their lot as far as possible; and, as he advanced towards the fire, he thanked Heaven for a place of shelter from the rude buffeting of the storm.

In the mean while, the first occupant of the inn continued, with that air of self-satisfied indifference which has been a part of the affectation of the pampered and insolent in all ages, to look at nothing but the proceedings of some rebellious sticks upon the hearth, which resisted all the soft persuasions of the woman whom the hostess had left to tend the savoury messes at the fire, while she herself aided her husband in receiving, like Hope, her new visiters with false promises. The occupant of the chimney-corner looked neither to the right nor to the left; and, to have judged by his countenance, one would have supposed that he heard not one sound of all the many that were stirring around him, nor had a greater interest in anything on earth than in the cooking of a steak of roe venison. Even when Bernard de Rohan advanced with his arms jingling as he trod, and, after a momentary glance at him, laid hold of his arm with a friendly smile, the stranger merely turned round, with a look of perfect unconcern, to see who it was that, either in enmity or good-fellowship, thus called his attention.

When he saw who it was, however, he became more animated, and, rising with a smile, shook hands with him warmly. "Ha! Bernard de Rohan!" he exclaimed, "I can hardly believe my eyes. Why, baron, who would have thought to meet you thus in a Savoyard inn? Have you then quitted Italy to follow Guise, and meet the enemy in the North? You have not thrown by the spear and sword, I see! But, in a word, say what do you here?"

"Why, to say truth," replied the other, "nothing is now to be done beyond the Apennines; and though, as you might well know, after all that occurred at Civita, I am as little likely to follow Guise as a greyhound is to hunt in company with a lion, yet there is no use in staying behind when he has not only left the field himself, but taken all his forces with him. I am tired of this warfare, too! I long for some repose. I have now been three years absent from France, and I have a yearning to see my own land once more."

"Yes, and some fair dame therein," rejoined his companion. "Is it not so, De Rohan? I remember well you seemed to have but small delight in the bright eyes of the young Italians, and I often thought that it must be some remembered love of the past that kept you thus heart-whole."

"It may be so, count," replied Bernard, gayly. "What man is there without a lady-love? If there be one, he is neither fit for war nor peace: he wants the great excitement to glory, and courtesy, and great deeds. But, even had it not been for that, Meyrand," he added, more seriously, "I love the ladies of my own land best. Bright looks are little to me without true hearts, and beauty but a frail substitute for goodness."

"Pshaw, Sir Moralizer!" cried his companion; "beauty is a woman's best possession till she be old; and then, when she has done with the Graces, let her take up with the Virtues, or the Muses, or anything else she likes."

"Let her take up with anything, in short," said the jolly priest, coming forward to the fire, and shaking his gown to dry it; "let her take up with anything but a libertine, a fop, or a courtier. Let her bear age, or ugliness, or anything but children to fools—so shall she do well in this world and the next! Is it not so, gay sir?"

The Count de Meyrand stared at him with a look of haughty surprise; but he found that the priest was as indifferent as he could be, and he relapsed for a minute or two into silence, while the page of Bernard de Rohan came up to disarm his lord. The operation was somewhat long, and, by the time it was accomplished, the trestles had been brought forth from their corner, the long wooden boards which, joined up the middle, served for a table, had been taken from the wall against which they stood and laid upon those trestles, and over all a fine white tablecloth had been spread, with the salt in the midst.

Plate after plate of well-cooked viands, emitting an odour most savoury to hungry men, was next placed on the board by the neat hostess, and the count, with Bernard de Rohan in the buff jerkin he had worn under his armour, moved to take their seats at the head of the table. The priest sat down beside his young travelling companion, while a sneering smile curled the lip of Meyrand, and he could not refrain from saying, in a low but not inaudible voice, "Why, baron, what a princely youth you have become, to travel with your fool, and in canonicals too."

Bernard did not reply; and the priest, though he heard every word, said nothing till, the attendants having all ranged themselves at the lower end of the table, together with the host and hostess, he proceeded to bless the meat. He had scarcely concluded, however, when the door of the inn suddenly opened, and a person rushed in in the garb of a servant. He was without hat or cloak, and there was a cut, though but a slight one, upon his forehead. "Help! help!" he cried, gazing eagerly around the circle; "help! help! they are carrying away my Lord of Masseran and my young lady to murder them in the mountains."

These words produced a very different effect upon the persons who heard them. The Count of Meyrand sat perfectly still and indifferent, listening with his usual air of cool self-possession to all that the man said, and never ceasing to carve with his dagger the meat that was before him, on which he had just commenced when the interruption took place.

On the other hand, Bernard de Rohan and each of his servants, as if moved by the same impulse, started up at once. The young gentleman's left hand fell naturally to grasp the scabbard of his sword, and, before the man had done speaking, he had taken three steps towards the door of the inn.

Two or three circumstances, however, occurred to interrupt him for a moment. There were various confused movements on the part of many persons present, and a clamour of several tongues all speaking at once.

At the same time the count exclaimed, "Stay one moment, baron! Stay and drink one cup of wine with me before you go out in this sweet stormy night to help one of the greatest scoundrels that Savoy can produce, or France either. Stay, stay one moment! Well," he added, seeing Bernard de Rohan turn from him with a look of impatience, "well, go and help Masseran, if you will! Heaven send the rogues may have cut his throat before you reach them!"

"Your horse, my lord!" cried one of the attendants.

"Your armour, sir!" said another.

"No, no, on foot! on foot!" cried Bernard de Rohan; "on foot as we are! Time is everything. Lead on, fellow! lead on! Send us out torches, mine host!"

The jovial priest had started up almost at the same time as his travelling companion. "By our Lady, I will go with you!" he cried, "to shrive the dying. It is a part of a priest's trade; though, I confess, if I were knight, and noble and gallant cavalier, I would stay where I am, like this brave count, and exercise my chivalry upon venison and tankards of wine."

While he was speaking, there drew out from some dark corner of the inn-kitchen—where he had remained unnoticed by any one—a tall, thin, gaunt man, with a straw hat on his head, and a large, coarse brown cloak enveloping almost the whole of his figure. He took three steps forward into the full light, and certainly there had seldom been seen a more striking, if not a more handsome countenance, or a more remarkable and even graceful bearing, than that which the stranger presented. He was a man apparently about five-and-thirty years of age, with aquiline features, large, black, flashing eyes, the bronze of sun, and wind, and storm upon his face, and five or six deep scars upon his cheek and brow. He was remarkably erect in person, and, though certainly meager, was broad-shouldered and muscular, or rather, perhaps, I may say, sinewy; for the hand that grasped his cloak, and the part of the arm and