an ample black cloak
riding briskly up the avenue.

"See?" exclaimed Ombreval; "yonder at last comes the great man we
are awaiting--the Commissioner of that rabble they call the National
Convention. Now we shall know what fate is reserved for us."

"But what can they do?" she asked.

"It is the fashion to send people of our station to Paris," he replied,
"to make a mock of us with an affair they call a trial before they
murder us."

She sighed.

"Perhaps this gentleman is more merciful," was the hope she expressed.

"Merciful?" he mocked. "Ma foi, a ravenous tiger may be merciful before
one of these. Had your father been wise he had ordered the few of us
that remained to charge those soldiers when they entered, and to have
met our end upon their bayonets. That would have been a merciful fate
compared with the mercy of this so-called Commissioner is likely to
extend us."

It seemed to be his way to find fault, and that warp in his character
rendered him now as heroic--in words--as he had been erstwhile scornful.

Suzanne shuddered, brave girl though she was.

"Unless you can conceive thoughts of a pleasanter complexion," she said,
"I should prefer your silence, M. d'Ombreval."

He laughed in his disdainful way--for he disdained all things, excepting
his own person and safety--but before he could make any answer they were
joined by the Marquis and his son.

In the courtyard the horseman was now dismounting, and a moment or two
later they heard the fall of feet, upon the stairs. A soldier threw open
the door, and holding it, announced:

"The Citizen-deputy La Boulaye, Commissioner of the National Convention
to the army of General Dumouriez."

"This," mocked Ombreval, to whom the name meant nothing, "is the
representative of a Government of strict equality, and he is announced
with as much pomp as was ever an ambassador of his murdered Majesty's."

Then a something out of the common in the attitude of his companions
arrested his attention. Mademoiselle was staring with eyes full of the
most ineffable amazement, her lips parted, and her cheeks whiter than
the sleepless night had painted them. The Marquis was scowling in a
surprise that seemed no whit less than his daughter's, his head thrust
forward, and his jaw fallen. The Vicomte, too, though in a milder
degree, offered a countenance that was eloquent with bewilderment. From
this silent group Ombreval turned his tired eyes to the door and took
stock of t