir the foliage of the
dense old forests which cast their shadows on the current of the
Weser--that watery barrier which the French were to defend, and we to
force at all hazards; hence, as the morning drew on, the air became
close, heavy, and hot, and our men--horse, loot, and artillery--while
wheeling, deploying, and getting into position among green hedgerows
and deep corn, laden as they were in heavy marching order, soon felt
their frames relaxed and the bead-drops oozing from under their
grenadier caps and heavy cocked hats.

Brightly the sun burst forth from amid his amber clouds, and ere long
the embattled walls of Minden, and its Gothic spires, Catholic and
Lutheran, were shining in light.

The allied army formed in order of battle on the plain called
Todtenhausen, in front of the town of Minden, which occupies the left
bank of the Weser, and in which there was a strong French garrison,
whose cannon commanded the famous stone bridge of six hundred yards
in length.  After capturing the town from General Zastrow, the main
body of the army of M. de Contades had encamped near it.

On his left rose a steep hill, in his front lay a deep morass, and in
his rear flowed a rugged mountain-stream.

As this position was strong, Prince Ferdinand employed all his
strategy to draw the maréchal from it.  With this view he had quitted
his camp on the Weser, and marched to a place named Hille, leaving,
however, General Wangenheim with a body of troops entrenched on the
plain of Todtenhausen.  Then detaching his nephew (known among us as
the Hereditary Prince of Brunswick) with six thousand men, he gave
him orders to make a detour towards the French left, and thus cut off
their communication with Paderborn.

Though not ignorant of the compass of these triple dispositions,
Contades, the Duc de Broglie, and Prince Xavier of Saxony, leader of
the Household Cavalry of France, readily fell into the snare.

"Messeigneurs," said Maréchal Contades, with confidence, "the
opportunity which we have so long sought for cutting off Prince
Ferdinand's communication with the Weser has been found at last.  It
is the very consummation of our wishes.  Already we may behold those
vainglorious allies divided and separated in three masses without the
possibility of a reunion.  Let us march, gentlemen, and by the ruin
of General Wangenheim, obtain the full command of the Weser!"

"_Vive le Roi!_" cried the whole council of war.

It was with this idea in their minds that we saw the French troops
leaving their strong position between the hill, the long and
impassable morass, and the rugged stream, and advancing into the open
plain--precisely the same fatal error committed about a hundred years
before by the Scots at the battle of Dunbar.

The allied army, composed of fifty-nine squadrons of horse and
forty-three battalions of infantry, with forty-eight 12-pound
field-pieces and four mortars, was formed in three lines.

We, the Scots Greys, were in Elliot's brigade of Lord Granby's
Cavalry Division, and with the 3rd Dragoon Guards (Howard's) and 10th
Dragoons (Mordaunt's) were on the extreme right of the second line,
when we formed up from open column of squadrons through fields of
hemp and flax.

In our front were the Horse Guards (Blue) and Inniskilling Dragoons,
who formed the right of the first line.

Over those thousands forming in order of battle the shadow of death
was passing; but no thought had we then, save of victory and triumph,
and of regilding our lost laurels!

"There will be rough work to-day--Auld Geordie has his buff-coat on,"
I heard our men muttering.

As the kettledrums beat and the trumpets sounded the usual flourish
when swords were drawn, old Preston looked along our glittering line
with a grim smile of satisfaction on his wrinkled visage.

"They have unsheathed as one man!" exclaimed Lord Granby, approvingly.

"'Tis well, my lord," said Colonel Preston, "for those swords have
killed as many Frenchmen as any blades in Europe."

As yet all was still--not a shot had stirred the morning air; but we
knew that the French were advancing, as from time to time the
sky-blue colours, with the golden lilies and the steady gleam of
bayonets appeared among the trees, the hedges, and broken ground in
front.

James Keith of Inverugie was near me.  He was smiling now, and there
was a bright flush on his cheek with a feverish restlessness in his
eye, for the belief in the old prediction was stronger than ever in
his heart, and I pitied the poor lad, for he was brave as a Bayard or
a Du Guesclin.

Ere long a noisy murmur--the hum of expectation--passed along the
first line, when eight battalions of French--the vanguard, which was
led by the Duc de Broglie (who was mounted on a splendid white horse
with housings flashing in the sun), and which had passed the Weser at
midnight, after marching on with perfect confidence until they
reached the crest of an eminence, halted simultaneously, on finding
to their astonishment the whole army of the allies now acting in
unison, disposed in excellent order, and formed in three lines, the
first of which reached almost to the gates of Minden, and covered the
entire plain of Todtenhausen!

A discovery so unexpected filled the Duke with embarrassment; but it
was too late to retreat.

"St. Denis for France!" he exclaimed, waving his baton, and ordered
the Cavalry, which had covered his advance, to charge.  Thus, in five
minutes, the battle began in all its fury about six o'clock, A.M.: a
battle in describing which I shall generally confine myself to a few
personal episodes.

On the Hanoverian Guards and the six regiments of British
Infantry--our brave 12th, 20th, 23rd, 25th, or Edinburgh, 37th, and
51st--fell the chief fury of the action.  They were all formed in one
division, protected by a brigade of British artillery under Captains
Drummond and MacBean; and we writhed in our saddles when we saw them
knocked over like nine-pins--their red coats dotting all the green
plain in our front; and yet no order was given for us to advance and
support them.

After repulsing the French Infantry they were assailed by a column of
Swiss, with whom they exchanged several volleys at twenty yards
distance.

Shoulder to shoulder they stood, our splendid British Infantry, the
rear-ranks filling up the gaps in front, the men never pausing under
fire, save to wipe their pans, renew their priming, or change their
flints, for none would fall to the rear.  In the words of the old
ballad--

  "So closing up on every side,
  No slackness there was found,"

amid the fierce roar of musketry and the clouds of smoke which
enveloped all the plain.  Colonel Kingsley, at the head of a Cavalry
regiment on our left, had two officers shot dead by his side, two
horses killed under him, and he received a musket ball through his
hat.

Now the French brought up several _batardes_, as they term their
eight-pounders, and the range of these extended to us, the cavalry of
the second line.

Almost immediately after these guns opened, I heard a half-stifled
scream near me, and turning, saw Keith doubled in two, and falling
from his horse mortally wounded and dying.  A cannon-ball had torn
away his bowels, and my heart was wrung on seeing him gasping beneath
my horse's feet, while the memory of the prediction flashed upon me.
He died in a few minutes.

The great aim of the French marshals was now to drive in or destroy
either flank of the allies.  In endeavouring to effect this object, a
charge of cavalry was made.  The Household Troops of France, most of
whom were noblesse, the red, grey, and black mousquetaires, with the
carabiniers and gendarmerie, came boldly on.  They were led by Prince
Xavier of Saxony, brother of the Queen of France, a brave soldier,
distinguished by his bearing, his splendid uniform, which was covered
with orders, his sparkling diamond star and piebald charger.  Forcing
a passage, sword in hand, through the flank of our first line, he was
advancing towards us, re-forming his glittering squadrons as they
came on, when by order of the Marquis of Granby, we advanced to repel
them.

I saw old Preston's withered cheek redden with stern joy, and his
sunken eye sparkle brightly, as he rapidly formed us in open column
of squadrons at the usual distance of twenty-four feet between each
other.

"Forward, my lads!  Keep your horses well in hand--no closing--no
crowding.  March!"

But when we began to move, the ordinary distance from boot-top to
boot-top between the files became closer and denser, till we formed
as it were a ponderous mass of men and horses wedged together.

"Trot!" cried the colonel; then followed, "Gallop--CHARGE!"

His voice blended with the trumpet's twang; there was a rush of
hoofs, a hard breathing of men and horses, a rustling of standards
and rattle of accoutrements, as we rushed with uplifted swords and
with a wild hurrah upon the recoiling foe.

We trod them down like the hemp-field over which we spurred; and in
that dreadful shock, down went mousequetaire, gendarme, cuirassier,
and we made a horrid slaughter of the French Household Troops.

The colonel of the Mousquetaires Gris, an old officer, whose breast
was covered with stars and medals, was pistolled by one of our
corporals; and Prince Xavier of Saxony, separated from his
discomfited column, found himself engaged in a hand-to-hand conflict
with Hob Elliot.

Aware of the vast difference between them in strength and stature,
worthy Hob Elliot tried to spare and capture the Prince, of whose
rank he was ignorant, and who was a very little man; but he resisted
bravely, and gave our poor Borderer several severe sword-cuts.  Hob
at last lost all patience, cut him down, and was about to capture him
by the collar, when a stray shot struck the unfortunate Prince, who
fell dead from his horse.

This occurred immediately in front of our 51st Foot.

While we waged this conflict on the right, the valour of the Prussian
and Hanoverian Dragoons under the Prince of Holstein and others on
our left, repulsed the enemy, and compelled them to seek safety in a
flight which soon became general along the whole line, despite every
effort of the Duc de Broglie and Maréchal de Contades.

"It was at this instant," says an historian of the war, "that Prince
Ferdinand sent orders to Lord George Sackville, who commanded the
British and Hanoverian Horse which composed the right wing of the
allies, to advance to the charge.  If these orders had been
cheerfully obeyed, the battle of Minden would have been as decisive
as that of Blenheim.  The French army would have been utterly
destroyed, or totally routed and driven out of Germany.  But whatever
was the cause, the orders were not sufficiently precise, were
misinterpreted, or imperfectly understood."

The cause of the misfortune was this.

We had just re-formed after repelling the Household Cavalry, when
Major Shirley, minus his cocked-hat and kid gloves, and what was
more, his presence of mind, looking ghastly pale and wild, and so
agitated apparently that he could scarcely articulate, rode up to
Colonel Preston (who was sitting on his old horse as cool as a
cucumber, with the bullets whistling about him), and inquired for
Lord George Sackville, whose whereabouts the colonel indicated, by
pointing with his sword to a horseman whose aspect was somewhat
shadowy amid the eddying smoke.

Shirley's conventional smile had vanished now, and he rode hurriedly
on.  His instructions were to order the whole line of cavalry to
pursue; but this message in his then state of mind he failed to
deliver, and hence the omission of an immediate cavalry advance--a
miscarriage for which Lord George Sackville, after being victimized
by the public press, had to appear before a general court-martial.

Shirley's undisguised panic was, however, unnecessary, as _his_
presentiment was not fulfilled, and he escaped untouched amid the
horrors of a field whereon lay one thousand three hundred and
ninety-four officers and men of our six British infantry regiments
_alone_, and I know not how many of our allies.

Two thousand French were hurled at the bayonet's point into the
Weser, and five thousand more, with Princes Xavier and De Camille,
were left dead upon the plain, with many standards and forty-three
pieces of cannon.  On some of the latter I saw "25th and 51st Foot"
chalked, to indicate that these corps had taken them.  The Comte de
Lutzelbourg and the Marquis De Monti, two maréchaux-de-camp, were
captured by the Greys.

The passage of the fugitives across the Weser was a scene of horror.

Beside the stone bridge already mentioned, the French engineer, M.
Monjoy, had chained across the stream two pontoons, which broke under
the weight of the passers; thus many waggons full of wounded officers
were swept away by the current, and the flower of the Cavalry,
particularly the Carabiniers and Mousquetaires, were destroyed.

Amid the shrieks, the cries, the scattered shots that filled the air,
we heard the hoarse hurrahs of the advancing Germans, with the clear
ringing cheers of the British, and the shouts of "Forward with the
Light Bobs and Buffers--support the Tow-rows!"

The latter was the nickname of the Grenadiers in those days, and they
in turn named the battalion men "buffers," or "mousers" in the
militia; while the "Light Bobs" were the pet company of every corps,
being always the smartest and most active men.

The town of Minden surrendered with five thousand men, the half of
whom were wounded.  By sunset the whole of our cavalry were gone in
pursuit, save our Light Troop, which, with a few Prussian Hussars,
remained on the field to protect the wounded, to patrol after
plunderers, and oversee the working parties who interred the dead.

In the activity of that pursuit old Colonel Preston surpassed every
other officer.  He actually took the Greys _two hundred_ miles from
the field, and captured a vast number of prisoners.*


* "Regimental Records."


Part of the military chest, with all the equipages of Maréchal de
Contades and the Prince of Condé fell into his hands--prizes of no
inconsiderable value.




CHAPTER IV.

PRINCE XAVIER OF SAXONY.

The Light Troop had gone more than a mile from the field with the
pursuing cavalry before it was ordered to return on the service just
stated.  When falling back, we passed through a hamlet where the
baggage of our brigade was lying, and there we were surrounded by our
soldiers' wives, clamorously inquiring for tidings of the past day.

"Oh, please your honour, gude sir," cried one, holding her baby to
her bare breast with one hand, while the other clung to my
stirrup-leather, her eyes streaming with tears the while; "can you
tell us if the regiment has been engaged, for heavy has the firing
been all day?"

"Have the Greys suffered--have the Greys suffered?"

"Did you see my puir gudeman--he is in the 1st troop--John Drummond,
sir?"

"Shot--my poor Willie shot!" shrieked another.  "Then God help his
puir bairns and me in this waefu' country, for we ne'er shall see the
bonnie Braes o' Angus again!"

Such were some of the cries I heard on all sides as we hurried
through the hamlet at a trot, and returned to the field on which the
moonlight had succeeded the long level flush of the set sun.

There lay all the usual amount of death and agony--the sad
paraphernalia of war--and the pale dead in every variety of attitude
and contortion, so close to each other that in some places one might
have stepped from body to body.

Already had many been stripped nude as when they came into the world
by those wretches who hover like carrion crows on the skirts of an
army; and their pale marble skins gleamed horribly white with their
black and gaping wounds in the cold moonlight.

Amid these many horrors--the dying and the dead, legs, arms,
blood-gouts and spattered brains--some phlegmatic German infantry
were quietly bivouacking and lighting fires to cook their supper.
Others lay down weary and worn, their mouths parched with thirst, and
their canteens empty, after twelve hours' marching and fighting.

As we rode slowly over the field to scare plunderers and protect the
wounded, I heard, amid a group of officers whom we passed, one
laughing loudly, and found him to be Major Shirley.  A revulsion of
feeling made the flow of this man's spirits extravagant; and here,
amid the rows and piles of dead and wounded--amid the expiring on
that solemn, harrowing, and moonlighted plain--he was joking and
laughing, like a fool or a drunkard--he, the poltroon who could not
articulate an order when under a fire at noon!

"_His_ weird is no come yet," I heard old Sergeant Duff mutter as we
rode on in extended order, our horses sometimes stumbling over what
appeared to be a heap of freshly gathered grain or hemp.  These had
been uprooted by some kind hand, and spread over a dead comrade to
protect or conceal his body from plunderers; and everywhere lay
fragments of exploded shells and the half imbedded cannon-shot that
had ploughed up the grass or corn in long furrows.

We sought for and interred, separately, in his cloak, the body of
poor Keith, our young lieutenant.  Elsewhere the dead were rapidly
interred; some by lantern-light, and with them, undistinguished among
the rank and file, Prince Xavier of Saxony.

One soldier of our 51st got his diamond star, and sold it to a Jew
for some hundred pounds, which he spent in six months, keeping the
regiment in an uproar while the money lasted; another got his purse,
which was filled with louis d'ors; and a third 51st man got his
watch, which was studded with brilliants.  Some Westphalian boors
then stripped the body, which was flung into a pit and interred with
about twenty others.

All the churches in Minden and its vicinity were converted into
hospitals.  The interior of the old Cathedral--whither I rode to
inquire after Hob Elliot and some others of ours--presented a very
singular scene.  It is a dark but stately edifice, said to have been
formerly the palace of the Pagan King Wittikind, but was turned by
him into a church after his conversion.

Along the high-arched Gothic aisles were rows of wounded
soldiers--British, French, and Hanoverian--groaning, praying,
cursing, and rustling fretfully among the bloody straw on which they
lay.  Knapsacks, haversacks, and accoutrements hung on every carved
knob, and there was not a saint who did not bear a load of
sword-belts, bridles, or canteens slung about his neck or piled
within his niche, while, in the Gothic porch, the chapter-house, and
the painted chapel of Our Lady of Minden, stood surgeons' blocks for
operations; and there were Dr. Probe and all the medical men of the
army busy in their shirt-sleeves with knife and saw, and up to their
bared elbows in blood.

There was no time, nor was it then the fashion to reduce fractures;
so around each military Æsculapius lay piles of legs, arms, hands,
and feet, amputated as fast as their owners could be brought from the
field; and these revolting fragments were cast into a corner until
they could be carted away to the pits that were being dug by our
working parties amid the harvest-fields on the plain of Todtenhausen.

But such is war, and such are its grim concomitants.

On the noon of the day after the battle I was returning from the
visit to this hospital, or cathedral, and was proceeding to rejoin
the Light Troop which was bivouacked in a hemp-field at some distance
from the pits where the dead lay, when two French officers and a
trumpeter, all mounted, and accompanied by six dragoons, came
suddenly upon me at an angle of the road.

As one bore a white banner on a sergeant's pike, I recognised at once
a flag of truce, so we simultaneously reined up and courteously
saluted each other.  One wore the gorgeous uniform of Colonel of the
Regiment de Bretagne; the other was a French Hussar officer, in whom
I recognised the Chevalier de Boisguiller.

"_Peste! monsieur,_" said he, "you and I have the luck of meeting in
strange places, but seldom under pleasant circumstances.  We are in
haste, for those we have left behind are not likely to wait for us,
pressed as they now are by your cavalry; so, can you direct us to the
quarters of Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick?"

"With pleasure.  You are the bearer----"

"Nay, my friend Monsieur le Comte is bearer of a letter from the
Maréchal de Contades, our commander-in-chief, to the Prince,
inquiring into the fate of Prince Xavier of Saxony."

"His fate?" I repeated, and shook my head.

"_Oui, monsieur,_" said the officer, who bore the rank of count, with
great earnestness; "if he is wounded we come to offer a suitable
equivalent in exchange for him; if, unhappily, killed, to solicit the
restoration of his remains, for he is the brother of her Majesty the
Queen of France, and I had the honour to be his particular friend."

While we were speaking, a royal coach and six, accompanied by a
squadron of French Household Troops, preceded by an officer bearing a
white flag, and by four trumpeters, wheeled round the angle of the
road and joined us.

"Here comes the Prince's carriage, with Monsieur Monjoy to receive
him, whether dead or alive," said Boisguiller.

With some reluctance I informed these officers that I had seen the
Prince cut down by one of our own troopers, and almost immediately
afterwards pierced by a ball in front of the grenadier company of our
51st Foot; and that his body had been buried with others on the field.

This information filled the Frenchman with a sorrow that seemed
genuine; and the colonel of the Regiment de Bretagne, a handsome, but
stern-looking young man, actually wept aloud.

Prince Ferdinand, to whose quarters I conducted them, gave orders to
open some of the pits in the field; so a working party was detailed,
and a search instituted among the naked and mangled dead for the body
of the unfortunate Prince.

No less than eighty of these horrid graves were unclosed, and their
poor occupants pulled by the legs or arms from among the mould and
examined before the discovery of the Prince's piebald charger in one
hecatomb gave hope that his late rider's remains might be near; and
accordingly, in one that was filled with Mousquetaires Gris et
Noires, we found a nude and bloody corpse, which all the French
officers at once declared to be Prince Xavier of Saxony, stripped
even to his boots.

He had received a bullet in the left temple, which was his mortal
wound.  His right arm was found to be broken.  This had been done by
the sword of Hob Elliot.  His fine hair was still neatly dressed,
tied by a blue satin ribbon, and powdered with brown _maréchale_.

The poor remains were rolled in a large crimson velvet mantle,
bearing a royal star, and placed in the coach, which was driven
rapidly off, followed by its escort, to which all our guards,
sentinels, and out-pickets presented arms.




CHAPTER V.

THE BRIDGE OF FREYENTHAL.

Severe weather succeeded the battle of Minden, and the Scots Greys,
while it continued, were ordered to cantonments in villages near the
Lahn.

On a dull wet morning we paraded in our cloaks and bade adieu to the
banks of the Weser, and to the fatal plain of the 1st of August.  By
sound of trumpet we fell into our ranks, and the corporal-major of
each troop proceeded to call the muster-roll.

Alas! there was called over on that morning the name of more than one
brave fellow who could respond to it no more, and over whom the
autumn grass was sprouting.

Amid the snows of winter we idled away our time in those dreary
villages of Prussian Westphalia, till Major Shirley arrived with a
message of a peculiar nature for Colonel Preston.

Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, to whose staff the major was now
attached (Lord Sackville having been summarily dismissed the service
by the king), sent him to inform the colonel that in the district
named the Rodhargebirge, a certain baron named Conrad of
Freyenthal--whose character would have suited admirably one of Anne
Radcliffe's romances--had placed his wife in a dungeon or vault of
his residence, and kept her a prisoner therein, while a mistress
occupied her place, as the ballads say, "in bower and hall."  The
orders of his royal highness were, that we should send a party there
to free and protect the lady, and also to blow up a bridge of the
Lahn close by Freyenthal, which had been partially undermined already
by M. Monjoy, an engineer of the French rear-guard already mentioned.

Guided by a peasant, Colonel Preston went with the Light Troop in
person on this service, and as it was not likely to be a desperate
one, Major Shirley accompanied us, and contrived to play me a trick
which I had reason long to remember.

We marched from our cantonment an hour before daybreak, when the
sharp crescent moon was waning coldly behind the hills, and the
bronze-like conical outlines of the fir-trees cut acute angles
against the clear blue sky.  After passing through a wooded defile in
the mountains, we reached the castle of Freyenthal, a small square
tower, surrounded by a barbican wall, and perched on an insulated
mass of rock, at the base of which the Lahn poured over a great
cascade, that was then almost a mass of icicles.

Close by this tower the river was spanned by the ancient stone bridge
which we had such special orders to blow up.

Before this feudal fortress we sounded a trumpet thrice, but met with
no response, and could see no one, nor any sign of life about the
place, save the dark smoke that ascended from the chimneys into the
clear winter sky.  The arched gate of the outer wall was strong, and
being securely barred within, defied all our efforts.

While ten of our men dismounted, and under the order of a German
engineer officer proceeded to examine and make use of the old French
mine under one of the piers of the bridge, Colonel Preston, whose
temper was apt to be chafed by trifles, deliberately blew up the gate
of the tower by a petard which he had brought for the express purpose.

Roused from his apathy or his potations by this unexpected explosion,
the proprietor of Freyenthal, a stern-looking man, with powdered
hair, a hooked nose, and fierce, black, bushy eyebrows, rushed
bareheaded and unarmed into the courtyard, accompanied by two or
three men-servants of bloated and forbidding appearance.

Then Colonel Preston in a few words acquainted him with the orders of
Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick, and required the immediate surrender
of the baroness--our errand and intention.  But, undaunted by the
colonel's rank and the aspect of his troop of horse crowding all the
pathway that led to the tower, the baron roughly taunted him with
"unwise interference in domestic affairs, and with being an insolent
braggart to boot."

On hearing this, the fiery old man leaped from his horse, tossed its
bridle to an orderly, and drawing his sword, offered the baron the
use of another, as well as of a pistol, saying--

"I scorn to take advantage of any man--we are now on equal terms."

The German uttered a hoarse oath, snatched the pistol, cocked it, and
fired straight at the head of Colonel Preston, who would undoubtedly
have been shot had I not struck the barrel up with my sword.  At the
same instant our trumpeter, who was close by the colonel, struck the
would-be assassin to the earth by a blow of his trumpet.

The wife of this most irritable Teuton we found exactly in the plight
Shirley had described, immured in a vault, a cold and miserable
place, the sole furniture of which was a truckle-bed.  We put the
baron in her place, and sent her by her own request, to the Lutheran
Convent at Marburg, while her rival was made to ride the _cheval de
bois_ for an hour, with a carbine slung at each foot.

While the baron's Westphalian wine and beer were freely brought from
his cellar for the use of the troop; while he growled and swore in
his vault, and while the bridge of the Lahn was being undermined,
Colonel Preston desired me to take ten men with me, and ride a mile
or two into the country on the other side of the river, to
reconnoitre the district, to see or inquire about the disposition of
the enemy, but to avoid all risk.

"Come, Gauntlet," said Shirley, as I tightened my waistbelt and put
my foot in the stirrup; "take a parting cup ere you go."

"Excuse me, major," said I, coldly; "I have had wine already--and the
hour is not yet noon."

"Toast Miss Gauntlet, man--Zounds! here in Westphalia, so far away
from Old England.  To your fair cousin's health!" he exclaimed,
holding out a silver-rimmed horn of wine.

