the chimney, he bowed low, asking how he could serve them farther; but as he did so, his eye ran over their persons with a half-satisfied and inquiring glance, which made Lafemas turn away his head. But Chavigni answered promptly to his offer of service: “Why now, good friend, if thou couldst give us a jug of wine, ‘twould be well and kindly done, for we have ridden far.”

“This is no inn, Sir,” replied Philip, “and you will find my wine but thin: nevertheless, such as it is, most welcomely shall you taste.”

From whatever motive it proceeded, Philip’s hospitality was but lukewarm towards the strangers; and the manner in which he rinsed out the tankard, drew the wine from a barrique standing in one corner of the room, half covered with a wolf-skin, and placed it on a table by the side of Chavigni, bespoke more churlish rudeness than good-will. But the Statesman heeded little either the quality of his reception or of his wine, provided he could obtain the information he desired; so, carrying the tankard to his lips, he drank, or seemed to drink, as deep a draught as if its contents had been the produce of the best vineyard in Medoc. “It is excellent,” said he, handing it to Lafemas, “or my thirst does wonders. Now, good friend, if we had some venison-steaks to broil on your clear ashes, our supper were complete.”

“Such I have not to offer, Sir,” replied Philip, “or to that you should be welcome too.”

“Why, I should have thought,” said Chavigni, “the hunters who ran down a stag at your door to-day, should have left you a part, as the woodman’s fee.”

“Do you know those hunters, Sir?” demanded Philip, with some degree of emphasis.

“Not I, in truth,” replied Chavigni; though the colour rose in his cheek, notwithstanding his long training to courtly wile and political intrigue, and he thanked his stars that the lamp gave but a faint and glimmering light: “Not I, in truth; but whoever ran him down got a good beast, for he bled like a stag of ten. I suppose they made the curée at your door?”

“Those hunters, Sir,” replied Philip, “give no woodman’s fees; and as to the stag, he is as fine a one as ever brushed the forest dew, but he has escaped them this time.”

“How! did he get off with his throat cut?” demanded Chavigni, “for there is blood enough at the foot of yon old tree, to have drained the stoutest stag that ever was brought to bay.”

“Oh! but that is not stag’s blood!” interrupted Charles, the woodman’s son, who had by this time not only tended the strangers’ horses, but examined every point of the quaint furniture with which it was the fashion of the day to adorn them. “That is not stag’s blood; that is the blood of the young Cavalier, who was hurt by the robbers, and taken away by—”

At this moment the boy’s eye caught the impatient expression of his father’s countenance.

“The truth is, Messieurs,” said Philip, taking up the discourse, “there was a gentleman wounded in the forest this morning. I never saw him before, and he was taken away in a carriage by some ladies, whose faces were equally strange to me.”

“You have been somewhat mysterious upon this business, Sir Woodman,” said Chavigni, his brow darkening as he spoke; “why were you so tardy in giving us this forest news, which imports all strangers travelling through the wood to know?”

“I hold it as a rule,” replied Philip boldly, “to mind my own business, and never to mention any thing I see; which in this affair I shall do more especially, as one of the robbers had furniture of Isabel and silver;” and as he spoke he glanced his eye to the scarf of Chavigni, which was of that peculiar mixture of colours then called Isabel, bordered by a rich silver fringe.

“Fool!” muttered Chavigni between his teeth; “Fool! what need had he to show himself?”

Lafemas, who had hitherto been silent, now came to the relief of his companion: taking up the conversation in a mild and easy tone, “Have you many of these robbing fraternity in your wood?” said he; “if so, I suppose we peril ourselves in crossing it alone.” And, without waiting for any answer, he proceeded, “Pray, who was the cavalier they attacked?”

“He was a stranger from St. Germain,” answered the Woodman; “and as to the robbers, I doubt that they will show themselves again, for fear of being taken.”

“They did not rob him then?” said the Judge. Now nothing that Philip had said bore out this inference; but Lafemas possessed in a high degree the talent of cross-examination, and was deeply versed in all the thousand arts of entangling a witness, or leading a prisoner to condemn himself. But there was a stern reserve about the Woodman which baffled the Judge’s cunning: “I only saw the last part of the fray,” replied Philip, “and therefore know not what went before.”

“Where was he hurt?” asked Lafemas; “for he lost much blood.”

“On the head and in the side,” answered the Woodman.

“Poor youth!” cried the Judge in a pitiful tone. “And when you opened his coat, was the wound a deep one?”

“I cannot judge,” replied Philip, “being no surgeon.”

It was in vain that Lafemas tried all his wiles on the Woodman, and that Chavigni, who soon joined in the conversation, questioned him more boldly. Philip was in no communicative mood, and yielded them but little information respecting the events of the morning.

At length, weary of this fruitless interrogation, Chavigni started up—“Well, friend!” said he, “had there been danger in crossing the forest, we might have stayed with thee till daybreak; but, as thou sayest there is none, we will hence upon our way.” So saying he strode towards the door, the flame-shaped mullets of his gilded spurs jingling over the brick-floor of Philip’s dwelling, and calling the Woodman’s attention to the knightly rank of his departing guest. In a few minutes all was prepared for their departure, and having mounted their horses, the Statesman drew forth a small silk purse tied with a loop of gold, and holding it forth to Philip, bade him accept it for his services. The Woodman bowed, repeating that he required no payment.

“I am not accustomed to have my bounty refused,” said Chavigni proudly; and dropping the purse to the ground, he spurred forward his horse.

“Now, Lafemas,” said he, when they had proceeded so far as to be beyond the reach of Philip’s ears, “what think you of this?”

“Why, truly,” replied the Judge, “I deem that we are mighty near as wise as we were before.”

“Not so,” said Chavigni. “It is clear enough these fellows have failed, and De Blenau has preserved the packet: I understand it all. His Eminence of Richelieu, against my advice, has permitted Madame de Beaumont and her daughter Pauline to return to the Queen, after an absence of ten years. The fact is, that when the Cardinal banished them the Court, and ordered the Marchioness to retire to Languedoc, his views were not so extended as they are now, and he had laid out in his own mind a match between one of his nieces and this rich young Count de Blenau; which, out of the royal family, was one of the best alliances in France. The boy, however, had been promised, and even, I believe, affianced by his father, to this Pauline de Beaumont; and accordingly his Eminence sent away the girl and her mother, with the same sangfroid that a man drives a strange dog out of his court-yard; at the same time he kept the youth at Court, forbidding all communication with Languedoc: but now that the Cardinal can match his niece to the Duke D’Enghien, De Blenau may look for a bride where he lists, and the Marquise and her daughter have been suffered to return. To my knowledge, they passed through Chartres