ed out in a kind of reckless
enthusiasm. But he knew well what he said.

Pauline was amazed at the audacity of his speech. M. Belmont looked on
in silent wonder. As to Cary he gazed with great open eyes, as if he was
listening to a summons, delivered in a trumpet blast, from an unseen
power that was omnipotent to save him. A glow of sudden health mantled
his cheeks; his brow was illuminated with an air of intelligence quite
distinct from the torpor of mortal disease which had lain upon it, and,
as he stretched himself out more fully on his couch, he appeared endowed
with a vigour that could only be born of confidence. It was evident,
too, that, at the moment, he was perfectly happy.

"It is well," murmured M. Belmont, laying his hand upon his daughter's
shoulder. "This is the blessed revulsion of which the doctor spoke."

Batoche seemed quite satisfied with what he had done, and a moment after
he bade his friend farewell. Down in the hall, when alone with M.
Belmont, he delivered his other messages, a letter from Zulma to
Pauline, and from Sieur Sarpy to his son Eugene, which his friend was to
send to its destination in whatever way might seem best so as not to
compromise himself. He observed also with satisfaction that Cary had not
breathed a word about military matters. This he regarded as a sign that
the young man's mind was quite at ease.

VII.

DONALD'S FATE.

Before he took his departure M. Belmont solemnly warned Batoche of all
the dangers which he incurred, reminding him that it is often more
difficult to return from such an expedition as he had undertaken that
night, than to get through its initial stages. Batoche was by no means
insensible to his perils and, thanking his host, promised to exercise
the utmost prudence. M. Belmont particularly called his attention to a
patrol headed by Roderick's old servant, Donald, who was a desperate
man, animated by the most deadly feelings against every one whom he even
suspected of disloyalty towards the King.

"I know that he owes you a special grudge, Batoche, for your midnight
incursions, and if he catches you, he will treat you without mercy."

The night was as dark as death, without a single star in the sky, or a
solitary lamp in the streets. On leaving the house, Batoche shot boldly
into a narrow lane that led towards the ramparts facing the St. Charles,
and then slackened his step, creeping along the walls of the houses.
This lane opened on a little