e woody deeps below Dunchuach the castle gleamed with fires, and a
Highland welcome illumined the greater part of the avenue from the town
with flambeaux, in whose radiance the black pines, the huge beeches,
the waxen shrubbery round the lawns all shrouded, seemed to creep closer
round the edifice to hear the sounds of revelry and learn what charms
the human world when the melodious winds are still and the weather is
cold, and out of doors poor thickets must shiver in appalling darkness.

A gush of music met Count Victor at the threshold; dresses were
rustling, a caressing warmth sighed round him, and his host was very
genial.

"M. Montaiglon," said his Grace in French, "you will pardon our
short notice; my good friend, M. Montaiglon, my dear; my wife, M.
Montaiglon--"

"But M. Montaiglon merely in the inns, my lord," corrected the
Frenchman, smiling. "I should be the last to accept the honour of your
hospitality under a _nom de guerre_."

The Duke bowed. "M. le Comte," he said, "to be quite as candid as
yourself, I pierced your incognito even in the dark. My dear sir, a
Scots traveller named for the time being the Baron Hay once had the
privilege of sharing a glass coach with your uncle between Paris
and Dunkerque; 'tis a story that will keep. Meanwhile, as I say, M.
Montaiglon will pardon the shortness of our notice; in these wilds
one's dancing shoes are presumed to be ever airing at the fire. You must
consider these doors as open as the woods so long as your are in this
neighbourhood. I have some things I should like to show you that
you might not find wholly uninteresting--a Raphael, a Rembrandt (so
reputed), and several Venetians--not much, in faith, but regarding which
I should value your criticism--"

Some other guests arrived, his Grace's speech was broken, and Count
Victor passed on, skirting the dancers, who to his unaccustomed eyes
presented features strange yet picturesque as they moved in the puzzling
involutions of a country dance. It was a noble hall hung round with
tapestry and bossed with Highland targets, trophies of arms and the
mountain chase; from the gallery round it drooped little banners with
the devices of all those generations of great families that mingled in
the blood of MacCailen Mor.

The Frenchman looked round him for a familiar face, and saw the
Chamberlain in Highland dress in the midst of a little group of dames.

Mrs. Petullo was not one of them. She was dancing with her husba