the north
side where the windows of the Count's room looked over a little
flower-garden abutting on the courtyard. The dusk was falling, and a
lamp had been lit which gave a glimpse into the interior. The sick man
was standing by the window, his figure flung into relief by the
lamplight. If he was sick, his sickness was of a curious type. His
face was ruddy, his eye wild, and, his wig being off, his scanty hair
stood up oddly round his head. He seemed to be singing, but I could
not catch the sound through the shut casement. Another figure in the
room, probably Oliphant, laid a hand on the Count's shoulder, drew him
from the window, and closed the shutter.

It needed only the recollection of stories which were the property of
all Europe to reach a conclusion on the gentleman's illness. The
legitimate King of England was very drunk.

As I went to my room that night I passed the Count's door. There stood
Oliphant as sentry, more grim and haggard than ever, and I thought that
his eye met mine with a certain intelligence. From inside the room
came a great racket. There was the sound of glasses falling, then a
string of oaths, English, French, and for all I know, Irish, rapped out
in a loud drunken voice. A pause, and then came the sound of maudlin
singing. It pursued me along the gallery, an old childish song,
delivered as if 'twere a pot-house catch--

"Qu'est-ce qui passe ici si tard,
Compagnons de la Marjolaine--"

One of the late-going company of the Marjolaine hastened to bed. This
king in exile, with his melancholy daughter, was becoming too much for
him.

III

It was just before noon next day that the travellers arrived. I was
sitting in the shady loggia of the inn, reading a volume of De Thou,
when there drove up to the door two coaches. Out of the first
descended very slowly and stiffly four gentlemen; out of the second
four servants and a quantity of baggage. As it chanced there was no
one about, the courtyard slept its sunny noontide sleep, and the only
movement was a lizard on the wall and a buzz of flies by the fountain.
Seeing no sign of the landlord, one of the travellers approached me
with a grave inclination.

"This is the inn called the Tre Croci, sir?" he asked.

I said it was, and shouted on my own account for the host. Presently
that personage arrived with a red face and a short wind, having
ascended rapidly from his own cellar. He was awed by the dignity of
the tra