position aids the cure.'

CHAPTER XXXIX.

As Arwed was striding back and forth in the most remote and darkly
shaded avenue of the garden, buried in his own reflections, colonel
Megret met him with a disturbed countenance. 'Time presses,' said he
with eagerness; 'I must speak openly with you, major. That I love your
cousin, you must long since have known--yet how fervently, you could
not know. The delicate gallantry which we Frenchmen dedicate to the
ladies, and the fear of affrighting or distressing her by the
outbreaking of my passion, have thrown a veil over the fire which
consumes me. I now confess to you that I could commit murder to possess
her; I must win her hand or die.'

'Nevertheless, colonel, I do not understand,' answered Arwed with
displeasure, 'why you confide all this _to me_, nor why you confide it
_now_.'

'The new emergencies of the war call me back to the army,' said Megret.
'I set out even this very night. Meanwhile I wish to secure to myself
here at least the _statum quo_. You love me not, major; that I very
well know, but at any rate you are not my rival; you are Christine's
near relative and a man of honor. Whatever you may think of me, we must
agree in this, that Mac Donalbain is not deserving of your cousin.'

'That I am very willing to allow,' answered Arwed. 'But, I hope, there
can never be a question of such a connection. Had Christine really a
weakness for that man, so noble and strong a mind as hers would be
easily reclaimed from such an aberration.'

'You consider the matter too lightly,' said Megret with great
earnestness. 'I myself hoped and doubted long, and left unemployed the
means at my command for banishing that bad man. I was indeed thereto
prompted by that miserable vanity which induces a man to wish to
conquer by his own merits and to scorn the use of other weapons. But
the real state of affairs is now placed in so clear a light that my
eyes are pained by it. This Mac Donalbain is a monster, and Christine
loves him. Forbearance would now be madness, as the honor and happiness
of this house hang upon a hair.'

'And what would you do?' anxiously asked Arwed.

'That shall you directly hear,' answered Megret; 'for there, most
opportunely, comes the Scot. His destiny leads him towards me. May I
only gain sufficient composure to roast the villain _a petit feu_, as
we call it. It would yet be some little satisfaction for the constant
torments