"To Aurora, then!" said I, and drained the wine, after clinking our
horns together in true German fashion, while Shirley's usual smile
expanded into a laugh, and when he laughed it always portended
mischief.

"Come, my lads," said I, to my chosen ten; "forward--trot!"

"Don't ride too far, Gauntlet," cried Shirley, still laughing loudly,
"for the bridge is quite undermined."

"How that fool laughs at his own folly," thought I, as we crossed the
antique bridge at a hard trot, and rode into the frozen country
beyond.  From the bank of the Lahn the ground sloped gradually upward
for miles, though intersected here and there by thickly wooded
ravines; thus, as we traversed the snow, when looking back we could
distinctly see the old tower of Freyenthal, standing dark and grim
with its smoky chimneys above the half-frozen river.

The country seemed partially deserted, and any peasants or
woodcutters who saw us, fled at our approach, and concealed
themselves.  We rode several miles, and by the wayside passed the
ruins of many roofless cottages and deserted farms; but now Hob
Elliot assured me that in the clear frosty air he "more than once had
heard the rumble of wheels--perhaps of artillery."

As we saw nothing even in the most distant portion of the level and
snow-clad landscape, I ridiculed this notion; but Hob was obstinate,
and stuck to his fears on the subject.

"Excuse me, sir," said he, "but I know that I may take the liberty of
talking to you, for when I lay in hospital at Minden, wounded, sick,
and dying as I thought, no hand was more ready than yours to help me.
Never did my auld mother at hame, when I was a yellow-haired bairn,
tread mair lightly by my cradle than you did by my straw pallet, to
see that I took those devilish draughts of old Drs. Blackstrap and
Probe of ours."

"But what about all that now, Hob?--to the point."

"Well, sir, if I might recommend--I'm an older soldier than you--we
should go threes about now, and get back, for the bridge is
undermined, and that Major Shirley----"

"Well?" said I, as Hob paused.

"He had a queer twinkle in his eye as we rode off."

"What, Hob--you do not mean--you cannot insinuate----"

"Pardon me, sir," said the big burly trooper, lowering his voice;
"but he laughed in the faces of the dead at Minden--faces that in
life he was grave enough before, and I dinna like a bane in his body."

"Come, come, Hob, you must not speak in this way to me.  The major is
esteemed a good officer."

"I know that, sir," replied the trooper, dryly; "but by whom?"

"Well," said I, impatiently, "by whom?"

"The worst men in the army."

"Hum--he is a brave man at all events, Hob."

"Yes, sir--we all saw that when he bungled the orders for Lord George
Sackville at Minden, and cost the poor general his commission--he
that was there under fire, as brave as a lion, in the old red coat
that he had worn at Fontenoy."

"Good or bad, Hob, brave or not, it is perilous work for you to speak
thus of an officer."

"Well, sir, I beg your pardon," replied the obstinate trooper, "but I
can't help having my own thoughts of him, and they are _unco queer
ones_."

Just as he said this we reached the brow of an eminence, over which
the road dipped suddenly down into a hollow; and there just beneath
us, we saw a train of some thirty laden waggons, proceeding leisurely
under an escort of at least three companies of French troops, the
_Volontaires de Clermont_.  Thus the rumble of wheels so long heard
by Hob, was now completely accounted for!

The French uttered a shout on beholding us, and proceeded to handle
their muskets, by priming, loading, and casting about, while we
wheeled round our horses and departed without further ceremony to
reach the bridge of Lahn.

A hundred or more of the French tossed aside their knapsacks,
haversacks and everything that might encumber them, and rushed up the
slope to the crest of the eminence.  Here they poured a confused
volley after us which did no harm, but I could see the bullets
ripping up the frozen snow far in front.  Then with a yell the
Volontaires dashed after us in pursuit.

A partial thaw, which had been setting in, made portions of the
snow-covered road deep and heavy, but we soon left the French
infantry far in our rear, though they continued to follow us double
quick, determined to have a little shooting if possible, as they had
enjoyed none since the day of Minden.

We soon distanced them more than a mile, and ere long saw the tower
of Freyenthal dotted with the red coats of our comrades, and with
rather anxious eyes I measured the long slope that lay between us and
the bridge, where we could see our working party, now that their
mining task was over, sitting on the parapets in their shirt sleeves,
and conversing.  Near them, on horseback, was an officer, in whom, by
his kevenhüller hat and scarlet feather, I had no difficulty in
recognising Major Shirley.

As we came on at a hand-gallop, we suddenly saw a commotion among our
men at the bridge as they pointed towards the enemy.  Then Shirley
seemed to gesticulate violently, and order them to fall back, waving
a match which he had snatched from one of them, and which was smoking
in his hand.

We saw him stoop from his saddle and fire the train!

In a minute after this there was a roar in the still air; amid a
cloud of dust and smoke the old bridge of the Lahn rose bodily aloft,
almost in a solid mass, and then sank in foam and ruin among the
blocks of melting ice that rolled over the cascade below.

"Treachery!" cried Hob Elliot, shaking his clenched and gauntleted
hand; "he has blown up the bridge and cut off our retreat!"

In another moment we all reined up our breathless horses at the edge
of the steep rocks, through which the swollen winter stream was
roaring and boiling in its mad career towards the Rhine.

"In the name of Heaven," I exclaimed, filled with anger and
apprehension, "why has this been done?  Rascals, who ordered
this?--you have ruined us."

"Major Shirley is alone to blame, sir, not we," replied a sergeant on
the other side, saluting me as he spoke; and though the black stream
that roared between us was only thirty yards broad, the nature of its
banks and its force defied all attempts to cross by swimming.

"It is most unfortunate, my dear Gauntlet," cried Shirley, with a
bland and broader smile than usual on his face--"most unfortunate
affair--the more so as the enemy are coming rapidly on."

"But, sirrah, what in the world tempted you to commit this act of
folly?" I demanded, furiously.

"My dear fellow--ah, ah! you should remember the old saw--in this
world expect everything, and be astonished at nothing.  I crave your
pardon, as it is not pleasant to have one's promotion stopped, and be
a prisoner of war.  'Twas all a mistake--a deuced error in judgment,
as the Court said which shot Admiral Byng.  But don't attempt to swim
the river," he exclaimed, on seeing that in my fury I made my horse
rear wildly up; "it is too broad, too deep and rapid.  Surrender with
a good grace--discretion is the better part of valour.  Here come the
French Light Troops.  Zounds! and they are firing, too!"

And with an ironical smile, which I could see distinctly, he waved
his hand with a mock salute, and somewhat hastily entered the tower
of Freyenthal, for a few scattered files of the Volontaires de
Clermont, when they came up, opened a fire upon our men, who, in
bewilderment at the whole affair, were loitering at the other end of
the ruined bridge.

"I have swam baith Esk and Liddle in full flood, and damn me if I
won't swim this!" exclaimed Hob Elliot, who was about to spur his
horse madly into the stream, when I caught his bridle.  And thus, in
less than five minutes, with my ten troopers, I found myself
disarmed, dismounted, and marched off a prisoner of war, in presence
of Colonel Preston and the remainder of the Light Troop, through the
cowardice or treachery--I knew not which--of Shirley the aide-de-camp.




CHAPTER VI.

LES VOLONTAIRES DE CLERMONT.

My handsome grey trooper was bestrode by a dapper little French
sous-lieutenant, who seemed to enjoy the ride amazingly, all the more
that I, a _sacré Anglais_, trudged by his side in my boots, secured
to the stirrup-leather by a cord.

Fords on the river there were none near; thus, as we were marched
off, we knew that all the courage of our comrades, and the skill and
energy of Colonel Preston, could avail us nothing.  Of all my party I
was the most depressed; but big Hob Elliot was the most vituperative,
and swore at our bad luck and at our captors, in terms which
fortunately they did not understand.

"The devil!" he muttered; "if they discover 'twas I who encountered
their favourite Prince Xavier, and gave him that Lockerbie lick in
front of the 51st, they will shoot me off hand like a hoodiecrow."

"Unless we tell them, they can never know; and if they did, your
fears are unnecessary, Hob.  The French are too brave to resent what
was done in fair fight."

"Gude wot, I did all I could to spare the puir body.  My father, who
was a smith at Cannobie, in Liddesdale, used to say that 'mony a
stout trooper has been lost for lack of a nail;' but, by the horns o'
auld Clootie, here are ten of us and a cornet lost for lack of a
little prudence."

"Prudence--a nail--what the devil are you talking about, Hob?" said
I, angrily.

"Weel, sir, for lack of a nail the shoe was lost, and for lack of the
shoe the horse; and for want of his horse the trooper came to grief,
being overtaken in his boots and slain by the enemy.  And all this
came aboot by the lack of a nail in his horse's shoe--sae quoth my
faither the smith."

"And thus, Hob, if I understand your parable, you think that for lack
of a little prudence you have all lost your liberty, and I my
promotion and liberty for years to come?"

"Just so.  Had we gone threes about at the time I ventured to hint
it, we would have been on the other side of the river wi' auld
Geordie Preston just now.  But as for years, sir, dinna speak o'
years," he exclaimed, clenching a huge bony hand that must often have
swung the great hammer in his father's forge, and at the village
games: "there is not a prison in a' France, e'en the _Basteel_
itsel', that will haud Hob Elliot gin he wants to win oot."

My anger at Shirley was deep--too deep for me to express to my
companions in misfortune.  I remembered how he had withheld the
letter of Aurora, from the time we were quartered in Alphen, until
the morning of Minden; how, on this very day, he had smilingly warned
me to remember that the bridge of Freyenthal was undermined; how I
had seen him gesticulating with our unwilling men, and had witnessed
their most evident hesitation ere he snatched the match from one and
sprung the mine!

I saw more clearly than ever that he loved my cousin; that he viewed,
or thought he viewed in me a rival, and believed that he had now
fully provided for me for some time at least, if not for ever, as few
could tell what might be the dangers and contingencies of a military
imprisonment in France.

Then occurred an idea under which I writhed anew.  That after
enduring perhaps years of captivity--years during which my comrades
of the Greys would be playing the great game of war and glory--years
that would see my brother subalterns all captains and field-officers,
I might be transmitted with others home to find myself a cornet
still, and a penniless one too, while, probably, Shirley the
poltroon, who had worked me as much evil (just as his brother had
done poor Charters) might be the husband of Aurora, and the
proprietor of my patrimony--of Netherwood, its hall and fields, wood
and wold!

With this chain of thought burning within me I turned fiercely and
looked back to the old tower of Freyenthal.  Across the snow-clad
landscape it was distinctly visible, with a group of redcoats near
it; but I was not permitted to loiter, as a tug of the cord which
secured me to my horse warned me that the rider was impatient, and
compelled me to trudge on.

We soon reached the train of waggons which were halted in the ravine,
and amid the cracking of whips, and much noisy congratulation and
laughter, the escort of the Volontaires de Clermont resumed their
route, we knew not and cared not whither.

Among the officers who accompanied this party I observed one, a
fair-haired young man, of very prepossessing aspect, who checked his
horse for a moment, and regarded me attentively.

"Monsieur l'officier," said he, lifting his hat, "we have surely had
the pleasure of meeting before?"

"You were one of those who came with the flag of truce to Minden,"
said I, responding to his salute.

"Exactly, monsieur--for the body of Prince Xavier--ah, diable! a sad
business that was" (at the prince's name Hob Elliot looked about him
as if preparing to fight or flee).  "I am M. Monjoy, of the French
Engineer department."

I bowed, on which he again uncovered his head, with that genuine
politeness and grace which were so charming in the French officers of
the old school.

"Monsieur le lieutenant," said he, turning sharply to the dapper
little subaltern who had assumed a right of property in my person,
and saying something--I know not what--rapidly in French.  On this,
the cord which secured me to the stirrup-leather of my own saddle was
undone, and I was permitted to march at my ease; but the horse itself
my captor resolutely refused to give up.

I found the young engineer Monjoy a very pleasant companion.  He was
grave, earnest, and rational--quite unlike Boisguiller and many other
French officers whom I had met.  He held out hopes that I should soon
be exchanged (so much the worse for _you_, Major Shirley, thought I),
as we had so many of King Louis' officers in our hands, among the
5000 prisoners taken in the town of Minden.  He said many other
cheering things, and insisted on sharing with me the contents of his
haversack (German sausage and biscuits) and of his canteen; and I
remained by his side, during a long, slow, and bitterly cold day's
march, which brought us to the little town of Ysembourg, whose prince
had been slain at the battle of Minden.

His castle, a famous old fortress, crowns the summit of a hill near
Corbach.  The French standard was flying on it, and there, next
morning, we were conducted with several other prisoners, chiefly
Black Hussars of the Prussian army, under an escort of the
Volontaires de Clermont.

The morning was chilly and depressing; a dense frosty mist covered
all the ground; we were without cloaks, without breakfast, cold and
miserable; and gloomily we looked at each other as we trod up the
snow-clad hill, passing several ancient iron-mines, till we neared
the gate of the castle, at which stood two sentinels of the Regiment
de Bretagne, muffled in their greatcoats, all whitened by the
frost-rime, which seemed to have edged their three-cocked hats as
with silver lace.

While we were ascending, one of our escort suddenly perceived a ring
on my right hand.  It was the emerald given to me by Jacqueline on
that morning when first we met--when I had saved her life near St.
Malo; and now the rascal demanded it at once and most peremptorily
too.

I declined to comply, on which, with great deliberation, he cocked
his piece, drew his thumb-nail across the edge of the flint, to
ensure its not missing fire, and deliberately placed the muzzle to my
head.  Whether or not the fellow would have dared to shoot an officer
who was a prisoner of war, I cannot say, but on finding myself so
vehemently pressed I drew off the ring, which he at once clutched,
and put in his haversack, with a laugh and an oath, little foreseeing
how dear the bauble was to cost him.

At that moment a blow from behind stretched him on the earth.  It was
dealt by the clenched hand of Hob Elliot, who, poor fellow, ran
imminent danger, for a dozen of fixed bayonets were directly levelled
at him breast high, and he would have been instantly immolated, had
not an officer of rank, accompanied by M. Gervais Monjoy, rushed
forward from the castle-gate, by their influence and authority to
stop the brawl.

In the officer I recognised the count who had come with Monjoy for
Prince Xavier's body, and who had been so deeply moved on beholding
his remains exhumed on the field.

To him I was about to prefer a complaint of the robbery, when he
hurriedly turned away, having other matters to attend to, and I was
left with the plunderer, who had divined my intention, and tapping
the butt of his firelock, gave me a threatening grimace, so much as
to say, "Beware!"

Soon after this I was conducted into an ante-room, and thus separated
from the rest of the prisoners, who were marched into the interior of
the castle.

As the ten men of the Greys left me, each came forward in succession
and saluted me as I shook hands with them all, and some said--

"God bless you, sir; I hope we shall soon meet again."

A hope--save in one instance--never realized by these worthy fellows,
as nine of them died in French prisons, I know not where or
how--probably at Bitsche or Verdun.

The room in which I found myself appeared to be a kind of
ante-chamber.  Its windows were barred, and a sentinel with his
bayonet fixed paced to and fro monotonously outside.  Within were
tables littered with letters, order-books, and several orderlies with
canes and sidearms were loitering about on forms and benches.

"Who commands here?" I inquired of one.

"Monseigneur le Duc de Broglie," replied the soldier, with a polite
bow; "this château of the prince of Ysembourg is his head-quarters,
and in a few minutes monsieur will have the honour of being brought
before him."

At that moment I heard a voice at some distance say, with a tone of
authority,

"Monsieur le Comte de Bourgneuf, _bring in your prisoner_."

At this unpleasant conjunction of names I felt my heart beat quick,
and then I saw the colonel of the Regiment de Bretagne, the
stern-looking bearer of the flag of truce, beckoning me follow him.

I did so, and in another moment found myself in the presence of the
famous Maréchal Duc de Broglie--the father of Jacqueline!




CHAPTER VII.

THE DUC DE BROGLIE.

There was one other present whom I could very well have spared--the
Count de Bourgneuf--the stern young colonel, who eyed me steadily
with a glance of a very mingled cast--at least, I thought so, for he
was the husband of Jacqueline de Broglie.

The Duke, her father, a venerable and stately soldier, who wore the
uniform of a maréchal of France, but of a fashion somewhat old, and
who had his hair profusely powdered, received me with a polite salute.

The room in which we met was a vaulted chamber of the old castle.  In
a corner thereof stood a _cornette_, a standard peculiar to the
French Light Cavalry, and from its pole there still hung the white
silk scarf which was usually tied to these cornettes when the
dragoons went into action, to render them conspicuous, so that they
might be rallied round it; and this scarf had doubtless been there
since the duke's own regiment had fled at a gallop from Minden.  In a
corner were embroidered the initials "J. de B."  Had Jacqueline's
fair fingers worked that scarf and standard?  In another corner stood
a pair of kettledrums and a few muskets.

A table, whereon lay some maps of Germany by Herman Moll, several
French newspapers--particularly the _Mercure_--the _Gazette de
Bruxelles_; bundles of dispatches and writing materials stood near
the arched Gothic fireplace.  A few antique chairs were round it, and
on these were seated two or three field-officers of the Regiment de
Bretagne, Monjoy, the engineer, and the Comte de Bourgneuf, all in
full uniform, powdered and aiguiletted, with their swords, sashes,
and orders on.

All these details I saw at a glance, and again my eyes rested on the
benign face of the old Duc de Broglie, in whom, however, I failed to
trace any resemblance to his daughter.

At the door of the room stood a sentinel of the Volontaires de
Clermont, with his musket "ordered" and bayonet fixed--the same
fellow who had so violently possessed himself of my emerald ring.

"Monsieur le prisonnier is an officer?" said the Duke, bowing again.

"I have the honour," said I, while Bourgneuf eyed me superciliously
through his eyeglass.

"In the British service, as I see by your uniform."

"The _Ecossais Gris_."

"Bien!" said the Duke, smiling; "I remember some of them.  Your rank?"

"Cornet."

"Ah--it is unfortunate to be taken thus, with a rank so junior; an
old fellow like me might wish for a rest; but you--ah monsieur! you
may be long a prisoner if this war continues."

My heart sank at this remark, but I said,

"I am not without hope of effecting an exchange."

"You were taken prisoner at the bridge of the Lahn?"

"Yes, monseigneur."

"Your people blew it up, M. Monjoy says.  How was it that they did so
without permitting you to repass it?"

"I know not, monseigneur," said I, for I would not own in that place
that a British officer would act so basely as Shirley had done.  The
Duke repeated his question, but I simply bowed with the same answer.

"What forces are there?" he inquired.

"Only the Light Troop of my regiment--the 2nd Dragoons, or _Ecossais
Gris_."

"The rest of the Regiment?"

"Are cantoned further down the river."

"Your strength, monsieur?" continued the Duke, glancing at a paper on
the table.

"Six troops."

"That we know," said Count Bourgneuf, brusquely, "there is a troop of
your Scottish Grey Horse in each of the six villages along the Lahn;
but what is their numerical strength?"

"I have had no means of knowing since our rapid _pursuit_ at Minden,"
said I, with reserve.

De Bourgneuf eyed me fiercely through his glass; but the Duke smiled,
and asked,

"Where are the other regiments of milord Granby's Cavalry division?"

"I beg to be excused giving such information," replied I.

"Then, monsieur," said the Duke, suavely, "have you any idea of when
Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick proposes to break up from winter
quarters and take the field?"

"Happily I have no means of knowing--being merely a subaltern
officer; but," added I, haughtily, "if I _did_ know, most assuredly I
should decline informing the General of the enemy!"

"_Très bien_--of course," said the old Duke, shrugging his shoulders.

"Beware, sir!" said the Comte de Bourgneuf, with a dark frown on his
stern visage; "you would not tell, even if you knew, say you?"

"No, by Heaven!" said I, loftily.

"Monseigneur le Duc, have I your permission to summon a file of the
guard with a piece of cord?  _Ha, coquin!_" he added, imperiously
turning to me, "I have ere now forced a more unwilling tongue to
speak, by tying a cord round a prisoner's head, and wrenching it with
my pistol-barrel or sword-hilt till half the scalp came off.  And
this I did in a district named the Morbihan, a part of France with
which you once affected to be familiar."

This remark, and the keen, feverish glance which accompanied it,
showed me at once that I stood on perilous ground.

"M. le Comte," exclaimed Monjoy, "bethink you of what you say and do.
Monsieur is a prisoner of war.  _Ma foi!_ this will never pass."

"When I have been robbed by a French soldier under arms I need not be
surprised by this display of ruffianism in one of his officers," said
I, calmly, but while my heart swelled with anger and apprehension.
The Count started to his feet; but the Duke raised his hand and voice
authoritatively:

"Halt, Bourgneuf.  In this matter your zeal goes beyond my wishes.
But how say you, monsieur?" he added, turning sharply to me; "you
speak of being robbed.  Who has robbed you?"

"Men of the regiment of Count de Clermont, deprived me of my cloak,
of my haversack--there was little in it, save three days'
half-rations; of my purse--there was little in it, so they were
welcome to that too; but this man, who is now sentinel at your door,
with the muzzle of his cocked musket at my head, like a common
footpad or cutpurse, robbed me of a valuable ring, on which, for the
memory of past days, I set a singular value."

Such was my dread of M. de Bourgneuf, that circumstanced as I then
was I dared not tell when, or where, or for what service I had
received the ring.

"Is this true, fellow?" demanded the Duke, turning sternly to the
sentinel, who was too terrified to reply either in the affirmative or
the negative.

"You will find it in his haversack," said I.

De Bourgneuf, without ceremony, plunged his hand into the canvas bag
which was slung over the poor wretch's right shoulder, and among his
ration biscuits, hair and shoe-brushes, &c., drew forth the ring,
which he handed to the Duke.  On beholding it the latter started and
visibly changed colour.

"Is this your ring, monsieur?" he asked, while surveying me and it
alternately.

"Yes, monseigneur."

"_Mon Dieu!_" he exclaimed, with growing perplexity; "this is most
singular--most marvellous!  Whence had you this ring? for on my
honour as peer and maréchal of France, it belonged to my dead wife
and was my parting gift to my dear daughter when I left Paris to
command the army in Germany."

"I got it, monseigneur, while serving with the first expedition to
Brittany," said I, evasively, and to gather time for thought, as the
sharp glittering eyes of Bourgneuf were fixed on me with stern
scrutiny.

"May I inquire from whom?"

"From Mademoiselle Jacqueline De Broglie on the morning when I saved
her life from a galley-slave, a felon escaped from St. Malo, named
Theophile Hautois, whom I afterwards flung into the Black Torrent at
St. Aubin du Cormier."

"_Mon Dieu!_" exclaimed the Duke.

"_Tres bon!_  Marvellous!" added Monjoy, and all present save
Bourgneuf, who muttered audibly the offensive epithet, "_Marmiton!_"

"I have heard of some of those things," said the Duke, extending his
hands to me, "and so I pray you to keep the ring and accept my
sincere gratitude for your brave protection of my child.  Comte
Guillaume De Boisguiller, our kinsman, who commands at St. Malo, has
told me of those passages.  Bourgneuf, have you nothing to say to the
protector of Jacqueline--of your wife?"

The Count had heard, perhaps, more than I wished, for he merely made
a French grimace, and presented two fingers of his hand, and then
turned on his heel.

"Monsieur le prisonnier," said the Duke, "you shall dine with me
to-day.  To-morrow you shall be sent across the Lahn to your regiment
free, and you will have no reason to forget your interview with one
so old in harness as the Maréchal De Broglie; but meanwhile you shall
see how we in France punish the soldier who dishonours his colours,
and degrades himself by acts of plunder.  Count, make that sentinel a
prisoner; assemble a drumhead court-martial, and desire the drummers
of the Volontaires de Clermont to beat to arms."

The Count retired.  A great bustle reigned for a time in the old
castle of Ysembourg.  The man who had plundered me was taken into a
room adjoining that in which the Duke continued to write his letters
and orders, and to take a pinch of rappee from time to time while
conversing most affably with me; and I could glean that Madame De
Bourgneuf had never informed him of my enacting the part of her
niece's soubrette.  How the Count knew of it was more than I could
learn; but his grim hint about "the Morbihan" sufficed to show that
he knew all.  The Duke studiously abstained from all reference to
military matters, save a few remarks about the new and then famous
Prussian discipline and manoeuvres.  I listened to the old man with
pleasure, and looked forward with joy and impatience to my rejoining
the Greys, and to the punishment I meant to inflict upon Major
Shirley.

