sparkled tigerishly behind the blue spectacles.
For a moment, a certain feeling of distrust
crept over me like a sickly chill, but one more
glance at the broad honest face of the
naturalist made me ashamed of my suspicion.

"Another glass of wine?" said he, gaily.
"Trinquons! so! ah! this Menescher grape
reminds me of my native Gironde! Shall I ever
see it again, I wonder? My faith! if I had
but a few thousand livres de rentes— say four—
I would make my way back there, marry, and
settle. Yes, range myself, as the word is, and
die where I was born."

And he leaned back in his chair, and sipped
his wine in sentimental meditation, while every
shadow of distrust passed away from my mind.

Two days after this I mentioned casually
that I was, on the morrow, to visit Lublin,
whither I had to convey a number of
documents of various natures, certificates, vouchers,
receipts, letters from officials, and so on, all
of which had to go to London for inspection.
I did not care to entrust the posting of these
important packets to any other hands than my
own or O'Dwyer's, and, as the latter was still
off duty, my intention was to do my own errand.
Then it was that Prevoust, in the simplest
manner possible, begged me to do him a favour:

It seemed that one of our Polish labourers
had lately brought a letter addressed to our
French ally, by an old acquaintance of his, the
curator of the Museum at Prague, who was
staying for a few days at Lublin, awaiting the
sale by auction of some deceased nobleman's
cabinet of medals. Now, this very curator was
in the habit of purchasing, for the Museum,
such specimens of Prevoust's collecting as were
adapted for its glass cases, and the Frenchman
had expended much pains on a little collection
of stuffed birds, in their winter plumage,
expressly for sale to this patron.

"The rather," said he, with his usual laugh of
absolute good humour, "that I am nearly au
sec just at present, and these pert little tits
and wrens are worth a good many gulden in
convention money. There is one golden crest ——
But, bah! I shall bore you if I get on my
hobby of rare birds. Will you kindly carry
the case— it is not very heavy— to Lublin for
me, and bring back the cash? I would go
myself, but the roads are only passable by
horsemen, and as for trusting my precious neck on
the back of one of these kicking Polish nags, I
might as well jump off a steeple at once— eh?
eh?"

I joined in the laugh. It was an absurd idea,
that of the elderly corpulent Frenchman, who
had never, probably, backed a horse in his life,
making his way through drift and mire on one
of our half-broken, long-maned steeds. Polish
horses are famed for their fire and skittishness,
and I should have been sorry to see our bulky
friend trust himself to their tender mercies.

Thus it occurred that when I rode into Lublin,
about noon on the following day, I carried
Prevoust's little green case of daintily prepared
birds before me on the saddle. Excepting this
small box, I was encumbered by no luggage, for
the papers were in the pocket of my overcoat,
and I fully intended to ride back and reach our
huts before supper. My horse, I knew, was
capable of doing the distance with ease. I went
first to the post-office, and having deposited the
letters, I put up my horse at the sorry inn
that was somewhat magniloquently called the
Royal Hotel, and ordered some refreshment
for myself. While it was getting ready, I
resolved to call on the curator of the Prague
Museum, and execute the ex-clerk's commission
without delay. The box was carefully
addressed to "Herr Fischer, Turken-strasse,
Number 18."

The house was a large one, but it had an air
of neglect and dingy gloom; grass grew between
the stones of its court-yard, the armorial bearings
of some noble Polish family, wantonly defaced
by some sportive Russian soldier, were faintly
visible over the low-browed arch, and the few
windows that faced the street were dirty and
broken. I hesitated, I knew not why, as I
pushed open the heavy gate, which closed after
me with a sullen clang. In the porter's lodge
was an old woman, crouched beside a smoky
peat fire, and peeling some vegetables. She
merely nodded, and pointed with her skinny
finger to the house, when I asked for Herr
Fischer.

I entered, finding the front door unlatched,
and making my way up a dusty staircase, tapped
at the door of a room on the first floor.

"Entrez!" called out a deep voice, speaking
in guttural French.

I turned the handle, and found myself in a
large chamber, meanly furnished, but littered
with books and papers, and in the presence of a
high-shouldered, grizzly-headed man in a scull-
cap and dressing-gown— the curator, doubtless.

"Have I the pleasure to address Herr
Fischer?" said I, with a bow.

The German showed his yellow teeth in rather
an ugly smile as he replied in the affirmative,
and then begged me to be seated, and received
from me the valuable case of birds, and also the
letter of the ex-clerk of Grandbouchon et Fils.
As the curator read the letter, I had leisure to
observe him, and I cannot say that his large
head, grey as a badger's and cropped like a
convict's, his bull-neck, beetling brows, and
saturnine cast of features, impressed me very
favourably. Still, it is not necessary that a scientific
man should have the graces of Apollo, and I
had seen too much sterling excellence under a
rough husk to be hasty in my judgments.

The curator read the letter very slowly, and
with something like a sneer contorting the
muscles of his coarse mouth, but he seemed in
no hurry to inspect the stuffed birds. He finished
the perusal at last, and rubbed his fat hands
together with a chuckle of not over-pleasant mirth.
Then he turned his green eyes on my face, and
stared at me with much the same expression
—half jocular, half ferocious — with which a cat
watches a mouse lying crushed beneath its paw.
I felt annoyed at so singular a reception.