d
little doubt some means of escape would present itself.

The desire to return to Ireland, long stilled, was now become a passion.
I thought some new career must there open for me, and in its active
vicissitudes I should make amends for the wearisome languor of my late
life. What this novel path was to be, and where to lead, I cannot
say; nor am I able now, in looking back, to guess by what sophistry I
persuaded myself into this belief. It was the last ray of hope within
me, however, and I cherished it only the more fondly for its very
uncertainty.

As I sat thus deliberating with myself what course to take, the door was
cautiously opened, and the landlord entered.

"He is come," whispered he; "and, thank Heaven! not too late."

"The abbe?" inquired I.

"No, not the abbe; but the Comte de Chambord. The abbe will not venture;
but it matters not, if you will. The letters are all ready; the sloop is
off the coast; the wind is fair--"

"And not a moment to be lost," added a deep, low voice, as the figure of
a tall man, wrapped in a travelling cloak, darkened the doorway. "Leave
us, Pierre; this is the gentleman, I suppose?"

"Yes, sir," said the landlord. "Should you need a light, I 'll bring
one."

"Thank you, friend; we can dispense with any, save what the moon affords
us."

As the door closed on the retiring figure of the host, the stranger took
his place beside me on the bed, and in a low voice thus began:--

"I only know, sir, that you have the full confidence of one of my
stanchest and best friends, who tells me that you are willing to incur
great risk, provided you gain the chance of reaching your native land.
That chance--nay, I will call it that certainty--lies in my power; and,
in return for the assistance, are you willing to do me a service?"

"I served the Emperor, sir; ask me not anything unworthy of one who wore
his epaulette. Aught else, if it be but honorable and fair, I 'll do."

"I have no leisure for casuistry, nor is it my humor, sir," replied he
angrily. "Neither do I seek any wondrous devotion at your hands. The
service is an easy one: costs nothing at the present; involves nothing
for the future."

"The slight value you place upon it may detract but little from my
objection," said I.

"_Sacre ciel!_" exclaimed he, in a louder voice, as he sprang from the
bed and clasped his hands before him. "Is it to be ever thus? Is every
step we take to be marred by some unlooked for casualty? Is