Meanwhile I heard the tread of feet, the clatter of accoutrements,
and loud words of command uttered where the Volontaires de Clermont
were parading in open column of companies on the plateau before the
gate.  The trial was soon over, as the sentence had been resolved on
even before the drumhead court--a mere formality--had assembled.  The
battalion formed a hollow square, and then the Duke led me to a
window from whence I could see the whole parade and ceremony.

A sergeant of the company, to which the culprit belonged, led him
into the centre in heavy marching order, and fully accoutred, but
having his arms tied with a rope.  The brief proceedings of the court
and its sentence were read by the adjutant, and then the sergeant
said in a loud voice,

"Finding thee, Silvain de Pricorbin, unworthy to bear arms, we thus
degrade and render thee incapable of carrying them."

He then took the musket from his shoulder backwards, cut away his
epaulettes and knapsack, drew off his cross-belts, sword and bayonet,
and giving him a most deliberate kick upon the hinder part of his
person, repeated,

"Te trouvant indigne de porter les armes, nous t'en dégradons.  So
thus art thou, Silvain de Pricorbin, degraded--begone!"

The sergeant then withdrew, on which the provost marshal advanced and
laid his hand upon the poor pale wretch, whom, to my dismay, I saw
hanged upon a tree about fifty yards from the gates, and in presence,
it would seem, of a brother.

The drums beat a ruffle; all was over, and the Volontaires de
Clermont were dismissed to resume their games of piquet, trictrac, or
dominoes, and to smoke and joke in the frosty sunshine, as if nothing
so terrible had occurred; and so ended the first episode of my
compulsory visit to the old castle of Ysembourg.




CHAPTER VIII.

AN OLD FRIEND ARRIVES.

According to his invitation, I dined with the brave Duc de Broglie,
in the hall of the old Schloss, the walls and roof of which still
bore all the frescoes, heraldic devices and ornaments with which
Count Josias had decorated it many years before.  Bourgneuf declined
to be present, and I cannot say that I regretted his absence; but we
had M. Monjoy and some officers of the Regiments of Clermont and
Bretagne, all pleasant, gay and affable men save the engineer, who
was somewhat reserved, even sad in manner.

The Duke talked freely of the folly and loss of life occasioned by
our unmeaning expeditions to the coast of France, and dilated
particularly on the third (a service which the Greys escaped, by
receiving the route for Germany), which ended in the unfortunate
battle of St. Cas, where General Durie, Sir John Armitage, and one
thousand of our finest troops, particularly of the 1st Foot Guards,
were slaughtered on the beach, while four hundred were drowned in
their disastrous flight.

Minden, however, he and those present tacitly ignored; the defeat
there was too recent to be a pleasant French souvenir.

He spoke frequently and always with praise of my regiment, the
_Ecossais Gris_, which he knew well, having often encountered them on
service.  He knew Colonel Preston too, and laughed at his quaint old
buff coat.  He had met the corps at Dettingen, and acknowledged that
it was from _his_ hand that one of the Greys wrenched away the famous
White Standard--the Cornette Blanche--of the Gendarmes du Roi, and he
perfectly remembered the retort, recorded in our first volume as
having been made by Colonel Preston to Louis Philippe Duc d'Orleans,
at the review of the Scots Greys in Hyde Park.

"A greater dishonour than the loss of that banner was never suffered
by the Household Cavalry of France," continued the Duc de Broglie;
"the _Cornette Blanche_ is a royal standard, which was substituted
for the ancient _Pennon Royal_, and was never unfurled save when the
King in person led the army; those who served immediately under it
were the princes, nobles, and maréchals of France, with old
field-officers who received orders from his Majesty direct; so,
messieurs, you may imagine what I felt on finding myself unhorsed,
and seeing it borne through the slaughter in the hands of a Scottish
Grey trooper!"

Amid all the topics which we discussed over the wine of the defunct
Prince of Ysembourg, with the contents of whose cellars, hewn deep in
the old castle rock, Monseigneur le Duc and his epauletted and
aiguiletted staff made most free, I could glean nothing about
Jacqueline, where she resided, how she had married her cousin, the
stern Count, or why, or wherefore; nor did I venture to ask--a
natural delicacy, with a difficulty of approaching the subject,
together with something of pique, restrained me.

When I looked on the old Duc de Broglie, dispensing the honours of
his table with an air so courtly in his powdered hair, with his star
and ribbon of St. Louis, and when I thought of the passionate love I
had borne his daughter, and how she had responded to it--how I had
sorrowed for her supposed death, and so terribly avenged it--of all
that had been and never could be again,--I asked of myself, were not
all those days we had spent together at that quaint château in
Brittany, amid its arbours trained by old Urbain, its rose-gardens
and leafy labyrinth, a dream, or was I dreaming now?

That she should be the wife of this Count de Bourgneuf--a Frenchman
all the more jealous because his mother was a Spanish lady of
Alava--who knew more than I wished him to know about those love
passages in Brittany, and thus hated me accordingly, seemed strange
and difficult to realize; but of that hate I had good proof ere long.

Dinner was nearly over when the Chevalier de Boisguiller, of the
Hussars _de la Reine_, was announced, and this gay fellow, all
travel-stained and with his face looking very red, after a long ride
against a keen, frosty wind, entered with his sabre under his left
arm, and carrying his fur cap with plume and scarlet kalpeck, in his
right hand.

"Welcome, kinsman Guillaume," said the host, rising and presenting
his hand; "what news bring you from the head-quarters of M. de
Contades?"

"This despatch, monseigneur," replied the hussar, delivering an
oblong letter sealed with yellow wax, and making a profound salute.

"When did you leave?"

"This morning, monseigneur."

"Ma foi! you must have come at a good pace to reach Ysembourg by this
time."

"I dined early at Helingenstadt, and when I have dined well and drunk
good wine, somehow my horse always goes well.  The wine communicates
itself through the spur-rowels, I think.  'Tis sixty miles and more
from Helingenstadt to this, so as the sight of these viands makes me
hungry again, I shall join you gentlemen.  Thus hunger, a long ride
over a snow-covered country--snow--_ouf!_ it is six feet deep at
Hesse Cassel--with a young appetite, are capital sauce to a meal, and
if your cook equals your maitre d'hôtel, my dear maréchal--_Grands
Dieux!_ what have we here?--a ragout--delightful!--gigot de mouton,
with force-meat balls, like grape and canister shot.  Monjoy, I shall
trouble you for a slice.  _Parbleu!_ my friends, where did you pick
up all these dainties?  I thought those active devils, the Black
Hussars of His Prussian Majesty, had swept everything but snow and
icicles out of Hesse and Westphalia.  Monjoy, _mon cher_, what does
that silver jug contain?"

"Champagne-punch, chevalier."

"Made how?"

"One bottle of claret to three of champagne, with some sugar, a
little hot water, a squeeze or so of a lemon, and after a few
glasses----"

"One may see all the sentinels and outposts double their _usual_
number, and the main body quite what M. le Maréchal wishes it to be,
before beating up the quarters of Prince Ferdinand, _mon brave_; hand
it over here!"

"_Pardieu!_" he exclaimed, setting down the silver jug after a long
draught, "what do I see--Monsieur Gauntlet of the Grey Scots--a
prisoner, eh?  In the dusk I took you in your red coat for a
mousquetaire rouge."

"Monsieur is a prisoner, who, for the service he has done my family,
returns free to the allied lines to-morrow," said the Duke, who had
been rapidly skimming the despatch, while Boisguiller had been
keeping up a running fire of small talk.  "I must leave you,
messieurs; Monjoy will take my place at the head of the table, as
this despatch requires immediate attention.  Contades returns to
France for a time; the entire command is vested in me, and the army
is to be augmented to a hundred thousand men, while thirty thousand
more are to be formed upon the Rhine, under the orders of the Comte
St. Germain.  My brother's regiment of Cuirassiers must ride towards
Wetzler, as the King of Prussia's Death's-head Hussars are marching
in that direction.  We move from this early----"

Loud cries of "Bravo--Vive le Roi!  Vive le Maréchal Duc!" rang round
the table.

"And the castles of Marburg and Dillenburg may soon have some powder
burnt before them.  You see, M. Gauntlet, I have no secrets from you,
though you were so reserved with me this morning.  Adieu,
messieurs--make yourselves at home; I am an old campaigner, but must
keep my head clear for the work of the bureau."

And with a smiling bow the stately old Maréchal left us.  Then around
the table the conversation became more gay, free, and unrestrained;
the wine-decanters were circulated with a rapidity that loosened
every tongue, and as usual with Frenchmen, they all talked at once
without listening much to each other.




CHAPTER IX.

MONJOY.

When most of the officers had withdrawn, Monjoy drew close to me and
said,--

"There is more in the Maréchal's dispatch than met our ears--matters
not pleasant to the pride of de Broglie."

"How?" said I.

"You must know, monsieur, that since the time that Prince Ferdinand
possessed himself of the castle of Marburg, and indeed ever since
Minden, Maréchal de Contades has been very unpopular with our troops.
He charged the Duc de Broglie with misconduct.  The Duc recriminated,
and gained credit with the Court at Versailles, when a victim was
required to satisfy popular clamour.  That victim was M. de Contades,
so our camp, like your own, in the case of milord Sackville, has not
been without dissensions.  But permit me to inquire, did you ever
meet the Comte de Bourgneuf before that day when we came for the body
of Prince Xavier of Saxony?"

"No--but why do you ask?"

"_Parbleu!_--'tis strange! and you never did him any wrong?"
continued Monjoy, earnestly.

"Wrong--I know of none; but wherefore these inquiries?" said I.

"Because during the execution of that Volontaire de Clermont----"

"The poor wretch who appropriated my ring?"

"Yes--well, I overheard him swear, a low voice, to Armand de
Pricorbin, who accompanied his brother Silvain to the gallows, that
you should never reach the allied lines alive, and the man gave him a
fierce and rapid glance, as much as to say, we understand each other.
I was not supposed to observe, or to overhear all this, and could
neither control nor take the Count, my superior officer, to task for
it."

"But I shall--he is not my superior officer.  I thank you, M. Monjoy,
and shall challenge him for this," said I, wrathfully.

"You would be extremely rash, and if a duel ensued the Duc de Broglie
would severely punish the survivor, especially one in your
circumstances."

"Then what is to be done, for at this moment a plot for my
assassination may be forming?"

"Return as quickly as possible to the other side of the Lahn," said
Boisguiller, who had listened in silence to the foregoing.  "I know
more of this matter than you, Monjoy, and while disapproving of the
sentiments of my kinsman, de Bourgneuf, am most anxious to serve M.
Gauntlet, as an old friend who saved and served me when in a
desperate and degrading position.  _Grands Dieux_!  I am not likely
to forget that prison-ship, the _Alceste_, for some time to come!"

For a minute or more, I remained in doubt what to do.  My first idea
suggested a report of the affair to the Duc de Broglie; but that
would avail me little unless he gave me an armed escort, to apply for
which would argue either guilt or timidity.  To take the count
bluntly and boldly to task would be, my friends averred, perilous
work; and to seek an interview with Jacqueline, his countess, and beg
_her_ advice in the matter--even if I knew where she resided--was a
measure more perilous still, and one to be dreaded.

"You really think that Bourgneuf is capable of having me waylaid and
cut off?" said I.

"Quite," replied Monjoy; "excuse me talking thus of your kinsman,
Boisguiller; but his mother was an Espagnole of Alava, and we all
know the spirit he is likely to inherit.  My advice to you is,
monsieur, immediately on receiving the signed passport of the Duc de
Broglie, to set out ostensibly for Hesse Cassel--observe this map; it
is about seven leagues from here, according to Herman Mall.  But go
not there; strike off towards Frankenburg, and push on for the Lahn,
while Bourgneuf and his people may be searching for you in the
direction of the Weser."

"And pray start to-night, and _bon voyage_, _mon ami!_" said
Boisguiller, draining his glass.

"In my ignorance of the country and the language--on foot, too--I
shall never reach the Lahn alone."

"Of course not, _mon camarade_, we never meant you to do so," replied
Monjoy.  "Boisguiller cannot accompany you, as he returns to
Helingenstadt to-morrow; but I shall do so with pleasure, at least a
few leagues of the way, for to-morrow at noon, I have to lay before
the Duc de Broglie plans of the castles of Marburg and Dillenburg,
with the intended approaches and lines of circumvallation."

I was thanking this frank friend in suitable terms, when a gold
locket became disengaged from the ribbon by which it was suspended at
his neck, and fell at my feet.  When handing it across the table to
him, I could perceive that it contained the miniature of a girl,
young, lovely, and fairhaired.

"_Morbleu!_ Gervais Monjoy," exclaimed Boisguiller; "is it thus, my
fine fellow, that you treasure the image of Madame d'Escombas?"

"Madame! is this girl, a child almost, married?" said I, perhaps
imprudently.

"Hush, gentlemen--hush, for God's sake and for hers--upon your
honour, hush!" said Monjoy, in a husky voice, as he replaced the
locket in his breast, and his cheek grew very pale.

"I know your sad story, and hers too," said the chevalier in a
whisper; "but are you wise to carry this trinket about with you?"

"'Tis all of her that evil fate has left me!" sighed Monjoy, filling
his glass with wine.

"But--but suppose you were killed in action, and this portrait was
found upon you?"

"Well?"

"Would it not compromise the honour of madame?"

"With none who knew our wretched history," replied Monjoy, in a
broken voice, and with a tremulous manner; "but let us return to the
affair of our friend."

"The Duc de Broglie knows not all the _on dits_ of Paris and
Versailles," said the chevalier, with an air of annoyance.

"The old man thinks only of brigades and squadrons, of advances and
retreats, and of pontoon-bridges on the Rhine and Weser; but--a word
in your ear, M. Gauntlet: if he knew all that was reported, you might
perhaps have not fared quite so well in Ysembourg to-day."

"I do not comprehend," said I, coldly, perhaps haughtily.

"Well, _mon ami_, it was reported in the Chroniques Scandaleuses at
Versailles and Paris, that the young countess, then Mademoiselle de
Broglie, had a lover disguised as her _soubrette_, and that the
fellow actually carried her off.  Thus you see how rumour wove you
and the outlaw Hautois into one."

"Rumour might have added, that it was revenue for Bourgneuf's
abduction of the sister Hautois of and the demolition of his mother's
cottage that made this man the wretch we found him," said I, bitterly
"But oh!  Boisguiller," I added, suddenly and passionately, as the
fumes of the wine mounted to my head; "you know the truth and the
falsehood of this affair; you must know that I loved Jacqueline
purely and honourably, that I loved her to despair, and how I
sorrowed for her supposed death!"

"_Ah, mon garçon_!  I cheated you nicely at that old _chaumière_ in
the wood, and all for the best, was it not?  But pray don't give way
to such outbursts here; _ma foi!_ no, they will never do; so be wary
and be off, ere worse come to pass.  Bourgneuf has some fellows in
his Regiment de Bretagne who would skin their own fathers--people
from his own estates who would chop you into mincemeat if such were
his supreme will and pleasure, and if quietly shooting you down did
not suit his purpose quite as well."

I took another glass of wine and snapped my fingers, as a spirit of
bravado next possessed me.

"Tell me, is the countess here?" I asked.

"Madame de Bourgneuf, _née_ Broglie?  well, she is not exactly at
Ysembourg, but we shall not say where.  Awkward, is it not?" said the
chevalier, playing with the gold tassel of his hussar pelisse.

"Awkward!--what--how!" stammered I.

"_Diable!_ without condescending to be more plain, my friend, I think
that under all the circumstances, it _is_ exceedingly awkward that
the countess, and you, a former lover, are, with the knowledge of
such a man as Bourgneuf, within a few miles of each other.  How do
you feel about it?"

"Simply, my dear chevalier," said I, as the wax lights began to
multiply strangely, and the room seemed to swim round me, "that my
naturally fine appetite is in no way impaired by the circumstance,
and I have dined as well as ever I did on that deuced tough ration
beef of the Hessians; and as for Monsieur de Bourgneuf----"

"He is at your service, monsieur!" said a harsh voice in my car,
while a hand was laid, almost with a clutch, on my right shoulder.  I
turned and encountered that which sobered me in a moment; the stern
and sallow face, and dark, glittering, almond-shaped, and rather
wicked eyes of the Count de Bourgneuf, who had entered unseen, and
had overheard, _how much or how little_ of the past conversation, we
knew not.  He delivered to me a paper, saying, "Monsieur, this is
your signed pass to the nearest British cantonment; and you can
depart when you please, and by any route; so delay is unadvisable,"
he added, with a keen glance.

"I thank you, Monsieur le Comte," said I.

"By the way of Hesse Cassel, I have advised," said Monjoy hastily.

"The Lahn lies in an _opposite_ direction--but Hesse Cassel be it,"
said the Count, with a deep smile.  "Ah, Boisguiller, thou
unconscionable tosspot--art bibbing still?  Good evening, monsieur,"
he added to me, as he bowed and withdrew; "a pleasant and a _safe_
journey to you."

"Did you remark his smile?" asked Monjoy in a low voice, while
twitching my sleeve.

"Yes," replied I; "and it reminded me of one who never smiled thus
save when planning mischief."

I thought of the aide-de-camp, Shirley.

"Boisguiller, assist me in getting a horse for our comrade," said
Monjoy, looking at his watch: "it is now eight, and we shall depart
from this within an hour."




CHAPTER X.

THE STORY OF MONJOY.

It was long past midnight, however, before we were prepared to leave
Ysembourg.  To set out with the conviction that every tree, hedge, or
thicket might conceal at least one musket, the contents of which were
intended for my person, was more exciting than pleasing.

The horse provided for me was one of our grey troopers.  It had been
wounded by a pistol-ball at Minden, and halted on the off hind leg,
thus our progress was slower than we could have wished.

As my purse had been taken by my captors, Boisguiller gave me a
couple of louis d'ors, which sum I was to give in turn to the first
French officer whom we took prisoner.

"_Bon voyage!_" cried he, with a loud voice, as we mounted at the
arched gateway of the old castle; "which way do you ride?"

"Towards Hesse Cassel," replied Monjoy in the same tone, intended
specially for the ears of those who loitered about; and among them
was Armand de Pricorbin, who at once withdrew, and entered the
castle, no doubt to report our departure to Bourgneuf.

"Hesse Cassel," continued Boisguiller; "ah, I was quartered there for
three months before Minden, and added considerably to the debts and
general discomfort of the citizens.  Adieu, messieurs!"

"Adieu, M. le Chevalier!" and we rode off.

Though considerably hardened by campaigning and warfare--for had I
not seen Lindsay, Charters, Keith, and many others who were dear
friends and comrades perish?--I shuddered on passing where the corpse
of Silvain de Pricorbin still swung as a warning to pillagers, from
the arm of a tree above the pathway; there it swayed mournfully to
and fro in the night wind, and I felt some remorse with the
conviction, that by an almost heedless complaint, I had procured the
death of this man--and for what?  Abstracting a ring--a bauble--the
gift of a girl who had discarded me for a man who was now perhaps
tracking me to destruction.

The stars shone brightly and keenly in a calm sky as we rode down the
hill from Ysembourg, and saw a few lights twinkling dimly in the
little town of that name.

By the foraging and skirmishing of the light cavalry, the whole
country between the Maine and Lahn had been reduced to a desert; and
from Ysembourg to the Weser it was pretty much the same, for,
according to their usual system, whatever the French did not require
they burned or destroyed.

On our route I committed myself entirely to the guidance of the
intelligent and friendly Monjoy--a pleasing young man, whose bearing
impressed me with the decided conviction that _something_ had
happened in his life, which, to him, cast a shadow over the present
and the future.

"From what passed between you and the Chevalier de Boisguiller," said
he, "am I right in supposing that a deadly rivalry existed between
you and Bourgneuf prior to his marriage?"

"No, Monjoy; I repeat to you that I never saw the Count until the day
subsequent to Minden, and I did not know him even then, or until
yesterday, when we stood together in the presence of Maréchal
Broglie."

"_Parbleu!_ 'tis most singular!"

"What?"

"How all this hostility on his part came to pass."

"I shall tell you, and the narrative may serve to shorten our
journey."

I then related to him the whole story of my adventures in Brittany;
my love for Jacqueline, and how strangely we were thrown together in
that sequestered château; her abduction, and her supposed death.  He
seemed much struck by the recital, and when I concluded he sighed and
said--

"I, too, have not been fortunate in the field of Cupid, and could
tell you a story, not so stirring as yours certainly, but
nevertheless full of most mournful interest to me."

"Ah!  I now remember the miniature of that beautiful girl concerning
whom Boisguiller rallied and warned you."

"Boisguiller is thoughtless," replied the young Frenchman, "but
good-hearted and brave; yet he is not the kind of man to understand
the depth of a passion such as mine--a passion all the deeper because
its object is lost for ever!"

"Dead?"

"Worse, monsieur, she is married to another, and this little locket
is all I possess to remind me of many happy, happy days that can
never come again.  I shall be equally confiding with you, monsieur,
and will relate how I came to suffer so deeply."

After a little pause, he began thus.

"My aunt is Prioress of the Convent of Les Dames de Notre Dame de
Charité, in the Rue St. Jacques, at Paris, where they occupy the
ancient house of the Nuns of the Visitation.  Her devotees observe
the general vows of the four monastic orders, and occupy themselves
with the education of young ladies of good family, who are boarded in
the convent to acquire accomplishments.

"When a mere youth attending school, I used frequently to visit my
aunt, and spent all my holidays at her convent in the Rue St.
Jacques, and thus among the boarders I first saw Isabelle du Platel,
who was placed there for her education.  She was just past girlhood;
her family were old Normans, and hence that exquisite fairness of
complexion and golden-tinted hair which you remarked in her miniature.

"We were always playmates and companions in the convent garden; but
after a time this was interdicted by my aunt the Prioress, who,
foreseeing what might happen, wisely exiled me from the convent, and
would only consent to receive me in the parlour, and then on stated
days and certain occasions.

"I was in despair at this change in my affairs; but a friend and
brother student, Boisguiller, then a sub-lieutenant in the French
Guards, enabled me to circumvent to some degree the precautions of my
worthy relative, as he possessed an old and unoccupied house in the
Rue St. Jacques, the windows of which overlooked the convent garden;
and thereat I spent the hours that were not devoted to the study of
fortification, regular, irregular, and defensive, of Coehorn, de
Ville, and Vauban, in watching for Isabelle, and exchanging the most
passionate little billets by the simple process of lowering them by a
string from the windows, which, fortunately perhaps, were too high up
and too strongly grated to permit nearer meetings.

"For three years our love affair was conducted thus, and we were
happy in the secrecy of our passion, which was all the deeper that
(Boisguiller excepted) others knew it not, and could neither by jest
or taunt bring the ready blush to our young cheeks; and so time
passed, till Isabelle was sixteen and I was three years her senior,
with an epaulette on my left shoulder.

"I can painfully recall the last day on which I repaired to the
accustomed place, with a trinket I had brought for Isabelle, and
tying it to the cord, waited impatiently, with my eyes fixed on the
flowery vista of the garden walk by which she usually approached; but
hour after hour passed, and there came no Isabelle to me!

"The next day and the next I met with no better success, and a terror
filled my heart.  Had we been betrayed or discovered?  Isabelle was
ill--dying, perhaps!  I rushed to the convent gate, and sought an
interview with my aunt.  The old porteress had special orders to keep
me out; but my excitement was too much for the good dame's nerves,
and my impetuosity swept all her scruples away.  Thus, she admitted
me into the parlour and when my aunt came--a woman tall, thin, and
stately in bearing, with a severe expression on her brow that boded
evil fortune to me--I besought her to pardon me, and to say if
Mademoiselle du Platel was ill!

"'I am most happy to inform you, my dear Gervais, that she is
not--but she has left this----'

"'Left the convent,' I exclaimed; 'and for where?'

"'Her father's house.'

"'In the Rue de Tournon?'

"'Near the palace of the Luxembourg--yes.'

"'And she will return?' I continued, impetuously.

"'No more,' said my aunt, with a sad smile.

"'No more?' I repeated, with perplexity.

"At least, not as Mademoiselle du Platel.'

"'In heaven's name, madame--my dear aunt, I conjure you to tell me
what you mean?  See how I am trembling!'

"'Compose yourself, my dear boy; when next we see her, she will be
Madame d'Escombas.'

"'Oh, impossible--absurd!' I exclaimed, with a perplexed heart and a
flushing cheek; 'do you mean old M. d'Escombas, who also resides in
the Rue de Tournon, whose copper-coloured nose is the laughing-stock
of all Paris, and whom I have caricatured, with his wig, large
buckles, and round shoulders, a dozen of times?'

"'Yes.'

