unt."

He went out, leaving in Sir John's hands a copy of the decree of the
municipality of the town of Bourg, instituting the funeral rites in
honor of Marat, on the anniversary of his death.

CHAPTER XIII. THE WILD-BOAR

Sir John was just finishing that interesting bit of history when Madame
de Montrevel and her daughter returned. Amelie, who did not know how
much had been said about her between Roland and Sir John, was astounded
by the expression with which that gentleman scrutinized her.

To him she seemed more lovely than before. He could readily understand
that mother, who at the risk of life had been unwilling that this
charming creature should profane her youth and beauty by serving as a
mourner in a celebration of which Marat was the deity. He recalled that
cold damp cell which he had lately visited, and shuddered at the thought
that this delicate white ermine before his eyes had been imprisoned
there, without sun or air, for six weeks. He looked at the throat,
too long perhaps, but swan-like in its suppleness and graceful in its
exaggeration, and he remembered that melancholy remark of the poor
Princesse de Lamballe, as she felt her slender neck: "It will not give
the executioner much trouble!"

The thoughts which succeeded each other in Sir John's mind gave to his
face an expression so different from its customary aspect, that Madame
de Montrevel could not refrain from asking what troubled him. He then
told her of his visit to the prison, and Roland's pious pilgrimage to
the dungeon where his mother and sister had been incarcerated. Just
as Sir John had concluded his tale, a view-halloo sounded without, and
Roland entered, his hunting-horn in his hands.

"My dear friend," he cried, "thanks to my mother, we shall have a
splendid hunt to-morrow."

"Thanks to me?" queried Madame de Montrevel.

"How so?" added Sir John.

"I left you to see about my dogs, didn't I?"

"You said so, at any rate."

"I had two excellent beasts, Barbichon and Ravaude, male and female."

"Oh!" exclaimed Sir John, "are they dead?"

"Well, yes; but just guess what this excellent mother of mine has done?"
and, tilting Madame de Montrevel's head, he kissed her on both cheeks.
"She wouldn't let them drown a single puppy because they were the dogs
of my dogs; so the result is, that to-day the pups, grand-pups, and
great-grand-pups of Barbichon and Ravaude are as numerous as the
descendant of Ishmael. Instead of a pair of