attire
indicated he had but recently been on the road. Upon a chair near by
were a riding-whip and hat, the latter spotted with mud and testifying
to the rough character of the road over which he had come. He held a
short pipe to his lips and blew clouds of smoke toward the fire, while
upon a table, within arm's length, rested a glass of some hot mixture.
But in spite of his comfortable surroundings, the expression of his
face was not that of a person in harmony with the Johnsonian
conclusion, "A chair in an inn is a throne of felicity." His
countenance, well bronzed as a weather-tried trooper's, was harsh,
gloomy, almost morose; not an unhandsome face, but set in such a
severe cast the observer involuntarily wondered what experience had
indited that scroll. Tall, large of limb, muscular, as was apparent
even in a restful pose, he looked an athlete of the most approved
type, active and powerful.

Mine host, having found his guest taciturn, had himself become genial,
and now remarked as he entered: "How do you find the punch? Is it to
your liking?"

"Yes," shortly answered the stranger, without raising his eyes from a
moody regard of the fire.

"You're from France, I guess?" continued the landlord, as he seated
himself on the opposite side of the fireplace. "Been here long? Where
you going?" Without waiting for an answer to his first question he
exercised his time-honored privilege of demanding any and all
information from wayfarers at the Travelers' Friend.

"I say, where you going?" he repeated, turning over a log and sending
a shower of sparks up the flue.

With no change of countenance the guest silently reached for his
punch, swallowed a portion of it, replaced the glass on the table and
resumed his smoking as though oblivious of the other's presence.
Momentarily disconcerted, the landlord devoted himself once more to
the fire. After readjusting a trunk of old hickory on the great
andirons and gazing absently for a moment at the huge crane supporting
an iron kettle of boiling water, mine host tipped back in his chair,
braced his feet against the wall, lighted a vile-smelling pipe and
again returned valiantly to the attack, resolved to learn more about
his guest.

"I hear things are kind of onsettled in France?" he observed
diplomatically, emitting a cloud of smoke. "I see in a Syracuse paper
that Louis Philippe is no longer king; that he and the queen have fled
to England. Perhaps, now,"--inwardly congratul