"'But that hideous old man has no son to marry Isabelle?'

"'He is to marry her himself.'

"'Monstrous, madame!' I exclaimed, furiously; 'how can this be?'

"'Because the father of Isabelle is poor, and M. d'Escombas is rich
enough to buy the Luxembourg and all that is in it.  Such is the
world, my poor Gervais, and such are its ways and vanities!'

"Seeing that my eyes were full of tears, she continued--

"'Gervais, listen to me, my dear boy.  M. du Platel, though he has
been unable to accumulate riches, for the acquisition of which his
desire is a passion very strong, if not stronger than that of love
itself--has enough, but barely so, to maintain a numerous family.
God has given him a daughter lovely in the extreme--good, amiable,
and gentle too.  M. d'Escombas is fired by her beauty: he is old and
coarse certainly; he has a nose covered with rappee, cheeks that are
rouged, and false teeth; but then, he is _so_ rich!  Ah, _mon Dieu_,
my dear boy, how you groan and grind your teeth!'

"I had heard enough, and retired, choking with resentment,
indignation, love, jealousy, and pity; and with all the thoughts,
fierce, bitter, and stinging, that could madden a young and loving
heart, I found myself going I knew not, cared not whither, jostling
and staggering like a blind man among the passers in the sunlit Rue
St. Jacques.  I was full of vague plots and wild plans--full of
schemes of bitter vengeance, none of which could take any tangible
form, until I met my friend Guillaume de Boisguiller, who had just
come off guard at the Louvre, and who advised me to see Isabelle at
once--to run off with her.  But whither?  _Diable_!  I had no
money--nothing but my silver epaulette.  Then he suggested that I
should run d'Escombas through the body.  That would be simple enough;
but I knew that a duel between an old man and a mere boy was not to
be thought of, even in Paris, where all kinds of absurdities are
committed every hour; and then he was a near kinsman of the Governor
of the Conciergerie du Palais, and the very thought of that grim
personage, and his horrid place, made my blood run cold."

(Poor gentle and amiable Monjoy!  while speaking to me how little did
he foresee that some of his last hours would be spent in that
degrading prison!)

"Taking a hint from the plot of a comedy we had seen at the Théâtre
Français--then the only one in Paris in which regular tragedies and
comedies could be acted, and which had an exclusive right to
represent the plays of Corneille, Racine, Molière, and
Voltaire--Boisguiller borrowed the gown, hat, and trinket-box of a
Jew who was patronized by the officers of his regiment, and by
adopting a false beard, a pair of horn spectacles, and painting a few
wrinkles round his eyes, made his disguise complete.  He then set out
for the residence of M. du Platel in the twilight of an October
evening.

"I was too nervous and too excited to have done this in person; so
Boisguiller, whose coolness--impudence he was pleased to term it--was
invincible, became my ambassador.

"He was not a chevalier then, not having won his cross of St. Louis.
He contrived to introduce himself to Isabelle, and while she was
looking over the trinkets in his box, to whisper my name in her ear,
and to slip into her hand a note from me, to which he begged an
answer ere he went away.

"'You are a friend of Gervais,' she whispered; 'and in disguise?'

"His friend and companion--Boisguiller, an officer of the French
Guards.'

"'I thank you, monsieur, from my soul!  Oh, tell Gervais it is true
about this marriage--all too true, too true!  Despite my love for
him, a love of which I told them in my agony, my parents sell me to
that odious and pitiless old man.  Sell me,' she continued, while her
blue eyes sparkled with grief and anger, and her soft cheek glowed
with a feverish red, 'even as a Circassian girl is sold in a Turkish
bazaar!  I have been taken--torn from my convent, and am kept here
till my purchaser arranges his household.  Oh, vile system!  How my
soul revolts at the life, the hopeless future, to which I am doomed!'

"'And you will meet Gervais?'

"'But once, and then all is over, and for ever!'

"'When--where will you meet him?' urged my friend.

"'In the garden of the Luxembourg, near the white marble lions, at
noon to-morrow; and failing that, on the next day at the same hour.'

"Exulting in his diplomacy, Boisguiller hurried back to me,
relinquished his disguise and resumed his uniform, talking the while
with noisy admiration of the beauty and high spirit of Mademoiselle
du Platel.  Spirit? _mon Dieu!_ he little knew how, by all the
appliances of domestic and parental tyranny it had been crushed and
broken.

"With a soul inspired by tenderness and anxiety, I repaired at the
appointed hour to the place of rendezvous--the avenue to the garden
nursery, containing specimens of every kind of fruit then cultivated
in the provinces of France; and there I leaned, so great was my
emotion, against the base of one of the white marble lions, and my
heart fluttered at the sight of every female figure.  But the clocks
of Paris struck the hour in vain; it passed away; another hour
succeeded, and there came no Isabelle.

"Had they discovered our assignation, those venal parents?  Was she
ill--what had happened?

"It was, however, merely a visit of that provoking Monsieur
d'Escombas which interfered with her arrangements, as he insisted on
escorting her, wherever she was going.  But next day, when I sought
the same place and pressed her to my breast, we retired to a secluded
part of the garden, where we could converse and freely deplore the
hard destiny which was about to separate us for ever.

"_Grand Dieu_!  Monsieur Gauntlet, why should I weary you with all
this, and what interest can it possibly have for you?" exclaimed the
Frenchman, suddenly interrupting himself; but I pressed him to
continue, for the modulated tones of his voice, a certain pathos in
it, and his sorrowful earnestness, gave his story an interest which
cannot be imparted to it here.

"I implored Isabelle to elope with me; but she trembled, closed her
eyes, and whispered, in a broken voice, that she dared not.

"'You are but sixteen, Isabelle, and they would consign you to a man
of sixty--a sweet young girl like you surrendered to the cold arms of
one whose heart is but the dregs and lees of a life spent in Paris!
Oh, it is piteous!'

"'And bitterly they taunt me----'

"'Who taunt you?'

"'My father and mother,' said she, shuddering and closing her eyes,
'taunt me with _you_, Gervais.  I ask for a husband who will love me
as I would wish to be loved, and in reply they lay diamonds, jewels,
fans and feathers at my feet.  Away with these, I exclaimed, lest I
tread upon them!'

"And then the poor young girl wept passionately--

"'My beloved Isabelle,' I exclaimed, 'how shall I survive seeing you
consigned to a fate so miserable--to such a hopeless life--to a lord
and master whose age, ideas, tastes, and ways are all so unbearable
and uncongenial?  Whose scorn and cruelty--oh, I know him well--will
make you shrink as the frosty wind withers the early flowers of
spring, and whose sordid coldness will crush your little heart!  God
preserve you, Isabelle, from the fate of many others who are
similarly mated and lost in our worthy city of Paris!'

"'I have to thank you for the character you give of me, friend
Monjoy, but 'twill avail you little,' said a voice behind us, and we
found ourselves in the presence of M. du Platel, and M. d'Escombas
who had just spoken, and also of his grim kinsman, the governor of
the Conciergerie du Palais.

"Fortunately the latter personage, of whom I had--I know not why--an
instinctive horror, was present; for we were in a solitary part of
the garden.  I had my sword on, and the malevolent smile on the thick
lips and coarse dark visage of M. d'Escombas, with the furious scorn
and indignation of M. du Platel, might have prompted me to commit
some desperate extravagance.

"'Oh, my father, my father!' implored Isabelle; 'let me go back to my
convent.  Mother St. Rosalie de Sicile assures me that I have a true
vocation!'

"'So it seems,' sneered M. d'Escombas, 'by your coming here to meet a
young spark three days before your marriage.'

"'Father, it is better to endure the poverty, the vows, the life-long
self-abnegation of all in a convent, than an union without love to a
man who is older even than thee.'

"Her voice was most touching--her expression lovely; but the old
barbarians heard her unmoved.

"'Child, you know not what you say,' replied M. de Platel, in great
wrath.  'I provide a rich marriage, a wealthy husband, who will prove
a kind one, too; a splendid house here, close by the Luxembourg; a
life of freedom and gaiety; and, _diable!_ what more would you have?
unless it is this rascal of a student, who would be better inside La
Force than here, creating mischief and dispeace.'

"'Oh, why torture me thus?' she replied, faintly, while pressing her
hands on her heart.

"'Torture--_bon diable!_ she talks of torture, with a suitor here who
has ever so many thousand livres per annum,' said M. du Platel,
shrugging up his shoulders.

"'_Mon père_,' she demanded, with her little nostrils quivering, and
her blue eyes flashing fire; 'for how many thousand purses do the
Circassians sell?'

"'_Morbleu!_ she is always speaking about Circassians,' growled M.
d'Escombas; 'what do we know of them, save that they are pagans who
eat horseflesh on Friday, and never sign the cross or keep the month
of Mary.'

"'And yet they sell their daughters, M. d'Escombas, just like the
subjects of the Most Christian king.'

"'Child, this is treason and blasphemy--and close to the walls of the
Luxembourg, too!'

"''Tis truth and despair.'

"'Summon a fiacre, M. d'Escombas--a thousand devils, 'tis time to end
this!' exclaimed du Platel, grinding his teeth, and then they bore
her away from me.

"In three days after this sorrowful meeting I heard the bells of St.
Germain de Prè ringing gaily for the marriage of Isabelle to the
wealthy citizen d'Escombas, who was willing to take her without a
portion--a circumstance that had quite sufficient influence with one
so sordid and cruel as her father, without considering on the other
hand the vast wealth of her suitor.

"After this, I was long ill and tired of life, and believe that but
for the unwearying friendship of Guillaume de Boisguiller I should
have died--if indeed people ever die for love, which I don't think
they do.

"It was about this time that all Paris, and all France, too, rung
with the terrible story of the conspiracy, the trial, and execution
of Robert Francis Damien; and M. d'Escombas, on hearing that I was
ill, affected to pity me, and begged of Boisguiller that he might be
permitted to pay me a visit.  Then I--urged I know not by what motive
or impulse--consented.  On hearing this, what think you my fortunate
rival did?--for all his plans we discovered after--how, need not be
related here.

"He unlocked the secret drawer of an iron strong-box, and taking
therefrom a ring, placed it, with a peculiar smile, upon a finger of
his right hand.  It was a large and antique ring, which his father,
who was a dealer in jewellery, had procured in Venice at a sale of
the trinkets of the old Doge, Marc Antonio Mocenigo, who became the
spouse of the Adriatic in 1701.  This gold ornament was what was then
termed a _Death Ring_, used when acts of poisoning were common in the
seventeenth century.  It was of the purest metal; but attached to the
outside were two lion's claws, made of the keenest steel, and having
in each a cleft that was filled with the most deadly poison.

"In crowds, or balls, or elsewhere, the wearer of such a ring could
exercise his secret revenge by the slightest scratch, in pressing the
hand of the doomed person, who would next day be found, perhaps, in
bed dead, no one knew why or how.  So, armed with this most fatal
trinket, M. d'Escombas came with Boisguiller to visit _me_.

"I have but a vague recollection of the interview.  He knew how
passionately I had loved Isabelle, and I saw the savage gleam that
crossed his eyes, when I inquired for her, but as one might inquire
for a sister.  He assured me in brief and hurried terms that she was
well, content, and happy.  Then I congratulated him with a tongue
that clove to the roof of my mouth.

"He rose, at last, to retire; bade me be of good heart, said his
adieux, and pressing my hand, left me, with a dark smile in his eyes,
which were small, black, glittering, and half obscured by their
shaggy overhanging brows of grizzly hair, which, in fact, were like
mustachios placed over his nose instead of below it.

"Scarcely was he gone before I felt an indescribable sensation pass
over all my body; my eyesight grew dim; my brain reeled, and my
thoughts became delirious.  Then every faculty seemed to become
paralysed, and the doctors--in his excitement Boisguiller soon had
half the medical faculty of Paris at my bedside--declared that I had
been poisoned by some mineral substance.  But poisoned by _whom_, and
_how_?  Ah, _le brigand!_ how little did we suspect!

"Strong antidotes were applied, and after a time I recovered, for the
poison in the ring had been placed there so many years ago that it
had not retained sufficient strength to destroy life; but I leave
you, Monsieur Gauntlet, to imagine the hatred and horror I had of the
traitor d'Escombas when I came to know the actual object of his visit.

"I recovered fully, and joined the army under the Marshals Contades
and de Broglie, in Germany.  So my Isabelle is still the wife of that
man; but there is a sweet composure, a sadness of heart and of eye
about her, a silence and enduring gentleness under the most insulting
jealousy and coarse petty tyranny, which make all who know, pity her,
and deplore the fate to which she has been consigned.

"Had she died I should have sorrowed for her long and deeply, and
have eventually recovered from the shock; but to know that she lives,
and for _another_, is enough to--but, hola! what have we here?"




CHAPTER XI.

A SAD CONCLUSION.

The interruption to the story was caused by Gervais Monjoy observing
that before us rose the ivy-covered ruins of an ancient schloss,
which seemed to inform him, as he said, that in the interest which he
took in his unfortunate love affair he had lost or mistaken the way.

We were on the brow of a high eminence, and far away in distance
spread the snowy landscape.  In the foreground were some leafless
woods and ridges of rock, which like the ruins of the old castle
shone in russet and pink, as the yellow and rosy dawn stole across
the eastern quarter of the sky.  A star or two still twinkled
overhead, and one shone brightly through the gaping windows of the
square keep of the old schloss.

"_Morbleu_, my friend! my mind has been so full of Isabelle that I
have proved but an indifferent guide.  We are on the road to Waldeck.
That is the old castle of Count Heinrich, who slew Ferdinand of
Brunswick at Fritzlar, in 1400.  Let me consider.  We are not very
far from Zuschen, and a bend of the Lahn lies about two miles distant
on our right.  Fortunately here is a peasant.  Halloa! my friend, who
or what are you?" asked Monjoy, in German, as a man attired in an
overcoat of some dark stuff trimmed with black wolf's fur, and
wearing a cap and boots of deerskin, with a horn-hafted knife in his
girdle, a musket in his hand, and attended by a dog, appeared by the
wayside, where he was leisurely lighting his large pipe, and quietly
surveying us while doing so.

"I am a woodman," he answered somewhat gruffly.

"You are abroad betimes, friend."

"Those who have their bread to earn in a country swarming with
soldiers, who help themselves to the best of everything, have need to
be so, Mein Herr."

"Do you know the Lahn?"

"Right well.  I am Karl Karsseboom, a forester of the Baron Von
Freyenthal.  This path to the right will bring you to it straight.
Two miles from this is the ford; the water is shallow and frozen; but
the King of Prussia's Black Hussars are in a village on the other
side, so be wary."

"My friend, we thank you," said Monjoy, as the peasant touched his
fur cap respectfully, and, with his musket shouldered, strode off,
not in search of game, as we thought then, but to fulfil his duty of
scout, by acquainting some followers of Bourgneuf that I was to cross
the Lahn at the frozen ford.

"I have seen you some fifteen miles or so on your way," said my
companion, gradually reining in his horse, "and further would I go,
monsieur, but for those plans of Dillenburg which I must lay before
the maréchal, and which our friend Boisguiller must convey to
head-quarters.  Farewell: I have enjoyed much the few hours we have
had of your society; but the best we can wish each other, if this war
lasts, is that we may seldom or never meet again, as we shall only do
so when bayonets are fixed and bullets are flying."

Monjoy shook my hand, and wheeling round his horse, rode off.  I
remained for some minutes watching his retiring figure, the shadow of
which was thrown across the snow by the rising sun, in the light of
which his silver epaulettes flashed and glittered, and in the clear
frosty air the echoes of his horse's hoofs long came distinctly
ringing to the car.

I felt depressed and lonely now, for the suavity of manner and
gentleness of expression possessed by this young officer made him a
singularly winning and pleasing companion.

How much more would I have been interested in him then, could I have
foreseen his terrible future!

Turning, I rode slowly along the path indicated.  It was distinctly
visible even amid the snow, as day had dawned and the sun was up; and
while I traversed it at an easy pace (my horse being indifferently
frosted in the shoes, and halting at every step), with the reader's
permission I will give him--may I add, _her_?--the sad sequel to the
story of Monjoy, as I afterwards read it in the _Mercure Français_,
and the _Gazette de Bruxelles_, in our camp at Warburg in Prussian
Westphalia.

Monjoy returned to Paris with Maréchal de Contades, the Marquis de
Voyer, the Comte de Luc, and other officers who declined for various
admitted reasons to serve under the Duc de Broglie, and he lived
there a somewhat secluded life, exerting himself sedulously in the
study of his profession.  But he could not fail to hear from time to
time of her he had lost, and how the neglect, and what was worse, the
querulous tyranny, even the _blows_, of M. d'Escombas she endured
with meek and silent patience--a patience that galled Monjoy; for as
year succeeded year she had become the mere nurse of a petulant and
selfish old man.

"Many a good woman's life is no more cheerful," says a certain
writer; "a spring of beauty and sunshine; a bitter disappointment,
followed by pangs and frantic tears, and then a long, long and
monotonous story of submission."

As yet such had been the tenor of the life of Isabelle, but never did
she and Gervais meet, save once in the boxes of the Opera House of
the Palais Royal--the same theatre which had been built of old by
Cardinal Richelieu, and was burned down four years after Minden.

They were seated very near each other.  She seemed wondrously pale
and beautiful; she was clad in light blue silk, her delicate neck,
her white taper arms, and her golden hair all glittering with
diamonds--the badges of her wedded slavery.

Both were deeply agitated, but neither spoke, till Isabelle, unable
to restrain her emotion, whispered to Monjoy behind her fan--

"I can read your secret in your eyes, my poor Gervais, and so will
others if you do not retire."

"My secret?" he faltered.

"That you love me--love me still, though I am the slave of this
Dives.  Oh, my God! fly me--leave me to my misery--a misery known to
myself and Heaven only!"

Almost suffocated by his emotions--the grief and tenderness the
familiar sound of her voice and this pathetic appeal all served to
kindle in his breast, he rose abruptly and quitted the theatre,
followed by a threatening glance from d'Escombas.

That evening he wandered long about the streets, but an irresistible
fatality always lured him towards the Rue de Tournon, where Isabelle
resided.

The night came on, clear and cold; there was no moon, but the stars
shone brightly, and he saw all the windows of the street glittering
in their pale light, and those also in that noble façade of the
palace of the Luxembourg which faces the Rue de Tournon, with its
pavilions at each end, and the great cupola which rises above the
entrance door.

While wandering here, a person jostled him with great rudeness, and
turning with a hand on his sword, he encountered the remarkably
forbidding and somewhat grizzled visage of----M. d'Escombas!

"Monsieur will apologize?" said Monjoy in a husky voice, after
recovering from his surprise.

"Monsieur will do nothing of the kind," growled the old man.  "What
the devil brings you here, Gervais Monjoy?  But it matters nothing to
me--so you had better walk off, and take your hand from your sword,
or _parbleu!_ remember that I have the same cane for you that has
made Madame d'Escombas wince more than once!"

Maddened by the insult, the man, his words and the inferences to be
drawn from them, Monjoy prayed aloud--

"Great source of strength, assist me!  Beware! old man," he added,
"lest you drive me to despair.  Remember that it is neither the sixth
nor the seventh commandment in the Decalogue that may prevent me from
punishing you as you deserve, and rescuing a poor victim from your
tyranny."

M. d'Escombas, who was insanely jealous, grew white and livid with
rage at these words; and, as he did not want for courage, laid his
hand on his walking sword, for people still wore such weapons at
night in the streets of Paris.

"Dare you say this to me?" he exclaimed.

"_Oui, monsieur le scélérat_, and more if I choose.  A selfish father
sells his timid daughter to a sordid wretch who buys her for rank.
Was it not so, old man?"

"Granted--though she preferred a beggarly student who should have
stuck to his Vauban and his Coehorn," said the other, grinding his
teeth; "and what then?"

"Coldness and placid endurance of life--perhaps contentment, might
have followed; but never happiness."

"But for what, you would say?"

"Your querulous tyranny--your unmanly cruelty, with the story of
which all Paris rings.  You have even dared to strike her--to strike
her with your clenched hand, and even with your cane.  Oh,
malediction, my gentle Isabelle! and here, old man, I tell you _you
are a coward_!"

"A coward--and your Isabelle! ha--we shall see what we shall see,"
exclaimed d'Escombas, boiling with ungovernable fury, as he swiftly
drew his sword, and rushing upon Monjoy before the latter was aware,
wounded him severely in the side.

This was too much for human endurance.  The engineer drew his sword,
and locking in, tossed up, or wrenched away the weapon of M.
d'Escombas, which glittered in the starlight as the blade went twenty
feet into the air.  At the same moment the sword of Monjoy pierced
the lungs of his adversary, who, as he whirled round in his agony
before falling, received it a second time in his back.  He fell on
his face and expired without a groan, and Monjoy fled, full of
horror, leaving his weapon in the street, behind him.

All that dreadful night he wandered about the streets, the quays, and
bridges of Paris, haunted by what seemed a dream, a nightmare, to
endure for ever; and when day dawned he repaired straight to a
Commissary (an official similar to our justice of the peace) and
declared upon oath "that he had slain M. d'Escombas in the Rue de
Tournon; but in a fair duel, sword in hand, in self-defence."

The Commissary deplored the circumstance, but accepted the
declaration, and perceiving that he was dreadfully agitated, gave him
some wine and water.

"And now, dear Isabelle," he muttered wildly, "you are free--but by
my hand--alas, by _my_ hand!"

"How, monsieur," exclaimed the Commissary, sharply, looking up from
his desk, and surveying the miserable Monjoy through his
spectacles--"what's this you say?"

Monjoy remained silent, but grew, if possible, paler.

"Hah! _mon Dieu_!" exclaimed the Commissary, changing colour; "I
remember now.  Is it true that you were a discarded lover of Madame,
when she was Mademoiselle du Platel, and a boarder with les dames de
Notre Dame de Charité on du réfuge de St. Michel, in the Rue de St.
Jacques?"

"Yes," moaned Monjoy; "it is too true."

"Detain M. Gervais Monjoy in custody; send for a surgeon; bring the
body of M. d'Escombas here, and let us have it examined," said the
other to his officials.

In less than an hour all this was done.

"How is this?" exclaimed the surgeon, the Commissary; and all
present; "there is a sword wound _in the back_, and the sword is
still remaining there!"

"He has been murdered!" said the Commissary, sternly.

"Dare you say so?" exclaimed Monjoy, with equal fury and indignation.

"In my official capacity, I may say anything," replied the
commissary, with a grimace--"to La Force with the prisoner!"

Within another hour Monjoy found himself in that formidable
prison--formerly the hotel of the Maréchal Duc de la Force--accused
of murder.  Maréchal de Contades was in disfavour at court; Maréchal
de Broglie was still in Germany, where the Seven Years' War was
raging as fiercely as ever; his aunt the Prioress was dead.  Thus
Monjoy had no friend in Paris, save _one_, for whom he dare not send;
so he remained in his vault, sunk in misery, and careless for the
future.

In this prison are detained until the day of trial those who are
accused of crimes.  It is a spacious edifice, divided into several
departments, and having eight courts, all watched and guarded well.

At last, in the extremity of his misery.  he sent for Isabelle, that
he might, to her at least, absolve himself from the crime of which he
was accused.  She came clad in deep mourning, and the meeting between
them was painful and affecting.  But as it was known that they had
been lovers in their youth, Paris was ready to believe the worst; and
as the sordid M. du Platel and d'Escombas' kinsman, the Governor of
the Conciergerie, cried "fire and sword" against them both, rumour
succeeded in having Madame accused of being "art and part" in her
husband's death.  So she was arrested, and committed to a separate
vault in La Force, one of the places named _les Secrets_ in that
formidable edifice, which is formed entirely of hewn stone and
enormous bars of iron, and in the construction of which neither wood
nor plaster are employed.

There they languished for many months without a trial, as it happened
that just about this time the chief court of justice in France, the
_Parlement de Paris_--without the full concurrence of which no
criminal can be arraigned--was removed, first to Pontoise and
thereafter to Soissons, on account of their severe proceedings
against the Archbishop of Paris, who (to repress the disorderly lives
of the people) had issued a pastoral letter "forbidding all priests
and curs to administer the sacrament to any one, no matter of what
rank, unless they could produce a certificate from their father
confessor"--a pastoral which gave great offence to the court of the
Most Christian king.

To be brief: when the Court ultimately assembled, poor Monjoy was
brought to trial, and on being put to torture admitted that he was
guilty of the murder in the Rue de Tournon, and consequently was
sentenced to be broken alive upon the wheel.

