brown tress that was so ingeniously
woven round it.

As he gazed on the trinket, his full dark eyes brightened for a moment,
as the mild memories of love and fondness rose in his heart, and a
bright smile played upon his haughty lip and lofty brow. Other thoughts
arose, and the eyebrows that almost met over the straight Grecian nose
of Lemercier, were knit as he recalled the ominous words of his recent
acquaintance--

"Mademoiselle Athalie must be a brisk dame to urge her favored Chevalier
on a venture so desperate."

One bitter pang shot through his heart, but he thrust the thought aside,
and pressed the ring to his lips.

"Oh, Athalie," he said in a low voice, "I were worse than a villain to
suspect thee."

At that moment midnight tolled from the dull old bell of Crail, and the
strangeness of the sound brought keenly home to the lonely heart of
Lemercier that he was in a foreign land.

The hour passed, but the Major did not return.

Morning came.

With gray dawn Lemercier was awake, and a few minutes found him dressed
and ready. He attired himself with particular care, putting on a coat
and vest, the embroidery of which presented as few conspicuous marks as
possible to an antagonist's eye. He clasped his coat from the cravat to
the waist, and compressed his embroidered belt. He adjusted his white
silk roll-up stockings with great exactness; tied up the flowing curls
of his wig with a white ribbon, placed a scarlet feather in his hat, and
then took his sword. The edge and point of the blade, the shell and
pommel, grasp and guard of the hilt were all examined with scrupulous
care for the last time; he drew on his gloves with care, and giving to
the landlord the reckoning, which he might never return to pay,
Lemercier called for his horse and rode through the main street of
Crail.

Following the directions he had received from his host, he hastily
quitted the deserted and grass-grown street of the burgh (the very
aspect of which he feared would chill him), and proceeded towards the
ancient obelisk still known as the _Standing-stone of Sauchope_, which
had been named as the place of rendezvous by that messenger who had not
returned, and against whom M. Lemercier felt his anger a little excited.

It was a cool March morning; the sky was clear and blue, and the few
silver clouds that floated through it, became edged with gold as the sun
rose from his bed in the eastern sea--that burnished sea from which the
co