r the circumstances, but proposed to investigate. Francezka went
with us. She was pale, but collected. The bishop was for going with
us, being frightened, if ever I saw a man--he was a Netherlander and
as ignorant of open fireplaces as the rest of his countrymen--but
Madame Riano gibing at him for his pusillanimity, he resumed his cards
with such composure as he could, and Madame Riano proposed they should
play the game out together. We left them, therefore, seated at the
table, Madame Riano quite unconcerned at the commotion, and the
bishop, a little white about the chops, but standing to his game like
a man.

Meanwhile, in our absence from the room, the excited and panic-stricken
servants had, without any authority, opened a vast tank of water,
which was on the top of the house, and a flood began to pour down the
chimney of the little yellow room, where Madame Riano held her
unwilling enemy. Quite unconscious of this, Count Saxe and the rest of
us watched the fire burn itself out harmlessly enough; old Peter
managed to quiet the frantic servants, and we returned to the yellow
room. Then the sight that met our eyes can never be forgotten by any
of us. The burning soot had tumbled down the chimney, and if the bishop
and Madame Riano had left their play long enough there would have been
no damage done to anything.

I do not believe Madame Riano was so absorbed in her game as not to
know what was going on, but I am pretty sure she had in mind the
punishment of the bishop. A strong odor of burning wood pervaded the
room; before the flood came down the chimney there had been many
falling cinders, and these had set the wainscoting smoldering just
behind the bishop's chair. The floor had been flooded, and Madame
Riano, her skirts tucked about her, had drawn up her feet to the seat
of her chair and sat there as cool as any warrior on the eve of
battle. The bishop's feet were in the water. He held his cards
tightly, but his eye roved around and lighted up when he saw us enter,
Count Saxe and Francezka in the lead. Just as we came in the
smoldering wainscoting blazed up brightly. Gaston Cheverny, with his
hat, dipped up water enough to put out the blaze. The bishop started
and turned half round, but was recalled by Madame Riano, saying in a
voice of menace and of mockery:

"Come, your Grace. It is your play. Don't be scared by a trifle like
this. My faith, you would make but a poor figure in Scotland, where we
never stop our