When asked who were his accomplices, amidst torments the most
excruciating, he persisted in affirming that he had none; that Madame
d'Escombas was guiltless and pure as when she left her convent.
French medical skill was brought to bear upon his quivering limbs,
and then, maddened by agony, he continued deliriously to acknowledge
himself guilty of the murder again and again; but on being questioned
for the last time concerning Madame d'Escombas, he accused her too!

On this the windlass of the rack was instantly relaxed, and he
fainted, with blood pouring from his mouth and nostrils.

When his keener agony was over, on his knees, before my old friend
Père Celestine (once curé of St. Solidore, and now coadjutor Bishop
of Paris), with tears of blood and agony the unhappy Monjoy retracted
all that had been wrung from him under torture; but it was too late.

On _his_ accusation and confession she too was tried, and sentenced
to death, and then both were committed to the Conciergerie du Palais,
and to the care of that grim governor, the kinsman of d'Escombas--he
of whom Monjoy had such an instinctive dread of old.

The entrance to this frightful old prison is by a low and narrow
door, over which might well be carved the well-known line from
Dante's "Inferno."

Isabelle was conducted to the greffe or female prison, by that sombre
vestibule which is lighted by lamps even at mid-day; but Monjoy was
thrust, bleeding and mangled, perspiring in every limb with recent
torture, into one of the old and dark dungeons of the Conciergerie,
from whence, after a time, they were both conveyed in a tumbril, and
clad in sackcloth, to the Place de Greve, where she was hanged by the
neck, and he, after making a pathetic declaration of her innocence,
underwent the dreadful death of being broken alive upon the wheel!

With his last breath he implored the executioner to see that a blue
ribbon, some gift of happier years, which he wore round his neck,
should be buried with him.

Such was the miserable fate of this young Frenchman who befriended me
so much at Ysembourg, and whom I last saw galloping gallantly along
the road from the old ruined schloss, with his epaulettes and gay
uniform glittering in the morning sunshine.

And now, with a pardon for this digression, I return to my own more
matter-of-fact story.




CHAPTER XII.

THE FROZEN FORD.

By a narrow path between leafless woods, I proceeded for two miles in
the direction indicated by Monjoy, and then saw before me the Lahn, a
stream which rises in the west of Germany, and, as any Gazetteer will
inform us, passes by the hill which is crowned by the castle of
Marburg, the old Bailiwick of Giessen, the walled town of Wetzlar,
and the city of Nassau (in which and in other places along its banks
we had garrisons or outposts), until it flows into the famous Rhine
near Upper Lahnstein.

That portion of the stream which I now approached, though broad, was
shallow and frozen hard.  Its banks were thickly fringed by willow
trees, amid which the morning mist was rolling lazily.  Here and
there some of those great masses of detached copper-coloured rock
which stud the scenery of Waldeck overhung the stream, and had their
bases crusted with frozen foam.

The region being high and hilly, and the season midwinter, the
atmosphere was intensely cold, yet I was dubious of the strength of
the ice, and feared that my horse, with its wounded off hind leg,
might flounder and fall if its hoofs pierced the covering of the
stream.  As this idea occurred to me I was about to dismount, and
hold the animal by the bridle, when the appearance of a well-bearded
human visage regarding me steadily from a cleft in the rocks, made me
pause with a hand on my holster-flap, a motion which made the person
instantly vanish.

The mist enveloping the willow-covered bank I had to traverse before
reaching the stream was dense, and curling up in the sunshine, and it
seemed to me that certain objects which at first resembled stumps of
trees suddenly took the form of men, clad in white coats, the uniform
of the French line; and, as the event proved, here were six men of
the Regiment de Bretagne, a foraging party suborned by Bourgneuf to
cut me off, and with them was the identical peasant whom Monjoy and I
had met near the ruins of the old schloss--Karl Karsseboom.

I had the marshal's signed passport, but feared to ride forward or
deliver it, and for a time remained unchallenged and irresolutely
watching those men whose white-clad figures amid the frosty mist and
tossing willows seemed indistinct and wavering, like Banquo's shadowy
line of kings, or the weird sisters in "Macbeth."

I waved aloft the paper given me by Bourgneuf, the immediate reply to
which was the levelling of four muskets; but three flashed in the
pan, the priming having probably become wet over night.  The bullet
from the fourth, however, knocked my grenadier cap awry.

I then shook a white handkerchief, and demanded a parley; but a fifth
and sixth musket flashed redly out of the white mist, making a
hundred reverberations amid the river's bed, and another bullet
grazed my left ear like a hot searing-iron.  I was full of fury now,
and while these would-be assassins were casting about and reloading,
I heard a voice shout clearly in French, and with a mocking laugh--

"_Peste_!   Arnaud de Pricorbin--_il ne sait pas distinguer une femme
d'une girouette!_"  (He knows not a woman from a weathercock--meaning
that he was a bad shot, and could hit neither.)

The brother of the executed Volontaire de Clermont was here, and had
preceded me to the ford; thus I was in peculiarly bad hands it would
appear.  Their six muskets were unserviceable as yet, so, spurring
furiously, I rushed sword in hand at the whole group, firing a pistol
and hurling it after the shot as I advanced.

Gored by the spurs, the poor old horse forgot his wound, and swept
through my adversaries, crashing among the frozen willows, reeds,
icicles, and rotten ice.  For a moment I saw six fierce, dark-visaged
fellows, with white coats, red epaulets, and black crossbelts, with
their muskets clubbed to beat me down.  By a backhanded stroke I
slashed one across the face; but at the same moment a bayonet pierced
my horse in the bowels, and he received a long wound that ripped open
his near hind flank; this was from the musket of the German forester,
who levelled it deliberately over a fragment of rock.

Maddened by pain and fury, the animal reared wildly back upon its
haunches, and then, instead of riding towards the ford, swerved
round, and treading some of our assailants under his hoofs, galloped
straight along a road which led towards Wildungen, in a direction
nearly opposite to that I wished to pursue.

Wild, terrified, and dying, with the bit clenched tightly between his
teeth, the horse was for a time quite unmanageable, and I had not
power to stop him, even if inclined to do so, which I certainly was
not, until beyond musket range of the discomfited rascals who guarded
the frozen ford.

In short, I was borne away by my wounded horse in a manner nearly
similar to that which had occurred after one of our skirmishes with
the French Hussars in Brittany.  I know not why it was, but I felt
more excited by this encounter than by the whole day at Minden, and
when riding on, seemed still to hear the report of the muskets, and
to see them flashing out of the mist before me.

Dropping blood and foam upon the snow with every bound, the poor
animal, covered with perspiration and enveloped in a steam induced by
the frosty air, carried me a few miles almost at racing speed.  This,
however, slacked suddenly, and on coming to a thicket where a spring
(the water of which had a warm or peculiar mineral property, as it
was quite unfrozen) flowed freely, I rode for nearly a mile up its
bed or course, so that if followed by Arnaud de Pricorbin and other
faithful Bretons of the Comte de Bourgneuf, the track of blood so
visible in the snow would be lost in the running stream.

Perceiving a sequestered cottage upon the slope of a hill, sheltered
by some great fir trees, I approached it, and was made welcome by the
occupants, who appeared to be only a poor woman and her blind
daughter; but they had no fear of me, as my uniform showed them--the
former at least--that I was one of those who had come to assist in
freeing Westphalia and Waldeck from those unscrupulous invaders, the
French.

With some difficulty I made them understand, by a broken jargon, that
we had been engaged in a skirmish, and that my horse had been
wounded.  It was placed in an outhouse or shed, where a cow was
munching some chopped straw and frozen turnips.  I removed the heavy
demi-pique saddle, bridle, and holsters, putting the remaining pistol
in my belt.  While doing so the poor animal, lying among the straw,
with its bowels protruding through the bayonet wound, whinnied and
rubbed its nose upon the sleeve of my red coat, as if recognising the
_colour_; and in that lonely place I felt as if I had lost my only
friend, when the old grey trooper died about two hours after.

I remember partaking with the poor cottager and her blind daughter of
a savoury dish of stewed hare, which had been netted by herself in
the adjacent fir thicket.  We had also a warm jug of mulled Wildungen
beer, making a repast for which I was both grateful and well
appetized, after the adventures of so cold a morning.  I ate and
drank to strengthen me for whatever might follow, as I was still in
the land of toil and danger; and for the same end I carefully
re-charged, primed, and flinted anew my solitary pistol, and then
slept for an hour or so by the peasant's fire of turf, wood, and
fir-cones.

By the devious course of the river it would appear that I was still
only a few miles from the Lahn; but I knew that if Arnaud de
Pricorbin escaped my scuffle with him and his comrades, it would be
duly reported to the Count that I was yet on the French side of the
stream; thus more ample means would be taken by him to guard it, and
to cut me off at any possible point elsewhere.

In the distance I could see the quaint old city of Wildungen, seated
between two snow-clad mountains, with the dun smoke of its winter
fires ascending into the clear, cold sky.  At one time I thought of
venturing there and endeavouring to procure a guide or escort from
any French officer who was in command; and either one or other the
Duke's passport would certainly have procured me; but whom might I
meet on the way? was the next idea.

The jealousy of Bourgneuf was so insane, and his whole proceedings
were so cruel and unwarrantable, that my heart boiled with rage
against him; and in this new cause for anger I forgot even Shirley,
whose jealousy in another matter had cast me into these toils by an
effort of cunning and poltroonery which I hoped one day to requite,
and amply too.

Resolving to wait until nightfall, and then set forth alone, I passed
the day at the cottage of the peasant woman, who urged me to await
the return of her husband, who had been absent all day with his gun
in search of a deer, and could guide me with certainty.

"What is he?" I inquired, carelessly.

"A forester of the Baron Von Freyenthal."

"Indeed!" said I, becoming suddenly interested.  "I met such a person
this morning.  Does he wear a fur cap and deerskin boots, and has he
a large black shaggy wolf dog?"

"Exactly, Mein Herr--you have met my husband Karl Karsseboom and his
dog Jager."

"If I meet him again!" thought I, with a hand on my pistol.

After this information, and the discovery of who was my landlord (ah!
if the fellow had returned when I was asleep!) I resolved to lose no
time in endeavouring to reach the ford of the Lahn at any risk.
Whoever was there, the night would favour me, and I was alike
forewarned and forearmed.

I studied closely the features of the country from the cottage
window, and repeatedly consulted a little pocket map of the
principality of Waldeck, which had been given to me by Gervais
Monjoy, two means of topographical knowledge that availed me little,
when, a few hours after, without encountering the amiable Karl
Karsseboom, I found myself on the rugged German highway alone,
bewildered, and floundering along in the dark in my military
jack-boots, with a heavy storm of snow drifting in my face, and the
stormy and frosty north wind, which was so keen and cold that at
times it well-nigh choked me.




CHAPTER XIII.

LAST OF THE EMERALD RING.

The snow-flakes were thick and blinding; the roadway became less and
less discernible as the white mantle of winter deepened; buried under
it, shrubs, tall weeds, and everything that could mark the borders of
the path, a very rough and occasionally steep one, disappeared, and I
wandered on wearily and at random without knowing in what direction.

There was no one abroad at such an hour and in such a season, and no
house was visible, for the district was wild and desolate, having
been severely devastated by the French foragers.

No sound came to the ear but the occasional hiss of the sharp hail
that mingled with the falling snow, rendering the winter blast more
chilly, choking, and biting, till the lungs became acutely pained,
and the heart throbbed wildly.

How far I struggled on inspiring that icy atmosphere I cannot say,
but nature was beginning to sink, and in my heart grew the fear of
being conquered altogether, and of perishing in the storm, when
happily a light that shone down what appeared to be a kind of ravine
or trench (I know not which with certainty, as the snow caused all
forms and features to blend) filled me with new strength, and
manfully I made towards it, keeping in the track or line it cast so
brightly towards me.

Ere long I could discover other lights that shone high above me in
the air; then all at once the outline of a great old schloss or
castle loomed through the snowy atmosphere, and the light which had
been my guide shone apparently from a window in the lower story of
the edifice.  This suggested ideas of robbers, for who has not heard
or read of German robbers and their haunts in ruined castles of the
Black Forest, or by the Rhine and Weser?  A French outpost perhaps!
Well, it mattered not; anything--even a few of the Volontaires de
Clermont were better hosts than the snow and Jack Frost in such a
night and in such a season.

Suddenly a cry escaped me, when, half-stifled in snow, I sank to the
armpits--yea, to the very neck, struggling and floundering like a
drowning man.  In fact, I had tumbled into the dry ditch of the
schloss, which was nearly filled with drifted snow, and across which
I scrambled with great difficulty towards the light.  Thrice I nearly
surrendered altogether, before, panting, breathless, and chilled to
the heart's core, I reached a kind of terrace, approached the window,
and peeped in.

Between tapestry hangings and white curtains of Mechlin lace, there
could be seen a cosy little room, lined with dark brown wainscot, the
varnished panels of which shone in the light of a cheerful fire.
Drapery also of Mechlin lace overhung an elegant bed, a handsome
mirror, and toilet-table, on which were placed four tall candles in
solid stands of mahogany and silver.

There were one or two ebony Dutch cabinets, on which stood rare Japan
canisters, quaint Chinese figures, an ormolu clock, and various
pretty _bijouterie_, and there reigned within a sense of warmth,
perfume, and comfort, that reached even to my chilly post without the
casement.

But now, through the large pattern of the Mechlin lace hangings, I
could discern two female figures near the fireplace; they were each
kneeling at a carved oak _prie-dieu_, saying their prayers and
warming themselves at the same time, thus combining their comfort
with their piety.  By her dress, and the contour of her head and
shoulders, one appeared to be a lady; the other an attendant.
Benumbed to agony, I felt dreamy, bewildered, and knew not what to
do; sleep seemed to be stealing over my senses.

What if all I saw was an illusion, and these two fair ones were but
Lurlies, like those who haunted the Lurliberg?  What if the whole
affair proved a dream, from which I should waken, if I ever woke at
all, to find myself amid the snow-clad ruins of some old haunted
schloss beside the Lahn?--for such is the plot of many a German story.

But when they rose from prayer I was quickly undeceived, and a cry
almost escaped me on recognising Jacqueline de Broglie and her pretty
attendant, the waggish Angelique!

Some minutes elapsed before I could sufficiently master my emotions
to enable me to observe them particularly.  Both seemed almost as
unchanged as when we were together in the old château, especially
Madame Tricot, the pretty piquante and black-eyed Bretonne.  (Ah, she
had soon tired of her M. Jacquot, who perhaps had given himself too
many airs on becoming coachman to the coadjutor Bishop of Paris.)
And she was here now with her former mistress (and mine too) in
Germany, the land of the Seven Years' War.

The soft and charming features, the dark hair and eyes of Jacqueline,
her air and manner, were all as I had seen them--not last, when
lying, as it would seem, lifeless in the forest, but as they had been
in our happier times.  She was beautiful as ever; but the slightest
symptom of dark down, like a shade, was visible at each corner of her
pretty mouth--a symptom not uncommon among Frenchwomen after their
twentieth year.

What was I to do now?  To advance was to run into the jaws of danger;
to retire was to perish amid the drifting snow, and already the very
marrow seemed frozen in my bones.  As she said something to
Angelique, a thrill passed through me at the sound of her voice;
something of my old love swelled up in my heart, and then pique
repressed it; she seemed so happy and so smiling!

Had she been compelled to marry Bourgneuf?  But, save her love, what
was there to tie her unto me after I had disappeared from the château?

Suddenly the window against which I pressed (till my nose, had it
been observed, must have presented a very livid aspect), and which
had not been bolted, parted in two leaves that opened inwards, and
heavily and awkwardly, with a shower of snow, I fell headlong into
the apartment, and almost at the feet of Jacqueline, who, with her
attendant, uttered a cry of terror; but both speedily recovered their
presence of mind.

"_Mon Dieu!_ what is this?--a drunken soldier!" exclaimed the first,
with great asperity.

"A mousquetaire rouge--_Grand Dieu!_ 'tis an Englishman!  We shall
all be murdered.  Help! help!" cried Madame Tricot, with new dismay.

"Jacqueline--Jacqueline! for Heaven's sake, hush!  Have you quite
forgotten me, Basil Gauntlet, and our pleasant days in old Bretagne?"
I exclaimed, in an excited and imploring tone.

Terror, surprise, and anything but real pleasure, filled the eyes of
Jacqueline us she recognised me.  She trembled, and held up her hands
as if to shield her averted face and keep me back; but this was
needless, as I never approached, but stood near the open window,
through which came the drifting snow and the night wind that waved
the hangings.

"Oh, Jacqueline!" said I, while an irrepressible emotion of
tenderness filled my heart, "how terrible was the time when last I
saw you stretched upon the earth in the forest of St. Aubin de
Cormier!--and why do you greet me so coldly now?"

"Monsieur," said Angelique, taking my hands kindly in hers, "she
greets you as people of the world greet those whom they are anxious
to forget."

"With a fearful and cold welcome, Angelique?"

"True, _mon ami_, it is so."

"Then I pray you to pardon this intrusion," said I, hurriedly; "in
seeking the British lines I have lost my way, and my life is beset by
other dangers than the winter storm.  Tell me where the Lahn lies,
and I shall go; but pity me, Jacqueline, for Heaven and my own heart
alone know how well I loved you."

There was a gratified smile on her lovely lip; a _smile_--and at such
a time--it went a long way to cure me of my folly.

"_O, mon pauvre Basil!_ and so it is really you?" said she, regarding
me with a certain vague interest sparkling in her fine dark eyes;
"but here, at this time of night," she continued with alarm--"and the
count--I expect him every moment!  You know that I am married, do you
not?  Get him away--away from here.  Oh, Angelique, where are your
brains?  Aid us, or he is lost, and I too, perhaps!"

"Lost, indeed!" I repeated, bitterly.

"Guillaume de Boisguiller, whom you found in that horrid English
prison-ship, told you all about my marriage, did he not?" said
Jacqueline, earnestly.

"Yes, madame."

"And you did not die of a broken heart?"

"Not at all, madame; I can assure you that broken hearts are articles
quite as rare among us in England as with you in France."

"Ah, indeed!" said she, smiling again.

"'Tis so," said I, with a laugh, which sounded strangely in my own
ears, and in which she joined, giving her shoulders the while a
little French shrug.

And this was the Jacqueline about whom I had sighed, raved, and wept!
So here was an extinction of love, and a great demolition of romance
at one fell blow.

"Tell me where the Lahn lies, madame, and I shall not trouble you
with my presence for a moment longer.  I am in constant danger of my
life, for your husband seeks to destroy me, and without a reason."

"_Grands Dieux!_" she exclaimed, with real alarm, "are you the
fugitive to secure whom Bourgneuf has dispatched men in so many
directions?"

"Yes, madame; so permit me to restore to you this emerald ring.  It
nearly cost me my life, and yet it won me my liberty yesterday at
Ysembourg."

"From whom?" she asked, hurriedly.

"Your gallant old father, the Duc de Broglie."

Then drawing her ring from my finger, I laid it on the toilet-table
with the air of Cromwell ordering the removal of "that bauble," the
mace.

"He has no less than three parties out to cut you off--one in the
direction of Hesse Cassel--one on the road to Wildungen--and a third
at the ford near Zuschen, under Arnaud de Pricorbin."

"The bridges----"

"Alas! are all destroyed, and though a plank might aid you in
crossing the one at Freyenthal, I heard him say that the Baron Konrad
watches all the riverside with his foresters to prevent your passage.
_Mon Dieu!_ what shall be done?"

"Let me forth into the night again," said I, turning; "anywhere is
better than here.  Adieu, madame, adieu, and for ever!"

"_Hola! mon bon Monsieur Gauntlet_; so we meet again, do we?"
exclaimed a familiar voice; and a cry escaped the women, when I found
myself confronted by the Count de Bourgneuf, who shrugged his
shoulders in the true French style, till his epaulettes touched his
ears, while a fierce, ironical, and almost diabolical smile spread
over his visage, and he ground his teeth.  "_Aha, mon garcon!_" he
continued, making me a series of mock bows, and then I perceived that
he had a cocked pistol dangling in each hand: "so I've caught you at
last, eh?"




CHAPTER XIV.

THE WHISPERED ORDER.

In his rage, Bourgneuf, with each ironical bow, shook from his
brigadier wig the white powder which he wore in great profusion.

The danger was imminent; peril menaced me in front and rear; the
winter storm without, and an absurdly jealous foe within.  I drew the
pistol from my belt; but, alas! the pan was open, and the snow, when
I fell into the ditch of the schloss, had replaced the priming.  It
was useless; however, as Bourgneuf was levelling his first weapon at
my head, I rushed upon him, struck up the muzzle with my left hand,
so that in exploding the ball pierced the ceiling.  With my
pistol-butt I struck the weapon from his other hand, and seized him
by the throat; but the room was almost immediately filled by soldiers
of the Regiment de Bretagne, who beat me down and disarmed me.

The count drew my sword from its scabbard, and contemptuously snapped
the blade under his foot, saying, "_Ha! pst-sacré coquin-pst!_" as I
was dragged into another apartment, and the door of the countess's
room was closed and locked upon her and her attendant, whose cries I
could hear ringing through the mansion; and as they seemed the
prelude to some deed of cruelty and violence, I felt that in hands so
unscrupulous I was helpless and completely lost.

However, I did not give in without a desperate struggle.  From Tom
Kirkton, who in his wilder days had practised at Marybone and
Hockly-in-the-Hole, I had picked up a little of the good old English
science of self-defence, so I struck out right and left, and knocked
over the crapauds like ninepins, till the butt-end of a musket laid
me on the field of battle, and for a time I thought all was over.

I was now rifled.  The two louis of kind Boisguiller were speedily
appropriated.  The pass of the Duc de Broglie and the little laced
handkerchief of Aurora, which I still preserved as a souvenir of my
only relative, were handed to the count.  He laughed at the first,
but the sight of the second transported him with a fury only equal to
that of the Moor on the loss of that important handkerchief which the
Egyptian to his mother gave, and which had "magic in the web of it."

"Count Bourgneuf," I exclaimed, resolutely, on recovering my breath,
for timidity, I found, would be of little avail here; "you have in
your hand the signed passport of the Duc de Broglie; how dare you
thus to violate it?"

"Dare--_parbleu!_ from whom did you receive it?"

"From yourself, in presence of M. Monjoy and the Chevalier de
Boisguiller."

"Signed, you say?"

"Yes--look at it."

"I _have_ looked; but it bears a signature Monseigneur de Broglie
would scarcely recognise, and which no French soldier is bound to
respect."

"A forgery!  Mean you to say that it is a forgery of yours?" I
exclaimed, furiously.

"Term it as you please," said he, tearing the paper to pieces; "'tis
thus that I respect it."

"The duke released me," I began, with some emotion of
alarm--"released me on parole, and complimented me----"

"Because you saved the life of his daughter from an outlaw--or
pretend that you did so."

"But you, her husband, M. le Comte----"

"Mean to put you to death as a spy, who remained as such in Bretagne
for several weeks, and who now as a prisoner seeks to escape, after
lurking behind the French lines, of which the river Lahn is the
present boundary."

"Say, rather," said I, with unwise bitterness, "that with a jealous
cowardice which has no parallel, you resolve to destroy me as one who
loved the countess before she had the misfortune to become your wife."

Enraged that this remark was made before the listening soldiers who
crowded all the room, Bourgneuf said, with an oath and a scornful
laugh--

"Ha!--think you so?"

"I both think and say so."

"What an intolerable world it would be if every man said all he
thought, as you do; but I will meet you with the sword if you choose."

"I will not fight with a would-be assassin."

"The pistol then," he continued, grinding his teeth.

"I will not fight with an assassin, even though he wear the uniform
of a colonel of the French Line," I replied, resolutely, though the
soldiers began to mutter angrily, and beat the floor with the butts
of their muskets.

"_Bah---pst! ce pistolet est en arrêt!_" said Bourgneuf, turning on
his heel with a sneer on his cruel lip, and this pet phrase of the
French soldiers (implying the "white feather") so enraged me, that I
could with pleasure have pistolled him on the spot.

Looking round for a man in whom he could trust, he selected a
corporal, a most sinister-looking fellow, whose nose was quite awry,
and whose shaggy eyebrows met over it in one.  To him he gave a
_whispered order_, and though my ear was painfully acute at such a
time, I could only detect the words, "distance--sound of firing might
not disturb--buried in the snow."

The man with the crooked nose and huge chevrons saluted his colonel,
and desired me to follow him, which I did immediately, conceiving
that my chances were always better with one man than with a score.
As we left the room a gleam of triumphant malice sparkled in the eyes
of Bourgneuf, and he gave me an ironical bow.

