blingly in the
pocket of his tattered vest. Not finding what he searched for, he half
started up. Detricand hastened forward with a black leather-covered book
in his hand. Mr. Dow's thin trembling fingers clutched eagerly--it was
his only passion--at this journal of his life. As his grasp closed on
it, he recognised Detricand, and at the same time he saw the cross and
heart of the Vendee on his coat.

A victorious little laugh struggled in his throat. "The Lord hath
triumphed gloriously--I could drink some wine, monsieur," he added in
the same quaint clerical monotone.

Having drunk the wine he lay back murmuring thanks and satisfaction, his
eyes closed. Presently they opened. He nodded at Detricand.

"I have not tasted wine these five years," he said; then added,
"You--you took too much wine in Jersey, did you not, monsieur? I used to
say an office for you every Litany day, which was of a Friday."

His eyes again caught the cross and heart on Detricand's coat, and they
lighted up a little. "The Lord hath triumphed gloriously," he repeated,
and added irrelevantly, "I suppose you are almost a captain now?"

"A general--almost," said Detricand with gentle humour.

At that moment an orderly appeared at the tent-door, bearing a letter
for Detricand.

"From General Grandjon-Larisse of the Republican army, your highness,"
said the orderly, handing the letter. "The messenger awaits an answer."

As Detricand hastily read, a look of astonishment crossed over his face,
and his brows gathered in perplexity. After a minute's silence he said
to the orderly:

"I will send a reply to-morrow."

"Yes, your highness." The orderly saluted and retired.

Mr. Dow half raised himself on his couch, and the fevered eyes swallowed
Detricand.

"You--you are a prince, monsieur?" he said. Detricand glanced up from
the letter he was reading again, a grave and troubled look on his face.

"Prince of Vaufontaine they call me, but, as you know, I am only a
vagabond turned soldier," he said. The dying man smiled to himself,--a
smile of the sweetest vanity this side of death,--for it seemed to
him that the Lord had granted him this brand from the burning, and in
supreme satisfaction, he whispered: "I used to say an office for you
every Litany--which was a Friday, and twice, I remember, on two Saints'
days."

Suddenly another thought came to him, and his lips moved--he was
murmuring to himself. He would leave a goodly legacy to the captive