erything about Russia. I want to hear
about the knout, and the malachite, and that queer habit of gambling
before dinner is announced. I 'm sure I should like St Petersburg. And
the brother, what is he like?"

"I only know, madam, that he is a great invalid, not yet recovered from
his wounds!"

"How interesting! He was in the patriot army, was he not?"

"He fought for the Emperor, madam; pray make no mistake in that sense."

"Oh dear! how difficult it is to remember all these things; and yet I
knew it perfectly when I was at Florence,--all about the Kaiser-Jagers,
and the Crociati, and the Croats, and the rest of them. It was the
Crociati, or the Croats--I forget which--eat little children. It 's
perfectly true; Guardarelli, when he was a prisoner, saw an infant
roasting for Radetzky's own table."

"I would beg of you, madam, not to mention this fact to the
Field-Marshal, Miss Kate Dalton's uncle."

"Oh, of course not; and I trust he will not expect that we could provide
him with such delicacies here. Now, doctor, how shall we amuse these
people? what can we do?"

"Remember, first of all, madam, that their visit to Ireland is not an
excursion of pleasure----"

"Oh, I can perfectly conceive _that!_" interrupted she, with a look of
irony.

"I was about to remark that an affair of deep importance was the cause
of their journey--"

"More business!" broke she in again. "After all, then, I suppose I am
not much more miserable than the rest of the world. Everybody would seem
to have what you call 'affairs of importance.'"

"Upon my word, madam, you have made me totally forget _mine_, then,"
said Grounsell, jumping up from his seat, and looking at his watch. "I
came here prepared to make certain explanations, and ask your opinion
on certain points. It is now two o'clock, and I have not even opened the
matter in hand."

Lady Hester laughed heartily at his distress, and continued to enjoy her
mirth as he packed up his scattered papers, buttoned his greatcoat, and
hurried away, without even the ceremony of a leave-taking.

CHAPTER XXXIV. "THE RORE."

D'Esmonde and his friend Michel sat beside the fire in a small parlor
of the wayside public-house called "The Rore." They were both thoughtful
and silent, and in their moody looks might be read the signs of brooding
care. As for the Abbe, anxiety seemed to have worn him like sickness;
for his jaws were sunk and hollow, while around his eyes deep circles of
a d