When _next_ I saw his face its expression was very different.

In the vestibule of the schloss, which was full of sleeping soldiers,
the corporal summoned a personage, in whom I recognised Karl
Karsseboom, in whose ear he repeated the order of the count, and
muttering curses at the trouble I caused them, these two worthies,
after carefully loading their muskets, desired me gruffly to follow
them, and leaving the schloss by a drawbridge which spanned the
snow-filled ditch, we set forth, on what errand I knew not.

The storm of wind and snow was over now.  Morning was at hand; the
stars shone clear and brilliantly, and so bright was the reflection
of the snow that every object could be discerned as distinctly as at
noon-day.  The silence was profound; even our foot-falls were muffled
in the white waste, from amid which the fir-trees stood up like
sheeted spectres.

I was weary and chilled, being without any muffling; my head was
giddy with the recent blow, and the keen frosty air affected me
severely.

I asked the corporal if they were conducting me to the ford of the
Lahn.

"Not quite so far," replied he, gruffly.

My unexpected interview with Jacqueline, her coolness, her general
bearing, had all bewildered me, and painfully wounded my self-esteem
and pride, crushing my old love, and creating an emotion that wavered
between wonder and--shall I term it so?--disgust.  She had proved so
cold-blooded, so--but enough of Jacqueline; let me to my story, or we
shall never make an end.

Again I asked my guides whither they were conveying me, and their
object?

"Beelzebub!" muttered the corporal; "how impatient you are.  You will
find out too soon, perhaps.  Karl, are we a mile from the schloss
yet?"

"Scarcely," grumbled Karsseboom, looking back.

I recalled the whispered order of Bourgneuf, and the terrible
conviction came upon me that I was to be conducted to the _distance_
of a mile or so, where the _sound of firing might not disturb_ the
countess--to be there shot and _buried in the snow_!

Thus did a keen sense of danger supply the wanting words.

What was I to do--unarmed, weak, weary, and powerless?  I could
grapple with neither of my guards without the risk of being shot by
the other; and to be led out thus--I, an officer on parole, a
prisoner of war, protected by the promise of the Duc de Broglie--led
out to be butchered by two unscrupulous ruffians, and without a
struggle--the thought was too dreadful for contemplation.

But such was the intended sequel to that night's adventures.

Halting close to a thicket about a mile distant from the schloss, the
irregular outline of which was clearly defined against the starry
sky, the corporal told me to "stand still, or march ten paces
forward, and then turn round."

"For what purpose?"

"You will soon see," replied Karsseboom, as he slapped the butt of
his musket with cool significance, and proceeded to kick, or scoop
with his feet, a long trench in the soft snow.

"You do not--you cannot mean to butcher me here?" said I, following
them closely.

"_Halte là_!  Stand where you are," cried the corporal, "or, _nom
d'un Pape_!  I will shoot you down with my muzzle at your head.  _Ah,
sacre!--canaille--Rosbif!_"

A wild beating of the heart; a dryness of the lips, which I strove to
moisten with my tongue; a dull sense of stupor and alarm, all soon to
end, come over me, when cocking their pieces they retired backward
close to the thicket.  After carefully examining their priming, they
were in the act of raising the butts to their shoulder to take aim,
when thinking that all was over with me in this world, I strove to
call to memory a prayer, and something like a solemn invocation of
God was forming on my lips, when both muskets exploded upwards in the
air, and their reports rung far away on the frosty atmosphere, making
me give an involuntary and spasmodic leap nearly a yard high.

I looked, and lo! there were my corporal and his Teuton comrade lying
prostrate in the snow, while a man of great stature, armed with a
large cudgel, was brandishing it above them, and kicking them the
while with uncommon vehemence and vigour.

"Lie there, ye loons!" he exclaimed, in a dialect I had little
difficulty in recognising even in that exciting moment; "I have gi'en
you a Liddesdale cloure, and _you_ a Lockerbie lick on the
chaffets--ye unco' vermin!"  Then he proceeded to twirl his ponderous
cudgel--a branch recently torn from a tree--round his head to dance
among the snow and to sing--

  "Wha daur meddle wi' me?
    Wha daur meddle wi' me?
  My name is wee Jock Elliot,
    So wha daur meddle wi' me?"

On advancing, I found to my astonishment that my protector was my
comrade, Big Hob Elliot of the Scots Greys!




CHAPTER XV.

THE DEAD HUSSAR.

"'Ods, sir, the hand o' Providence is in this!" exclaimed Hob,
capering among the snow with renewed joy, but rather clumsily in his
heavy jack boots; "and so you are the puir Redcoat thae devils were
gaun to butcher!"

"How came you here, Hob?" I inquired in a somewhat agitated voice.

"How came you here, yourself, sir?  But we hae nae time for spiering;
we'll tak' their muskets and awa' to some place o' safety."

In a trice Hob tumbled the French corporal, who was just recovering,
out of his crossbelts, and appropriating his cartridge-box, handed me
one musket, while arming himself with the other.  We then hastened at
a smart pace round the thicket, leaving the two scoundrels, French
and German, to rouse them as best they could, or to smother amid the
snow, for Hob had dealt each a stunning blow on the head.

As we hurried on, he told me briefly and hastily that he and nine
other Scots Greys had been confined in a chamber of the outworks of
Ysembourg, where they were packed as closely as ever Governor
Holwell's unfortunate companions were in the Black Hole at Calcutta;
but suffered from extreme cold in place of heat.  It occurred to one
who had been a stonemason, that the paved floor was hollow
underneath, so this suggested the idea of attempting an escape.

Hob had been left with his spurs on his heels, so with these he
proceeded to pick out the lime, and on raising a stone slab a vaulted
place was discovered below.  They resolved to explore it, and soon
found that it was a passage or gallery leading to the dry ditch of
the fortress, and lighted by a row of loopholes meant for enfilading
by musketry the ditch itself.

Two of these loopholes were rapidly beaten or torn into one by Hob's
powerful hands armed with a stone, and then the whole party crawled
through into the fosse undiscovered, and just as day was breaking.

The snow, which was falling fast, concealed all noise and kept the
sentinels within their boxes, so by expertly using their hands and
feet the fugitives crossed the ditch and clambered up the opposite
side; but there a wooden stockade of considerable height presented
itself, and while searching for an outlet they were fired on by a
sentinel from above, and at the same moment encountered an officer
going his rounds with an escort of the inlying picket.

An alarm was immediately given; a scuffle, in which the escort
opposed their bayonets to the unarmed men, ensued, and all were
retaken save Hob Elliot, whose vast strength and activity enabled him
to elude the levelled muskets, beat down two or three of the escort,
reach an open wicket, and escape into the obscurity of the snowy
morning.  He had wandered all the ensuing day without knowing which
way to turn, inspired only by the hope of reaching the Lahn, but a
skirmish which had been going on between the Light Dragoons of the
allies and the French Hussars had compelled him to lurk in woods and
thickets, as he feared being shot at by both alike; for in his
present plight and after all he had undergone, very little of poor
Hob's red coat remained, and of that the colour was somewhat dubious.
Besides he was worn out with fatigue, and now nearly dead of cold,
though his animal spirits bore bravely up against danger and
adversity.

It was during this crisis in his affairs that, while concealed in a
clump of trees, he had seen me conducted there by the two hirelings
of Bourgneuf, and but for him, at their hands I had assuredly
perished by a miserable and unknown death.

We had both narrowly escaped captivity and danger; but I knew that
three parties were yet out in pursuit of me, and that the ford was
still guarded; so we were still in a horrible dilemma.

Refreshment and a guide were necessary; but where were we to find
either?  Loading the captured muskets we trod hopefully on, till we
reached a cottage or small farmhouse, which to all appearance was
deserted, as no smoke ascended from the chimneys, no dog barked or
cock crew in the yard, the gate of which lay open or flat upon the
ground.

A skirmish between the French Dragoons and the Prussian Black Hussars
had evidently taken place close by this farm; for near it several
horses, still accoutred were lying dead among the deep snow, and in
some instances we saw spurred boots and ghastly white hands sticking
up through it.

When we opened the door and entered the lower apartment the reason of
the silence within it was at once accounted for, and we saw that
which at another time, and to folks less case-hardened than Hob and
I, would have been a very appalling spectacle.

The house had been pillaged and its usual occupants had fled; but on
the table of the principal room lay a dead body muffled in a scarlet
cloak, all save the feet (from which the boots had been stolen), and
stiffly white and cold they protruded beyond the scarlet covering.

In a corner lay a pile of regimental coats, caps, boots, shirts,
stockings, waist and shoulder-belts, all spotted, and in some
instances soaked with now frozen blood; and there, too, were broken
swords, bent bayonets, and wooden canteens piled up by those vile
strippers of the dead, who would no doubt return ere long for their
plunder, so this was no place for us to linger in.

A Prussian Hussar, in the black uniform laced with white of the
King's favourite regiment, lay in another corner almost without a
wound, yet quite dead, and in a pool of his own blood.  A sword-point
had grazed his left temple, severing the temporal artery, and he had
bled to death, thus his blanched aspect was ghastly in the extreme.

"Horrible!" said I, shuddering.

"Maist deevilish!" added my companion, "but I've kenned o' waur."

Urged I knew not by what motive, for on service the emotion of mere
_curiosity_ soon becomes extinct, I turned down the mantle of the
dead body which lay on the table, and then imagine my regret and
horror on tracing in the glazed eyes, the relaxed jaw, the livid but
handsome face, where the black moustache contrasted with its pallor,
the Chevalier de Boisguiller, the gay and heedless Frenchman, who now
lay stiff and cold in his rich Hussar uniform.  He had been shot
through the heart, and must have died instantly, as there was not
much blood about him, but a fearful expression of agony yet distorted
his features.

Hob at once recognised him, and said,

"He was a braw cheild, this Boygilly; but he has gane oot o' the
world noo, and I daursay the damned world will never miss him."

The poor fellow's sabretache lay by him, together with his braided
and tasselled Hussar pelisse and fur cap.  I opened the former, and
found it contained the two despatches from the Duc de Broglie to
Maréchal de Contades, for which he had waited at Ysembourg on the
night I left it--despatches now spotted by his own blood.  They
detailed some future operations that were to take place on the
heights of Corbach, and enclosed Monjoy's diagrams of parallels and
approaches before the castles of Marburg and Dillenburg, and all of
these I knew would prove of inestimable value to our leader, Prince
Ferdinand of Brunswick.

I now conceived the idea of passing myself off for my poor friend,
whose character on this side of the Lahn was certainly a safer one
than my own.  I threw off my red coat, and put on his fur-trimmed
pelisse and Hussar cap, together with his belt and sabretache, with
its valuable papers.

Grim through this masquerading, Hob Elliot, who had been
investigating several cupboards, and overhauling some haversacks, in
which he found only a biscuit or two, laughed with stentorian lungs
when he saw me attired in French uniform.

Then he presented me with a biscuit, saying,

"'Ods, sir, we maun e'en feed oursels in this wilderness o' a place,
for the ravens are no' likely to do it."

To him I gave the scarlet cloak and a suitable forage cap, and after
vainly searching the house for anything it might contain in the shape
of more food or spirits, of which we stood much in need, we set out
about mid-day with a story framed to suit any French party we might
meet in our wanderings.

I knew poor Boisguiller so well that I could if necessary imitate his
voice and manner; and as we were much about the same height and
complexion, I had no fear of passing myself off successfully for the
chevalier.  Yet, if discovered, we now ran a terrible risk of being
hanged or shot as spies, or prisoners escaping, or it might be for
having slain the man whose uniform I wore and whose papers I carried.

We met no one to guide us, while proceeding in what we conceived, by
the gradual descent of the road and rivulets, to be the direction of
the Lahn, until just as the dusk of the short winter eve was closing
in, we saw a party of six French soldiers of the Line, muffled up in
their greatcoats, their muskets slung, their three-cornered hats
pulled well over their faces, and their hands thrust in their pockets
for warmth, coming leisurely towards us.

We had nothing for it now but to advance boldly and meet them, and
the reader may conceive that my emotions were far from soothing on
finding myself confronted by Arnaud de Pricorbin, and the same men
whom I had so recently met at the ford.




CHAPTER XVI.

ARNAUD DE PRICORBIN.

When about twenty paces distant they halted, and as the evening was
dusky cast about their muskets.  Then Arnaud cried with a loud voice,

"_Qui va là?_"

Hob Elliot very unwisely replied in his native tongue, and bade him
go to--it was not Heaven.  On this Pricorbin slapped the butt of his
musket and challenged again.

"_La France_," said I, in a very confident tone, and still continuing
to advance; "I am the Chevalier de Boisguiller, going towards
Freyenthal on special service."

"Boisguiller of the Hussars de la Reine?"

"_Oui, mon camarade_," said I, with a jaunty air.

"_Bon Dieu_!  M. le Chevalier on foot?"

"My horse was shot in a skirmish yesterday."

"_Tais-toi, nous serrons entendus, monsieur_," said Arnaud, in a
subdued voice, and presenting arms as I came close to him.

"_Pourquoi?_" said I, with affected impatience.

"Because the King of Prussia's Black Hussars are within musket shot
of us."

"Where?"

"Among yonder trees," said all the soldiers together in a whisper.

"It matters not to me," said I; "we go under _cartel_."

I now perceived that one of the six soldiers had his head and face
tied up with bloodstained handkerchiefs.

"And this big Gendarme?" inquired Arnaud, pointing to Hob Elliot.

"My guide from Ysembourg."

"Had he better not return with us?  Monsieur is close to the ford."

Instead of replying to this uncomfortable suggestion, I asked "Have
you found him you watched for?"

"The escaped prisoner?"

"_Diable_--yes."

"No, monsieur," he replied, with a malediction, in which the others,
especially he of the slashed visage, heartily joined, while stamping
their feet and blowing their fingers; "and so, after being
half-frozen, we have left the ford in despair."

"Well--in yonder cottage on the slope of the hill you will find him
lying dead, with his red coat beside him."

"_Tres bon!_--but I have some brandy here, M. le Chevalier," said
Arnaud, presenting his canteen.

"_A votre santé, mon camarade_," said I, drinking and handing the
vessel to Hob, who without the smallest compunction and with a leer
in his eye drained it to the last drop.  "Diable! 'tis a cold
night--I shaved off my moustache to avoid icicles; now, _camarade_,
the direct road to the ford?"

"Is this we are on, monsieur--a half-mile further will bring you to
it, but beware of the Hussars."

The deception was complete, and away they went double quick to the
dreary cottage on the hill.

Amid the darkness which had now set in, we reached the willow bushes
and scattered rocks at the ford, the scene of my late affair with its
watchers, and there a hoarse challenge in German rung through the
frosty air upon our right.  Then issuing from a thicket of pines, we
saw a patrol of twenty of those dark and sombre fellows, the King of
Prussia's Death's-head Hussars, riding slowly toward us.

They were all mounted (like our own corps) upon grey horses, their
uniform was black, trimmed with silver or white braid, and skulls and
cross-bones grimly adorned their caps, saddle-cloths and
accoutrements, It was commonly said that the Black Hussars neither
took nor gave quarter.  Of this I know not the truth; but under the
gallant and intrepid General Ziethen, they gained a glorious
reputation during the Seven Years' War.

I speedily made myself known to the officer in command.  He informed
me that my corps, which he knew well by its reputation, and by the
grey horses and grenadier caps of their riders, had suddenly left all
the villages of the Lahn and marched to Osnaburg (thirty-seven miles
from Minden) a town which Hob and I reached, after undergoing no
small degree of suffering and privation, about the beginning of
January; and happy were we when we saw the union-jack flying above
the fortress on the Petersburg, and our sentinels in their familiar
red coats at the gates.

Then indeed did we feel at home, and that night in Tom Kirkton's
quarters opposite the Dominican monastery, over a smoking rasher of
Westphalian bacon and a crown bowl of steaming brandy punch, I had
the pleasure of relating to old Colonel Preston and other
brother-officers all our adventures after my fashionable friend
Shirley had blown up the bridge of the Lahn.

One of the first persons I inquired for was this gallant major, who,
however, was elsewhere with the staff of Prince Ferdinand of
Brunswick; but I was determined to settle my little score with him on
the first suitable occasion.  We had a jovial reunion; many times was
the punchbowl replenished.  Tom Kirkton gave us his favourite ditty,
and then the old Colonel, in a voice somewhat cracked, struck up--

  "Malbrook s'en va t'en guerre, (and)
    _Mironton, Mironton, Mirontaine!_"

chorussed all to the clank of glasses and drinking-horns.

My indignation was great on finding that not content with betraying
me into the hands of the enemy, Shirley, to blacken my professional
reputation, had forwarded to the Marquis of Granby, General of our
cavalry, a report to the effect, that "by culpable negligence Cornet
Gauntlet had delayed to recross the Lahn, and had _permitted_ himself
to be taken prisoner, thus _betraying_ into the hands of the enemy
ten men and ten horses of his Majesty's Scots Grey Dragoons."

The corps were so furious at this aspersion that they cast lots for
who should call him out; it fell on a Captain named Cunningham, who
sent at once a challenge, which the Major declined on the prudent
plea that "he could deal with the principal only," but worthy old
Colonel Preston, who had seen the whole affair from the tower of
Freyenthal, cleared me of all the imputations of Shirley, whom I
would have punished severely by horsewhip and pistol, had he not been
mortally wounded in a skirmish on the 10th of January, when he
expired in the hands of two soldiers who were carrying him to the
rear in his sash.

On the day after I reached Osnaburg, Tom Kirkton, with a Scotch smirk
in his face, handed me a letter addressed in a lady's small Italian
hand.

It proved to be a kind one from my cousin Aurora--"the little
usurper," as I named her; "the fair pretender," as she was styled by
Tom.

Well, thought I, amid the horrors of war and the bitterness of such a
wayward passion as that I cherished for the French girl, it _is_
something above all price to have a pure English heart to remember,
to pray for, and perhaps to love me, as this dear Aurora does at home.

In a postscript she sent her "best duty and kind regards to Major
Shirley of the Staff."

"Poor devil!" muttered Tom, who was shaving himself for parade, and
using the back of his watch as a mirror.

Having nothing else in the shape of uniform, I had to wear poor
Boisguiller's gay Hussar pelisse on parade and on duty for some days,
until our quartermaster supplied me with a sergeant's coat (minus its
chevrons, of course), a trooper's sword, pistols and accoutrements;
and in this motley guise I made my _début_ as Lieutenant of the Light
Troop (and served in it during the remainder of the campaign), for so
valuable were the despatches regarding the projected movements of the
French on the heights of Corbach and before the castles of Marburg
and Dillenburg, that for procuring them I had been appointed to a
Lieutenancy in the 2nd Dragoon Guards by Prince Ferdinand, and then
gazetted back into my own corps--the boys who were _second to none_,
and whom I had no desire to leave.

We moved soon after to Schledhausen.  There we remained until the
month of May, when we marched through a country covered with forests
to Fritzlar, a small town which belonged to the Elector of Mentz,
where we were brigaded with the 11th Light Dragoons under General
Elliot till the month of June, when the army again took the field.




CHAPTER XVII.

THE HEIGHTS OF CORBACH.

The allied British and Germans under Prince Ferdinand, though less
numerous than the troops under the Duc de Broglie, were in fine
fighting order, yet they prudently acted chiefly on the defensive.

The Duc de Broglie having quarrelled with the Comte de St. Germain
who commanded the army of the Rhine, generally failed to act in
concert with him, and thus saved the Prince from the, perhaps fatal,
hazard of meeting their united strength in another general action.
Prior to this quarrel (which ultimately compelled the Count to retire
from the service) the French arms had been very successful.

They had overrun the whole Landgraviate of Hesse, with their grand
army, leaving troops to blockade the castles of Marburg and
Dillenburg, the operations before which were successfully conducted
on the plans of Gervais Monjoy, while St. Germain marched through
Westphalia to form a junction with the Maréchal Duc, who, by the 10th
of July, had encamped on the heights of Corbach.

On hearing that his two castles had fallen into the hands of the
French, Prince Ferdinand, whom the papers I had found in the
sabretache of Boisguiller had fully informed of the intended movement
towards Corbach, commenced a retreat from Fritzlar towards the river
Dymel; and sent his son, the Hereditary Prince, with a strong
detachment towards Sachsenhausen where he meant to encamp.  Some
British troops, horse and foot, accompanied the young Prince on this
expedition, and of these our regiment unluckily formed a part.

We continued to advance without opposition until the 30th of the
month, when on coming in sight of the heights of Corbach and the
distant town of Ysembourg, we found a body of French troops formed in
order of battle and barring our march to Sachsenhausen.

Their strength seemed to be about ten battalions and fifteen
squadrons, so far as we could judge at first.

"Now who or what the devil may these be?" we asked of each other,
when we saw their arms shining in the sun, their colours waving in
the wind, and the long line of white coats, three ranks deep, appear
on the green mountain slope, where we had no idea of meeting any
troops at all.

"Oh," said several, especially the staff officers who were spurring
to and fro, in evident excitement; "'tis only the vanguard of the
Comte de St. Germain, whom we must drive in."

The order was instantly given for the infantry to attack, the cavalry
to support, and now began a brief but sharp, and to us very fatal
engagement.

It was the noon of a lovely summer day.

Near us the Itter was rolling a blue flood between the green
mountains, its banks fringed by light waving willows and dark wild
laurels; beyond an opening or pass in the mountains where some French
artillery were in position, we saw a fair and fertile plain, dotted
by poplar trees, stretching far away in the sunlight, and the quaint
old town of Corbach, with its ruddy walls and latticed windows that
glittered like plates of gold.

Our infantry began the affair with great spirit, and none stood to
their colours more bravely than our 51st Foot, Brudenel's old corps,
which was led by a gallant soldier, Lieutenant-Colonel Noel Fury.

The young Prince soon found that he had made a reckless mistake, and
was engaged with the united strength of the French army, and with no
vanguard or detached force, like his own!  It was too late to recede,
so madly we strove by bayonet and sabre to hew a passage towards
Sachsenhausen, but strove in vain, as De Broglie constantly poured
forward fresh supports; and although the main body of the allies
under old Prince Ferdinand was but a few miles in our rear, such was
the nature of the ground that they could yield us no assistance
whatever; so about two o'clock in the afternoon the trumpets sounded
from right to left a retreat which it became our duty to cover.

As we galloped in sections round the flank of the 51st, and just as
that regiment began to fall back from its line of dead and dying, I
saw a dreadful episode, caused by the French Artillery.

Thrown from a mortar, a cartouche fell amid their ranks, and, by its
explosion, in a single moment killed and wounded five officers and
sixty rank and file!  For the information of the non-military reader,
I may state that this deadly missile is a case of wood about three
inches thick at the bottom, bound about with marline, holding ten
iron balls, each a pound in weight, and four hundred musket-balls.
It had been fired from a howitzer on the rocks above the pass, and by
one of this dreadful shower of balls the young Prince was wounded in
the shoulder.

When the retreat began, several of the German regiments fell into
confusion, and the French were not slow in taking advantage of it.
The task of repelling them fell upon the Scots Greys, with the 1st or
King's and 3rd Dragoon Guards, and with enthusiastic cheers we
followed the young Prince in a succession of brilliant charges, which
drove the enemy back, enabling our unfortunate comrades in the
Infantry to make an almost undisturbed retreat.  I say almost, for
the French, who continued the pursuit till evening, brought up their
Flying Artillery, and in the dusk we could plainly see the fiery arcs
described by the shells, which the field mortars threw nearly at
random to the distance of a thousand yards.  So brightly burned the
fuses, that we could avoid the falling bombs by scattering,
dismounting, and throwing ourselves flat, as their exploding
splinters always rise at an angle of several degrees from the earth.

On this service, which saved our Infantry from entire capture, few
officers distinguished themselves more than Count Keilmansegge,
Colonel Preston, and Major Hill of our 1st Dragoon Guards.

Our corps lost but one man, who, with his horse, was killed by a
single cannon shot that passed between Sergeant Duff and me.

By another, the colonel of the 51st was slain.  I have elsewhere
mentioned two cases of presentiment, one of which was fatally
realized at the time, the other afterwards.  The leader of the 51st
was inspired by a crushing emotion of this kind on that day at
Corbach, and as the anecdote is little known, being related in the
long since forgotten memoirs of a Scottish officer who served under
him, I may quote it here.

"My old Lieutenant-Colonel, Noel Fury, was one of the slain.  It is
said by some that individuals may be visited by an undefined
presentiment or mental warning of their approaching fate, though such
ideas are treated by others as visionary and impossible.  I shall not
attempt to enter into a discussion which might lead me into the mazes
of metaphysical inquiry, but shall content myself with a simple
narrative of what I witnessed on the morning of this engagement.

