the
greatest disorder, never rallying till they reached the Pyrenees. It was
the last great battle on the soil of Spain, but it was not the first time
the pass of Roncesvalles had witnessed a French disaster.

The consequence was--a fresh batch of prisoners arrived at Norman Cross,
and it was probably the last.

Captain Tournier was standing talking with a number of other officers,
both English and French, near the entrance gate of the barracks, when
they saw them approaching along the road.

As the new comers passed by, their reception, as always, was respectful
and sympathetic. The Frenchmen scrutinized their fellows with friendly
eyes to see if they could detect among them some former comrade, and when
they happened to do so, which of course was not often, gave lively tokens
of recognition. Tournier was not in the front part of the group of
officers, but nevertheless could see fairly well.

And he _did_ see! He saw a face he had not looked on for years, and
which he had hoped never to see again: a face that he had tried, oh, so
hard, to forget: a face that haunted him in his dreams: the face of the
man he hated more than anybody in the world! and there he was walking
along (even in this his humiliation,) with his old air of a man for whom
all the world was made; handsome as ever, but with those same cold eyes
that looked on everything as a joke, whether it were a man's life or a
woman's honour!

"What's the matter with Tournier?" said one of the officers; "he has
broken through like a madman and gone after someone yonder, as if he
meant to do him grievous bodily harm!"

It was true. Tournier had uttered a strong exclamation, and broken
through those in front of him with almost violence, and gone after
somebody. He made for his man, and got up to him near enough to touch
him, when he stopped short. "Fool that I am!" he thought; "I shall save
his life by exposing him now! No! I will wait till I can make sure of
him!"

And he turned away in terrible agitation.

All was brought back to his mind, and yet more to his heart. The man
that had wronged him, that had caused him such anguish, that had well-
nigh destroyed his life as he had his happiness, was brought close to
him, at his very elbow, by this strange chance. And what for? Was it
not that he might take vengeance on the scoundrel? He had forgiven her,
but he never could forgive him. It was not meant that he should. So he
thought.

And up