"Colonel Fury was remarkable for the liveliness and gaiety of his
disposition, and his spirits, on an occasion like the present, when
about to enter into action, were uniformly observed to be unusually
elevated.  His habitual sprightliness and good humour made him a
general favourite in the regiment; besides, he was a man of
distinguished gallantry and an excellent officer.  Among other good
qualities, he paid especial attention to the filling of his canteen,
and on the morning in question he sat down under a tree, inviting
several of his brother officers to breakfast.

"For the _first time_ in his life, on the eve of an engagement, he
seemed pensive and dull, and on being rallied on the subject by some
of the gentlemen present--

"'I don't know how it is,' he answered, 'but I think I shall be
killed to-day.'

"The cannonade having just begun, he mounted his horse, and rode up
to the regiment, where he had been but a very short time when his
head was carried off by a cannon shot."

Our _total_ loss was five hundred men, and fifteen pieces of cannon.

We rejoined the main body of the allied army full of rage and disgust
at our discomfiture, and clamouring for an opportunity to encounter
the foe again; nor was it long before that opportunity came.

Among the papers found in the sabretache of Boisguiller, was one
which informed Prince Ferdinand of a proposed movement of the French
from Corbach towards Ziegenheim, and on this point he fixed his
attention.

Not many days after our last affair, tidings came that a body of the
French, commanded by Major General Glaubitz and Colonel Count
Bourgneuf, had advanced in that direction.

Immediately on hearing this, our leader directed the young hereditary
prince, who was eager and burning to wipe out the late disgrace, to
drive them back, and on this service he departed, with six battalions
of Hussars, the Scots Greys, 11th Light Dragoons, Luckner's Hussars,
and two brigades of Chasseurs.

In high spirits and full of ardour we marched on the 16th of July,
came suddenly upon the enemy at Emsdorff, attacked them with great
fury, slew a great number of all ranks, took the Major-General, all
the artillery and baggage, one hundred and twenty-seven officers and
two thousand two hundred soldiers prisoners.

Count Bourgneuf, however, contrived to make his escape, after a rough
hand-to-hand combat with Captain Cunningham of the Greys.

In this action, our 11th Light Dragoons, popularly known as Elliot's
Horse, charged no less than _five_ times, and broke through the enemy
at every charge; but in these achievements they lost a great number
of officers, men, and horses.  Here for the first time we found
ourselves opposed to a corps of Lancers, whose weapon was then
unknown in our army.  When Preston led us to the charge against them,
their tall lances, with red pennons streaming, were erect; but when
we were within three horses' length of them, a trumpet sounded, then
they lowered them all breast-high and waved their streamers, so that
many of our horses shied wildly; but we broke through them,
nevertheless, and the spear-heads once passed, all was over with the
Lancers.

On the 22nd of August, when we attacked the French rearguard at
Zierenberg, as it was commanded by Bourgneuf, and consisted of the
regiments of Bretagne and Clermont, I hoped for an opportunity of
meeting my personal enemy, but was disappointed; for although we
burst into the town, which is surrounded by a wall and has three
gates, and in columns of troops charged into the heart of the
disordered French, cutting them down right and left, I never saw the
Count, though, amid the fury and confusion of such a conflict, I must
have been more than once within pistol-shot of him.

Here we had five men and nine horses killed, Colonel Preston and
twenty men wounded; but now came the affair which, was known in the
army as the battle of Zierenberg, where I had once again an
opportunity of meeting my unscrupulous Frenchman face to face.




CHAPTER XVIII.

A NIGHT ATTACK.

We were encamped at Warburg, when, in September, we received orders
to hold ourselves in readiness to move on particular service, and at
an hour's notice--a troublesome communication, for we could scarcely
unharness by day or by night, and had to keep our horses almost
constantly saddled.  At last came instructions to march, about
nightfall, on a dull and gloomy evening, the 5th of September, when,
with two regiments of foot (Maxwell's and the famous old 20th), the
Inniskilling, and Bock's Hanoverian Dragoons, Bulow's Jagers, and one
hundred and fifty Highlanders, we left the camp with all our tents
standing to make a night attack upon the town of Zierenberg, which
had been reinforced, and where Bourgneuf still commanded.

The forces there consisted of the Volontaires de Clermont and the
regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne--in all about three thousand men.
Luckily, we were furnished with the password for the 5th
September--_Artois_; it had been brought over by a deserter, who
proved to be no other than the rascal Arnaud de Pricorbin, who had
come into Warburg about noon, and thus betrayed his comrades, who
passed their time almost careless of security, and having but slender
guards and outposts.

The town, he informed us, was still a place of no strength; and,
though surrounded by a dry ditch, that was shallow, and the wall
within it was crumbling with age and decay.

Led by Colonel Preston, the Scots Greys were to head the attack.

As we marched, the dark and obscurity of the autumn evening deepened
on the scenery.  The duty was an exciting one, for the whole French
army was encamped at a short distance from the point of attack, and
we knew not the moment when we might find ourselves in a snare or
ambush; for the story of the deserter, as to the password, the real
strength of the force under Bourgneuf, and his dispositions for
defence, might all be a lure, though the fellow remained in the hands
of our quarter-guard as a hostage for the truth of his statements.

We crossed the river Dymel near the Hanse Town of Warburg, and saw
the brown chesnut-groves that border its banks, the clear stars, and
the crescent of the waning moon reflected in its current.

Ere long we saw the lights in Zierenberg and the fires of the French,
whole companies of whom were bivouacked in the streets of the little
town, where they made fuel of the furniture, the rafters, and floors
of such houses as shot or shell had previously made too ruinous for
occupation.

When within two miles of the place, the grenadiers of Maxwell, the
20th Regiment, and the little band of Highlanders, made a detour,
taking three separate routes, while we, the cavalry, took a fourth,
thus completely surrounding and cutting off those who were cantoned
in Zierenberg.

According to Pricorbin's information, which proved to be correct, a
regiment of French dragoons were bivouacked outside the town wall and
in front of the principal gate; and it was with them _we_ had first
to deal.  We continued to advance in silence, all orders being passed
in whispers, and thus not a sound broke the stillness of the night,
but the monotonous tramp of our horses' hoofs, the occasional rattle
of our accoutrements, the clatter of a steel scabbard or a chain
bridle, till, unluckily, some of our horses began to neigh, and we
could distinctly hear some of the French chargers responding, for the
air was calm, still, and clear.

"Push on--push on!" was now said by all; "the alarm is given, and we
have no time to lose!"

The moon, which occasionally gave out weird gleams of silver light
between the masses of dark cloud that floated slowly on the upper
currents of air, was now luckily enveloped, and all the scenery was
intensely dark.  Yet we could distinctly see the lights twinkling in
the town, and the glare of the night fires, which cast flashes of
lurid and wavering radiance upon the steep gables, the spire of a
church, and the undefined outlines of masses of building.  The French
could see nothing of us; but the neighing of our nags was sufficient
to give them all an _alerte_, consequently, when we came within four
hundred yards of the town gate, the whole regiment of horse were in
their saddles to receive whatever might be approaching.

We were advancing in close column of troops as the way was broad and
open.  The Inniskillings were in our rear; the light troop of ours
was in front of the whole, with Colonel Preston riding between
Douglas and me.

On the roadway, as we approached, we could see the black figure of a
single horseman posted.

"When he challenges, Gauntlet, reply in French," whispered the
Colonel; "say something to deceive him."

Preston had scarcely spoken, when the voice of the vidette rung out
clearly on the night--

"_Qui vive?_"

"Artois," I replied, while we all pressed forward at a trot.

"_A quel regiment?_" shouted the vidette, in great haste.

"Les Hussards de la Reine," said I, giving the name of Boisguiller's
well-known corps, which was in the camp at Corbach.

"_Très bien!_ replied the soldier, but the next moment he could hear
Preston's words of command, given sternly and low--

"Prepare to charge--_charge!_"

The Frenchman's carbine flashed redly through the gloom, almost in
our faces; the bullet whistled over our heads to the rear, where a
fearful cry told that it had found a fatal billet among the
Inniskillings; then wheeling round his horse, he galloped to the
rear, where his comrades were formed in column of squadrons.

Ere the echoes of his shot had died away on the night wind, we heard
the cheers of the 20th and the sound of the Highland bagpipe mingling
with the hoarse hurrah of Bulow's light troop, as the town was
assailed on three other points at once.  Then the opening musketry
flashed redly in various quarters, and the gleam of sudden fires shot
upward in the murky air.

Sword in hand we burst, with the weight and fury of a landslip, among
the French cavalry, and drove them back, not so much by dint of edge
or point, as by the sheer weight of our men and horses.  So sudden
was the shock, so irresistible our charge, that they scarcely made
any resistance, but were thrust pell-mell into the town, in the
narrow streets of which they were so intermingled with our men and
the Inniskillings that in many instances neither of us could use our
swords.  For some minutes, at this crisis, I found myself completely
isolated and wedged among the French, some of whom actually laughed
at the whole affair.

Captain Cunninghame, of our first troop, in consequence of a blow
which had penetrated the back of his grenadier cap, fell backward on
his horse's crupper insensible, but could fall no further so dense
was the living press around him; and thus he remained until the place
surrendered.

Colonel Preston, whose horse was possessed of great spirit and fire,
pressed far beyond any of us; but before he could reach the
town-gate, it sprang over the bridge with him into the ditch--where
the brave old boy remained up to his thighs in mud, swearing and
sputtering, but in safety, until we extricated him about daybreak.

Some of the houses being set on fire lit up by their lurid glare the
horrors of the night attack.  Taken completely by surprise, many of
the French were fighting in their shirts and breeches, and were
mingled in wild mêlée with the 20th and Highlanders, using their
bayonets and clubbed muskets, without time to load or fire, so
closely were they wedged together; but some who were in the houses
opened an indiscriminate fusilade on friends and foes.  This so
greatly exasperated the nimble Highlanders, that in several instances
they stormed these mansions, and with dirk and claymore slew without
mercy all within.

Every inch of ground was disputed by death and blood.  The yells,
cries, and hurrahs of the opposing combatants mingled with the clash
of weapons that glittered in the fires around them--fires that
reddened all the air; but the shouts of the French grew weaker as the
cheers of the British increased.

"Hurrah lor the Inniskillings!" cried we.

"Hurrah for the Scots Greys!" cried the Irish.

"Hurrah for Bulow's wild Jagers!" cried both regiments.

A French officer, minus hat, wig, and coat, was dragged roughly out
of a house by two furious Celts, who were jabbering and swearing in
their native Gaelic, as if they had not made up their minds whether
to kill or capture him, when he clung to my stirrup-leather, and
without attempting to use the sword in his hand, breathlessly
implored quarter.

I regarded his pale face with sudden and stern interest, for this
despairing suppliant was the commandant of the town, the Comte de
Bourgneuf.

I lost no time in disarming him, by snapping _his_ sword across my
saddle-bow, contemptuously as he had snapped mine, and desired the
Highlanders to keep him prisoner.  He was dragged away, and I never
saw him again.  It was enough; he had _recognised me_!

His whole force, being completely surrounded and hemmed in,
capitulated, but so many had perished in the attack that we brought
off only forty officers and four hundred rank and file, with the
colours of the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne, one of which I
captured in the count's quarters.  These trophies we lodged in the
camp at Warburg, after losing but few men in the whole affair.

It was on that night's duty that I _last_ saw powder burned in the
Seven Years' War.

Our infantry were encamped under canvas in the immediate vicinity of
Warburg, the quaint old German streets of which presented a lively
picture of campaigning life, for every house had been converted into
a barrack; soldiers in British or Hanoverian uniforms appeared at all
the windows, lounging, laughing, and smoking, or pipeclaying their
belts or gaiters.  Piles of muskets stood in long rows upon the
pavements.  Here and there a sentinel trod to and fro upon his post,
indicating the quarters of a colonel or where the colours of a
regiment were lodged.

In the church were stalled our horses, and there stable duty and
religious service went on together; for, as wounded men died every
day in our hands, one seldom passed without a body being laid before
the altar muffled in a cloak, greatcoat, or rug, prior to interment
in the trench outside the gates.

After our return from the night attack at Zierenberg, I slept
profoundly on the bare floor of my billet, which was in an empty
house.  I think one does generally sleep sound after enduring great
excitement or great calamity, for it is the _waking_ alone that
brings back the sense of grief or danger.  Prior to that came dreams,
and again I seemed to hear the bayonet and sabre clashing, the shouts
and the wild work of last night: but from these I was roused about
raid-day by Tom Kirkton, our adjutant, who as yet was still accoutred.

"Well, Gauntlet, old friend," said he, with a peculiar smile; "so you
and I are to part at last?"

"How--what do you mean, Tom?"

"You have been chosen by the Commander-in-chief, on Colonel Preston's
recommendation (a dear old fellow, isn't he?) to convey to London,
and to the king's own hand, his despatches and the colours taken last
night; and his orders say, you must start in an hour."

"And I am to proceed--"

"By our rear.  See, here is your route; by Arensburg to Wesel, and
thence down the Rhine to Nimeguen on the Waal; thence by boat to the
mouth of the West Scheldt, where some of our gun-brigs are sure to be
lying."

"Zounds!  Tom--a long and tiresome journey; alone too! and the money?"

"Old Blount, the Paymaster-General, furnishes that.  So come, rouse
thee, friend Basil--let us have a parting glass ere you go, my dear
boy."

There was an unmistakeable moisture and sad expression in Tom's clear
and usually merry eye as he spoke, for we had ever been the best of
friends and comrades.

Within an hour after this I had packed my valise, secured the French
colours and the Prince's despatches in a large saddlebag--had bade
adieu to our good old colonel,* to Tom Kirkton, Douglas, and others,
and departed with sincere regret.  Hob Elliot and many of the
Greys--braver good, honest fellows--accompanied me to the town gate,
and the farewell cheer they gave me as I passed through the Infantry
camp rings yet in my ear and in my heart, as it did then when I waved
my cap, and said "God bless you!"


* He died at Bath, in 1785, a Lieutenant-General, and still Colonel
of the Scots Greys.--_Regimental Record_, p. 127.




CHAPTER XIX.

IN LONDON AGAIN,

Before I reached England, some changes had taken place of which we
had as yet heard nothing in our camps and cantonments in Germany.

The king had died in October; his grandson had been proclaimed by the
title of George III., and already the Court was out of mourning, for
the new monarch had succeeded a father who had been hated by the late
king, and whom _he_ was never known to name or to speak of during the
whole of his long life; no one knows _why_, but so it is, that the
memory of Frederick Lewis, Prince of Wales, was speedily committed to
oblivion.

After a narrow escape from a French privateer, I was landed by a
returned transport at Portsmouth, and travelled post to the English
metropolis, halting for a night at the Red Lion at Guildford, where
the landlord perfectly remembered the affair of the highwayman in the
chimney, and insisted on my sharing with him a crown bowl of punch in
the good old fashion, while I fought all my battles over again.

Next evening, without encountering a breakdown of the ricketty
vehicle, an overturn on the wretched roads, a masked highwayman, or
other adventure, I saw before me mighty London, with the double domes
and peristyles of Greenwich shining in the sun, and the old battered
fellows who had fought under Anson, Hawke, and Boscawen enjoying
their pipes on the terrace; then the glorious Thames, with its myriad
shipping, and the flags of all the world (France excepted) flying
over them; the vast façade of St. Paul's--the great square mass of
the Tower, which made me think of the jewels, the crown, the chains
and dungeons of tyrants long since gone to their account, and of that
long line of Norman and English kings whom we may still see there,
with their wax faces and dusty armour, ranged rank and file in the
Armoury.

Anon I was amid the roar and bustle of Fleet-street and the Strand,
and had passed under Temple Bar, whereon were still, white, bleached,
and bare, the skulls of those who perished for principle and their
king, though the brothers of some of them led the ranks of our
Scottish corps at Minden.

I put up at the King George in Pall Mall, where, for the first night
for many, many months, I could take mine ease in mine inn, and where
from the windows I could see the flaring links and flambeaux, the
sedans and coaches, of those who were proceeding to the theatres,
opera, balls, or elsewhere.

I thought of the time when I had been last in London, under such
different circumstances--when I had come with the despatch concerning
the French spies--I, a simple orderly dragoon--concerning that wretch
Hautois, before we sailed from Portsmouth for Brittany, and ages
seemed to have elapsed since then.

After all I had seen of war, I agreed to the full with my Lord
Clarendon, in all his views and remarks on the virtues and blessings
of peace.

At the George I felt myself apparently amid lavish luxury!  Yet even
carpets were almost unknown in English bedrooms during the early part
of George III.'s reign; but it seemed to me that a comfortable home,
a blazing sea-coal fire, soft hearthrugs, warm curtains, a smoking
dinner and singing tea-urn, a pretty English wife, with her true
domestic love (and a most becoming dress of course), to do the
honours of one's house and table, a tranquil life, and all that kind
of thing, were a thousand times better than pipeclay and glory, after
all; better than turning out by drumbeat or bugle-call in a dark
rainy morning, to march fasting, to shoot or be shot at; better than
to hear the winter sleet rattling on the wet tent, or to endure it in
the wetter bivouac; and so indeed thought I, Basil Gauntlet, when on
that night of December I tucked myself cosily in a warm bed at the
George in Pall Mall, and went off to sleep, with the "drowsy hum" of
London in my ears.

Next day I presented my credentials at the Horse Guards, obtained six
months' leave of absence, and was informed that there would be a
royal drawing-room at Kensington Palace in two days after; and the
commander-in-chief kindly added that he would arrange for my
presentation by his Grace the Duke of Argyle, who was full colonel of
my own Regiment, and was then in town.  So, for two days I was free
to roam about the streets in search of amusement.

Ignorant of London, I stumbled first into the wooden house in
Marylebonefields, and saw a couple of sword-players slashing each
other with rapiers on a platform to the sound of French horns and a
tenor drum; then followed a game at quarterstaff, while the boxes and
galleries were crowded by men of the first position, betting-book in
hand, sword at side, and the hat cocked knowingly over the right eye.
From these I rambled to Don Saltero's Museum, to see his stuffed
rhinoceroses, tigers, and monsters; thence to an auction in Cornhill,
where, among other effects of a bankrupt shipbroker, a young negro
woman was put up to sale, and bought by a Newmarket gentleman for
32_l_.

As a soldier I could not resist going to see the home battalions of
the Foot Guards exercised at the King's Mews, near Charing Cross.
Then I dined at a chocolate-house, summoned a chair, and was swung
off at a trot to the opera, where I heard one of Mr. Handel's
performances hissed down, as quite unequal to the "Beggar's Opera."

Next day I found a card waiting me at my hotel.  The Duke expected me
to dine with him on that day, if not otherwise engaged.

I found his Grace and the Duchess waiting to receive me with great
kindness and affability.

He was John Campbell of Mamore, who had lately succeeded to the
dukedom, after long service in Flanders and Germany; he was now a
Lieutenant-general, Governor of Limerick, and a Scottish
representative Peer; she was Mary, daughter of John, Lord Bellenden
of Auchinoule, a handsome and stately woman, but now well up in years.

He asked me many questions about the regiment, and inquired if "auld
Geordie Preston still adhered to his buff coat."  He also made a few
queries, but with reserve, about the Cavalry movements at Minden, and
the charges brought against Lord George Sackville.  On such matters
the gentle Duchess was silent; moreover, she always shrunk from
military matters, as she had never recovered the loss of her second
son, Lord Henry Campbell, who had been killed at the battle of
Lafeldt.

Perceiving how threadbare my fighting-jacket was--(it was the
sergeant's coat I had procured at Osnaburg)--I proposed to get a
court dress, or a new suit of regimentals for the presentation
to-morrow.

"Nay, nay," said the Duke; "come as you are--we shall drive to the
Palace in my coach, and believe me, the ladies will like you all the
better in your purple coat.  It looks like work--zounds! yes.  And,
by-the-by, if you want any franks for the North, or to hear a debate
in the Upper House, don't forget to command me."




CHAPTER XX.

THE DRAWING-ROOM.

A presentation at Court may be a very exciting thing to those who are
unused to such scenes; but to me, nothing whatever could prove a
source of excitement yet, for no man is more self-possessed, less
interested in a mere spectacle, or in whom the feeling of curiosity
is so dead, for a time at least, as one who has served a campaign or
two.

During the reign of the late king and the early part of his
successor's, drawing-rooms occurred very frequently, and royalty
presented itself to the nobility and gentry at least twice weekly;
but from various circumstances--perhaps the recent mourning, so
hastily laid aside--on this occasion the attendance was unusually
great, and when the carriage of the Duke, who wore the uniform of
Colonel of the Greys, with the star and dark green ribbon of the
Thistle, reached Kensington Palace-gate, we found it quite blocked up
by brilliant equipages, sedan chairs, and livery servants, having
huge cocked hats, long canes, and in some instances bouquets of
artificial flowers.

From the portico of the Palace to the presence chamber, the Yeomen of
the Guard, under Viscount Torrington, and the Gentlemen Pensioners,
under the Lord Berkeley of Stratton, lined all the corridors and
guarded the entrances, their showy uniforms contrasting powerfully
with my patched and war-worn suit of harness, which, sooth to say,
seemed odd enough, for my silver epaulettes were reduced to mere
tufts of black wire; my once crimson sash to dingy fritters, my
jack-boots were of no particular tint, and my spurs, like my
scabbard, were a mass of rust.

But I carried over my left arm the standards of the regiments of
Dauphiné and Bretagne; and they secured me some interest, in the eyes
of the ladies at least--the beauty and fashion of the first court in
the world--as they thronged past, in hoops and brocades, their fine
hair dredged with powder, and their soft cheeks obscured by rouge and
patches.

My grandfather had disinherited me; true!  I had nothing in the world
but my sword and my wretched pay as a sub; I was not the Lord of
Netherwood, moor and hill, hall and river; but I was Basil Gauntlet,
of Minden and Zierenberg--and they, at least, were something to be
heir to.

As we entered the gallery which leads to the black marble staircase,
two gentlemen, one of whom was dressed in scarlet richly embroidered
with gold, and who wore a very full perriwig--the other, who was
attired in a purple velvet suit corded with silver, and who had on a
sword of unusual length, and a bag wig, entered into conversation
with the Duke, who presented me to them as an officer of his regiment.

The first was the groom of the stole, the famous Earl of Bute, the
future premier, the foe of Wilkes and the London mob; the other was
my Lord Huntingdon, Master of the Horse, and both were pleased to say
many handsome things concerning our regiment and its services during
the war.  Moreover, the Lord Bute was pleased to manifest his
friendship for me, by presenting his snuff-box of light-blue sevres
china, which he always carried in the flap-pocket of his waistcoat.

The heat and crowd were great; many had already been presented, and
some were withdrawing as we passed slowly through several rooms of
the old summer palace, the walls of which were hung with rich
tapestry and ornamented by many pictures and busts on pedestals.
Among others, my Lord Bute and his Grace pointed out to me the Venus
of Titian and the Infant Saviour by Rubens, the dark Holbeins, some
works of Albert Durer, and the full-lengths of Orange William and
Mary Stuart, his queen--the former all nose and white wig, the latter
with a mass of frizzled locks and a very bare bosom; and so, by
gently pressing onward, we found ourselves in the presence-chamber,
amid all the glitter and splendour of the court.

At the further end, on a chair of state under a rich canopy of
crimson velvet, heavily laced, sat a fair-complexioned and
smooth-faced young man, of a mild but most undignified and somewhat
flabby aspect, who wore the uniform of the Foot Guards, with the
magnificent collar and order of the Garter sparkling on his breast,
and who had his powdered hair brushed back, queued, and simply tied
with a black ribbon.

"'Tis the king!" whispered the Duke of Argyle and my Lord Bute at the
same time.

I had never been in a palace or stood in such a presence before, and,
until now, had been more occupied by the beauty of the ladies and the
splendour of their jewels and dresses; but I felt a strange thrill in
my heart--_blasé_ as it was by the excitement of campaigning--when I
looked on the mild face of this same young king, who was then in his
twenty-third year, who had a threefold ball and treble sceptre to
wield, and who had declared it to be his proudest boast that he was
the FIRST of his race who had drawn breath on British soil, and that
he gloried in it!

Many presentations went forward before it came to my turn.  I saw
Carolina, Countess of Ancrum, a stately woman, in a dress of white
satin, superbly spangled with gold, and drawn up in festoons by cords
of gold, to display an under-petticoat of scarlet velvet, studded
with seed-pearls, advance towards the throne.  Her hair was powdered
white as snow, and tied over a cushion about five inches high.  With
a low courtesy she was presenting to his majesty, who bowed
graciously, a very graceful girl, whose back, unfortunately, was
towards us; but I could admire the wonderful fairness of her neck and
shoulders, over which some heavy ringlets fell from the high cushion
or pad, above which her golden hair, all undisguised by powder, was
dressed and tied with knots of scarlet ribbon.  Her dress was of
scarlet and white striped satin, embroidered with gold on all the
seams, and as they withdrew, courtesying backward--

"Gauntlet, 'tis our turn now," said the Duke, while he took me by the
left hand and led me forward to the steps of the throne, which were
covered with crimson cloth.

"Permit me," said he, "to present to your majesty Sir Basil Gauntlet,
of my regiment, the 2nd Dragoons--an officer who, by his personal
bravery, has contributed not a little to maintain their old historic
character of being _Second to None_.

"Good!--second to none--good, very good!" said the young king, bowing
very pleasantly, and presenting his hand, which I suppose I was
expected to kiss; but which, in my ignorance, I shook very cordially,
to the amusement of many fine lords and macaronies who stood by.  I
coloured, but said confidently--

"Commissioned by his Serene Highness Prince Ferdinand of Brunswick,
General of the allies, I have been sent from our camp at Warburg in
Westphalia, to lay at your majesty's feet these trophies, the
standards of the regiments of Dauphiné and Bretagne, captured in our
late attack on Zierenberg."

From my hands the king took the colours, which were of blue silk,
with the royal crown and cypher of France.  One bore the silver
fleurs-de-lys; the other the golden dolphin of Dauphiné in a field
ermine, and both exhibited the holes where many a bullet had passed.
He thanked me in a very handsome manner, while all the brilliant
groups which crowded that magnificent apartment drew near to observe
and to listen.

Something of my story, perhaps of my early misfortunes, my unmerited
wrong, and my enlistment, with a hundred fables tacked thereto, had
been buzzed or whispered about; thus I found many bright eyes and
well-powdered personages in fashionable pasteboard skirts regarding
me with well-bred interest.

"Good!" said the king, whose eloquence seldom overflowed; "this is
very good, and your services shall be duly appreciated.  Did you
serve at Minden?"

"I had the honour."

"In the cavalry?"

"Yes, sire--in the Scots Greys."

At those words, a gentleman in a brigadier wig and suit of grey,
corded with silver, turned abruptly and surveyed me with a louring
eye.  He was no other than my Lord George Sackville, who hated the
Scots--as he afterwards did the Americans--because ten of the sixteen
generals who found him guilty of misconduct at Minden were born north
of the Tweed; and so blindly did he hate that portion of Britain,
that for a time he was universally believed to be the author of
"Junius' Letters;" thus, at the mention of the Greys, 'tis no wonder
that he started as if a wasp had stung him.

The king gave the standards to my Lord Huntingdon, and bowed to us
again, as we now withdrew to make way for others.  In retiring, I
then perceived near the throne one who had good reason to remember
with gratitude and respect the uniform of a Scots Grey, the little
Prince Edward Augustus, Duke of York, whom Jack Charters had saved
from drowning when the man-o'-war's boat was smashed by a cannon shot
near Querqueville Point at Cherbourg.

I was mentioning this episode to the Duke of Argyle, who felt an
interest in everything that related to his regiment, when suddenly a
charming voice said, "Basil!" in my ear, a hand was laid softly and
timidly on my arm, two smiling blue eyes looked calmly into mine, and
I found before me the fair girl, she with the golden-hair, the
scarlet-striped dress and blue crape petticoat--my cousin, Aurora!

She now presented me to her chaperone, the Countess of Ancrum, who
had been Lady Caroline d'Arcy, only daughter of the Earl of
Holderness.  She in turn presented me to several ladies, who plied me
with the usual simple and silly questions about the war and certain
officers who were serving with the army, until Aurora passed her arm
through mine and we began to converse about ourselves.

Aurora was indeed very beautiful, and when I looked on her delicate
skin and brilliant English complexion, "how," thought I, "could I
ever admire a dark Frenchwoman, or any but a blue-eyed girl!"

"I was so proud when I saw you led forward to the king!" said Aurora,
"and to see you looking so well and gallant, Basil.  Do you know that
all the ladies here quite envy my cousinship?"

"Aurora, how you flatter!  One would think that you had been among
the French and not I."

"And what think you of the young king?"

"I am charmed by his condescension."

"Yet scandal says he is married to a pretty quakeress named Hannah
Lightfoot, though about to espouse the Princess of
Mecklenburg-Strelitz," whispered Aurora.  "What think you of that
forsooth?"

"I wish you would not say such things, cousin."

"Your loyalty is shocked, is it?  Well, I shall not whisper treason,
even in your ear," replied Aurora, who proceeded to point out several
persons to me, and to make remarks on them that were witty enough at
times.

"Who is that tall man with the blue ribbon?"

"He with the military stride, who seems to go right, left--right,
left, head up, and queue straight?"

"Yes," said I, laughing.

"That is the gallant old Earl of Crawford, who led the Scottish Horse
Guards in Flanders."

"And that dapper little man in the orange-coloured suit, whom he is
now presenting?"

"The Chevalier Chassegras de Lery, the _first_ of his Majesty's new
Canadian subjects that has appeared in London, where, I can assure
you, he is greatly run after.  He was wounded in the siege of Quebec,
and assisted to bury the Marquis of Montcalm.  But look you, cousin,
look!" continued Aurora, laughing and blushing behind her large
scarlet fan; "do you see that grim-looking old gentlewoman in green
brocade?"

"Whom a bishop is presenting--yes."

"The late king died in her arms.  She is the Countess of Yarmouth."

"Sophia de Walmoden!"

"Yes.  Listen!--she is returning thanks for her pension of 4000_l_.
per annum, for services rendered to his Majesty's royal grandfather.
For all his victories over the French the brave Sir Edward Hawke gets
exactly _half_ that sum."

With some interest I surveyed this old personage in paint, patches,
and brocade; she who had wrought poor Charters such mischief in his
youth when he was about eighteen, and she perhaps six and thirty.

But now the dusk was setting in; I missed his grace of Argyle, or
perhaps he thought his duty to me ended at the foot of the throne,
and it was an odd coincidence that Aurora also lost her chaperone,
Lady Ancrum; thus I had to escort her to the Palace-gate.

"You must come to Netherwood for the shooting, Basil," said she, as
we traversed the long corridors of the palace; "at the Hall I keep a
strange souvenir of you," she continued, laughing--"an old
blunderbuss--do you remember it?"

"No."

"You cannot have forgotten that night on Wandsworth Common, and the
old blunderbuss which so terrified John Trot?"

"How could I forget the first time I met you, Aurora!--but here is
your chair."

Two yeomen of the guard made way for us with their partisans; John
Trot was in attendance with cane and link, as I handed Aurora into
her sedan, hooped-petticoat, skirt, _toupée_ and all.

"While in London, Basil, remember that you make our house in
Piccadilly your home."

"_Our!_" thought I in perplexity, as two soft hands held mine during
this speech, and two blue eyes looked kindly into mine.  I was
becoming a timid fellow again, or I know not what privilege of
cousinship I might have claimed had we been elsewhere than amid that
crowd at Kensington Palace-gate.

"I live in Piccadilly with an old lady-friend, or rather, I should
say she lives with me--my companion, an officer's widow.  You will
lunch with us to-morrow--two is the hour, and we shall expect you.
Adieu."

She was borne off at a trot by her chairmen in the Gauntlet livery,
while I set out on foot to return to "mine inn," the King George the
Third, in Pall Mall.




CHAPTER XXI.

COUSIN AURORA.

I felt pleased and flattered by the whole events of the day;
especially by the beauty, the charming frankness of Aurora, and the
decided preference she showed for me; the more so that she was an
object of no little attraction to the powdered beaux who crowded the
court of the young king.  And to think that my poor red coat eclipsed
all their finery.

Betimes next day I had my hair dressed by a fashionable perruquier; I
took a promenade in Pall Mall, and left a card for a friend at
White's Chocolate House.  He was a brother of Douglas of ours, and
belonged to the Scots Foot Guards, but was absent recruiting in
Edinburgh.  About mid-day, I presented myself at my cousin's mansion,
old Sir Basil Gauntlet's town residence, in Piccadilly.  It was one
of the largest and best style of houses in that fashionable quarter.
Master John Trot appeared at the door in answer to my summons, and
opened it wide enough and with a sufficiently low bow, as I had
exchanged my old, weather-beaten and bloodstained fighting-jacket,
for a fashionable suit of French grey velvet, laced with silver.

I found Aurora in the drawing-room, with her companion, a pleasing
old gentlewoman in a towering _toupée_, high red-heeled shoes and
black lace mittens--Madam Blythe (as she was named in the old
Scoto-French fashion) a widow of the captain-lieutenant of Lord
Ancrum's dragoons, who had been killed in action, so the poor woman's
heart warmed towards me as a gentleman of the cloth.

After a few of the ordinary remarks about the weather, followed by a
few more about the ceremony of yesterday, luncheon was announced by
John Trot, and we descended by a splendid staircase, hung with
effigies of departed Gauntlets, depicted by Lely and Kneller, in wigs
and corslets, to the dining-room, past a line of servants in livery,
aiguiletted and covered with braid, like state trumpeters.

Over the carved marble mantelpiece hung a portrait of an old
gentleman, in a square-skirted coat, corded with gold, a voluminous
wig and wide riding-boots, in the act of grasping the reins of a roan
charger.

"'Tis dear old grandpapa's portrait, painted by Mr. Joshua Reynolds."
(He had not been knighted yet.)

"One of the most rising artists in London," added Madame Blythe, in
an explanatory tone.

"'Tis very like you, Basil," said Aurora, laying kindly on my
shoulders a plump white hand that glittered with turquoise and
diamond rings.

I did not feel flattered, as "dear old grandpapa's" Bardolph's snout
was somewhat like an over-ripe peach; but altogether, in his jolly
obesity he in no way resembled the old _ursa-major_ I had pictured
him--perhaps Mr. Reynolds flattered.  However, I could scarcely
refrain from frowning at it when Aurora did not observe me, and when
I thought of the will which he and old Nathan Wylie had concocted
between them; and then of the handsome legacy--one shilling sterling
coin of this realm--bequeathed to me when quartered at Portsmouth.

"My brother Tony--poor unfortunate Tony!--hangs opposite in his green
hunting dress--another of Mr. Reynolds' efforts," said Aurora.

"Ah, indeed!" said I, attending to my ham and chicken, and turning my
back upon the portraiture of Cousin Tony, who looked out of the
gilded frame very much as he did on that afternoon when he and his
grooms Dick and Tom laid their whips across my shoulders near
Netherwood Hall.

"What length of time do you mean to spend in London?" asked Aurora,
amid our desultory conversation.  "Your health, cousin, and welcome
home," she added, as John Trot filled my glass.

"I shall spend my six months' leave.  I have no friends to visit, and
nowhere to go, cousin, unless back to my regiment."

"Six months--delightful!  Now, Basil, with your figure and
pretensions, I am sure we shall find a charming if not a rich wife
for you.  Shall we not, Madame Blythe?"

"Thanks, Aurora.  A rich one I would need, with my poor sub's pay,"
said I, with a smile.

I glanced involuntarily round me, and the splendour and luxury, the
evidence of ample wealth--wealth of which I had cruelly been
deprived--galled and fretted me.  Furtive though the glance, it was
so expressive that Aurora coloured, and but said, smiling--

"What think you of the Lady Louisa Kerr, the Countess of Ancrum's
eldest daughter?  She spoke much about you, and was at the
drawing-room, in blue, flowered with silver."

"Nay, I have no idea of casting my eyes so high."

"Or so _far off_," added Madame Blythe, archly.

"Perhaps you have left your heart in Germany?"

"On the contrary, I have brought it back safe and sound, cousin.
More wine--thank you, yes."

"'Tis some of the last of dear old grandpapa's favourite port," said
Aurora, making a sign to Mr. Trot.

"But there is time enough yet for me to think of marrying, Aurora."

"Perhaps you agree with Shakespeare, that

  "'A young man married, is a man marrèd,'"


"Nay, dear cousin; I am not so ungallant; but _àpropos_ of
Shakespeare, shall we go to the play to-night?"

"In that I am your servant; but you shall dine with us; a drive in
the park, and then the play after."

Aurora was charming; and it was impossible not to be guided by her
wishes in everything.

At that time I was in excellent funds.  I had my pay as lieutenant of
dragoons (not that it was much, Heaven knows! to cut a figure upon);
but I had a good share of prize-money, and a share in brass guns
taken in the affairs of Emsdorff and Zierenberg, with a fair slice of
a military chest that found its way quietly, sans report, into the
pockets of the Scots Greys, all enabled me to take Aurora and Madame
Blythe to Vauxhall, Ranelagh, the tea-gardens, the opera, the play,
and always with a fair escort of flambeaux to dine with his Grace of
Argyle, or to a drum at my Lady Ancrum's; to turn a card at White's
when I felt so disposed, and to throw vails to those greedy
vultures--the servants--a folly at that time in excess.

As we issued from the house to the carriage for our drive in the
park, Aurora responded to the profound bow of a gentleman who rode
past.

"That is a young Irishman who was known about town as the Penniless
Adventurer," said she; "yet he wrote a charming book on 'The Sublime
and Beautiful.'"

"Edmund Burke," I exclaimed, looking after him with admiration; "is
that the great Edmund Burke?"

"Even so, with his hair all frizzed up.  How oddly he wears it," said
Aurora, as we seated ourselves, and Mr. Trot, after shutting the
door, perched himself on the footboard behind.

At night Drury Lane Theatre presented a scene of brilliance and
splendour to which I had long been unaccustomed.  Aurora was
exceedingly gay and sparkling with youth, beauty, and jewels--bowing
to people of good fashion in almost every box--always happy and with
considerable readiness of wit, remarking several turns of the play
and peculiarities of personages who were present, and in whom, she
thought, I might feel interested.

The first piece, I grieve, my prudish friends, to state was Howe's
tragedy of "The Fair Penitent," which drew tears from all the
brocaded dames in the boxes.

Mr. David Garrick, the manager, appeared as Lothario in a
full-bottomed perriwig, square-cut blue coat with buttons in size
like saucers, white rolled stockings and square toed shoes.  Mrs.
Pritchard was the frail Lavinia; and sarcastic old Macklin, who hated
the Scots so much, made up by pads and paint as a youth, played the
part of Horatio to the great admiration of the pit, and particularly
of one group, among whom Aurora pointed out to me a poet named
Churchill and Dr. Johnson the great Lexicographer.

Mr. Garrick's laughable farce of the "Lying Valet" followed.  A
sentinel of the Foot Guards, with bayonet fixed and musket
shouldered, stood at the end of the proscenium during the whole
performance, at the conclusion of which, the manager and pretty Mrs.
Pritchard, were called before the curtain amid a storm of applause.

At the door of the box-lobby we had some confusion; a hundred voices
were shouting "Chair! chair!--coach, coach!" at once, and an
irritable old gentleman with a very red face, drew his sword to clear
the way before his party of ladies.

"Who is this passionate personage?" I inquired.

"'Tis Admiral Forbes," said Madame Blythe, "the only Lord of the
Admiralty who _refused_ to sign poor Admiral Byng's death warrant."

"A Scotsman, like yourself, Basil," said Aurora smiling.

I escorted the ladies home to Piccadilly, and assisted them to alight
from their sedan chairs.  As the links were extinguished, and
Aurora's cheek was very near mine, I--but as it is wrong to kiss and
tell, I shall close this chapter, and with it my third day in London.




CHAPTER XXII.

THE LAST.

I found in Aurora an inexpressibly charming friend and companion;
thus at times, in my heart, and before my funds waxed low, I
completely forgave her for being the holder, the golden-haired
usurper of all that was mine by right of inheritance.

But there were other times when the old emotions of pique and
anger--the old memories of wrong inflicted, and of mortifications
endured by my parents and myself, blazed up within me, and made me
resolve to tear myself away from London and from the silken toils
that were netting round me, and vow to rejoin my regiment, which was
now at winter quarters at Barentrup, in Germany.

Still I hovered between Pall Mall and Piccadilly, and when we were
not at some place of amusement (whither we sometimes ventured
_without_ the matronage of Madame Blythe), Aurora's drawing-room was
my evening resort; for after dining at White's or at the George in
the Mall I always dropped in to take "a dish of tea," as the
Londoners phrased it, at that little _guéridon_, or tripod table,
with its oval teaboard of mahogany, its diminutive cups of eggshell
china, filled with that fragrant, and then expensive beverage, the
honours of which old Madame Blythe, in her hoop petticoat, black
mittens, and toupee, dispensed so gracefully.

So passed the time swiftly in amusements and gaiety.  My exchequer I
have said was waxing low.  My share in the value of his Most
Christian Majesty's brass guns and mortars had all vanished at
Vauxhall, Ranelagh, and elsewhere, and my leave of absence was
drawing to a close.  The latter tidings I communicated to Aurora, and
she seemed to be disturbed by them--so much so, that I felt quite
pleased and flattered by her affectionate friendship.  Had she wept I
would have been delighted.

How strange was this tie of cousinship!  Here was Aurora, one of the
loveliest girls in London (which, my good reader, is saying a good
deal), treating me like a friend--a brother; and she was nearer and
dearer to me than friend or sister could be, so far as regard and
propinquity went; yet withal, she was little more than a recent
acquaintance.

It was perilous work, those daily visits to Piccadilly, and yet so
pleasing; and so--and so the reader may begin to perceive the end of
all this; but not exactly how it came about.

I own that I fell in love with my beautiful cousin; so had many
others--among them Shirley; and I could pardon him now.

I am sure that dear old Madame Blythe, who loved me like a son, for
no better reason than that I was a lieutenant of dragoons, as her
husband had been in their lover-days, suspected what was going
forward.  She was discreet--oh, very discreet!  She never opened the
drawing-room door too suddenly if we were within, but always lingered
without and loudly issued an order to the cook, or to John Trot; or
dropped something noisily; called to her French poodle, or played
nervously with the door-handle, until Aurora and I laughed at her
policy or politeness, which you will.  However, when she entered, I
was generally to be found on the side of the room opposite to that
occupied by Aurora.

When in the dining-room, the sight of Sir Basil's portrait, and
Squire Tony's too, always roused my secret anger; thus, when Aurora
one day said to me playfully--

"Cousin Basil, what do you think Lady Ancrum tells me gossips say?"

"Don't know, really," replied I, briefly.

"That I am setting my cap at you!"

"Zounds! at a poor devil like me!" I exclaimed, almost gruffly.
"Nonsense, Aurora!  Besides, you don't wear a cap."

Aurora coloured, and her sweet face became clouded by my brusque
manner.

But her remark set me thinking seriously.  I had undergone some quiet
quizzing from Madame Blythe, who believed in her heart that we were
made for each other, and that no two young people could play a game
of picquet, ombre, or chess, or dance a minuet together, without
falling straightway in love; so this and my Lady Ancrum's gossip set
me, I say, to think angrily, and when in such a mood, Sir Basil's
insulting last will and testament, like the handwriting on the wall
at Belshazzar's feast, always seemed to flame before me.

I was conscious too that my cousinship and constant appearance in
public with Miss Gauntlet had scared away a score of danglers and
admirers, who being most of them mere macaronies, or "pretty
fellows," were weak enough to leave me entire possession of the
field.  One or two, indeed, threatened to invite me to breathe the
morning air at the back of Montague House, but somehow never put
their war-like threat into execution.

I loved Aurora dearly; but the regard I bore her was quite unlike the
wild and romantic passion with which the artful Jacqueline had so
suddenly inspired me, for it was based upon friendship and a
knowledge of each other--upon strong confidence and thorough esteem.
Could more than these four ingredients be wanted to make any marriage
happy?

It was not a passion likely to expend itself, and leave rosy little
Cupid's wings, bows, arrows and all, insolvent at the end of the
first year; yet withal, pride and a sense of injury rankled deeply in
my heart.

I had never told Aurora that I loved her, but she knew it well, and
that she loved me I was vain enough to believe; still the idea stung
me to the soul that gossips might say that I, the disinherited and
penniless cousin married the rich one to regain my lost patrimony.

"I shall not endure it," thought I, "and so shall pack my traps and
be off to the regiment!"

One evening I was seated alone by the library fire in Piccadilly,
full of loving, of angry, and of doubtful thoughts which tormented
me, when Aurora entered gently, and leaning over the back of my chair
placed her pretty hands over my forehead and eyes in sport.

"How you stare into the fire, Basil!  You will quite spoil your eyes.
What do you see there?"

"I am reflecting--thinking----"

"Of the fancied battles you see among the embers--the value of coals,
or what?" she asked, laughing.  "Now tell me, about what were your
precious thoughts?"

"They were of _you_, Aurora," said I, in a troubled voice, while
taking her dear hands in mine; "my leave of absence----"

"Again, that horrid leave--well, Basil?"

"Is nearly at an end, and I must quit London, rejoin, tear myself
from this," I replied, impetuously, and then added, with sudden
softness; "I love you, dear Aurora--you know well that I do; but
never shall it be said by the world that I married you for your
fortune--as----"

"The world!" said she, interrupting me, with an air of extreme
annoyance, while casting down her eyes and withdrawing her hands;
"but am I then so plain--so unattractive--that no one would marry for
anything else, save for this unlucky Netherwood--eh, cousin?" she
added, smiling with a charming air of coquetry.

"Oh, Aurora--I wish you could see into my heart!"

"And you love me?" said she, in a low and tremulous voice.

"Dearly--most dearly!"

"Then if I married you, cousin Basil," she resumed, looking smilingly
into my eyes, "might not the world say it was for your title?"

"Am I then so plain and unattractive," I was beginning, when she
playfully put her hand on my mouth; "Aurora, of the baronetcy I
cannot divest myself."

"But I can _divest_ myself of Netherwood," she exclaimed, and sprung
from my side with flashing eyes.  Then with tremulous hands she
unlocked an ebony cabinet, and after a rapid search, came to me with
a folded document, saying, "Look, Basil, do you know this
handwriting?"

"It is that of old Nathan Wylie, our grandfather's solicitor; I
should know it well."

"Then read this paper, which he prepared and drew up a few weeks ago,
at my especial request."

I perused it with astonishment!

It was what is legally or technically termed a "Disposition," by
which Aurora divested herself of Netherwood, lands, estate, and
everything, bestowing them upon me during her lifetime, with
remainder to me and my heirs at her decease.

I had learned enough of law during my residence with old Nathan
Wylie, the framer of this new document, to know how full, ample, and
generous it was, and while I rapidly scanned it from the preamble at
the beginning to the signature of Aurora at the end, she stood near
me with her cheeks flushing, her eyes full of tears, and her poor
little hands trembling.

"Oh, Aurora!" I exclaimed in bewilderment.

"Now cousin, do you believe me--now do you deem me sincere in
wishing, at every risk, to soothe your angry pride?" she asked, with
a shower of nervous tears.  "None can now say that you wedded me to
recover a lost patrimony, for yours it was, and is, most justly."

"Dearest Aurora, I would rather owe its restoration in another
fashion, but still, my beloved, to you.  Behold!" and I put the deed
in the fire, where it shrivelled and was consumed in a moment.

I had no more words for the occasion, but pressed Aurora to my
breast.  I felt that she was indeed my own--all my own; that we
should be all the world to each other, and that our future would be a
life of love.

My lips could not express the debt of joy and gratitude I owed to
this dear girl; but though silent, friend reader, they were not
perhaps idle.

Thus, without any tremendous effort of romance, but in the most
ordinary and matter-of-fact way in the world, my marriage came about
with cousin Aurora.  She was to be my wife, and no Frenchwoman, after
all.

* * * * *

And now, leaving Aurora and Madame Blythe deep in all the mystery of
paduasoy skirts, calimanco petticoats, satin sacques, solitaires and
négligées, head-cushions and red-heeled shoes, furbelows and
flounces, bracelets, neckets, étui and appendages, long stomachers,
clocked stockings, and other things which I need not enumerate--in
short, arranging the full wardrobe of a wealthy and beautiful bride,
while I depart to arrange all about the special licence and extended
leave (taking the Horse Guards _en route_), I shall bid my friend,
the reader, who has accompanied me to this happy conclusion, for a
time, perhaps, a kind adieu.



THE END.




  LONDON:
  SAVILL AND EDWARDS, PRINTERS, CHANDOS STREET,
  COVENT GARDEN.