followed by the appearance of Madame Dor.
"Obenreizer!" exclaimed this excellent person
in a whisper, and plumped down instantly in her
regular place by the stove.

Obenreizer came in with a courier's bag
strapped over his shoulder.

"Are you ready?" he asked, addressing
Vendale. "Can I take anything for you? You
have no travelling-bag. I have got one. Here
is the compartment for papers, open at your
service."

"Thank you," said Vendale. "I have only
one paper of importance with me; and that
paper I am bound to take charge of myself.
Here it is," he added, touching the breast-
pocket of his coat, "and here it must remain
till we get to Neuchâtel."

As he said those words, Marguerite's hand
caught his, and pressed it significantly. She
was looking towards Obenreizer. Before
Vendale could look, in his turn, Obenreizer had
wheeled round, and was taking leave of Madame
Dor.

"Adieu, my charming niece!" he said, turning
to Marguerite next. "En route, my friend,
for Neuchâtel!" He tapped Vendale lightly
over the breast-pocket of his coat, and led the
way to the door.

Vendale's last look was for Marguerite.
Marguerite's last words to him were, "Don't
go!"

Act III.

IN THE VALLEY.

It was about the middle of the month of
February when Vendale and Obenreizer set
forth on their expedition. The winter being a
hard one, the time was bad for travellers. So
bad was it that these two travellers, coming
to Strasbourg, found its great inns almost
empty. And even the few people they did
encounter in that city, who had started from
England or from Paris on business journeys towards
the interior of Switzerland, were turning back.

Many of the railroads in Switzerland that
tourists pass easily enough now, were almost or
quite impracticable then. Some were not begun;
more were not completed. On such as were
open, there were still large gaps of old road
where communication in the winter season was
often stopped; on others, there were weak
points where the new work was not safe, either
under conditions of severe frost, or of rapid
thaw. The running of trains on this last class
was not to be counted on in the worst time of
the year, was contingent upon weather, or was
wholly abandoned through the months
considered the most dangerous.

At Strasbourg there were more travellers'
stories afloat, respecting the difficulties of the
way further on, than there were travellers to
relate them. Many of these tales were as wild as
usual; but the more modestly marvellous did
derive some colour from the circumstance that
people were indisputably turning back.
However, as the road to Basle was open,
Vendale's resolution to push on was in no wise
disturbed. Obenreizer's resolution was necessarily
Vendale's, seeing that he stood at bay
thus desperately:—He must be ruined, or must
destroy the evidence that Vendale carried about
him, even if he destroyed Vendale with it.

The state of mind of each of these two fellow-
travellers towards the other was this.
Obenreizer, encircled by impending ruin through
Vendale's quickness of action, and seeing the
circle narrowed every hour by Vendale's energy,
hated him with the animosity of a fierce
cunning lower animal. He had always had
instinctive movements in his breast against him;
perhaps, because of that old sore of gentleman
and peasant; perhaps, because of the openness
of his nature; perhaps, because of his better
looks; perhaps, because of his success with
Marguerite; perhaps, on all those grounds, the
two last not the least! And now he saw in him,
besides, the hunter who was tracking him down.
Vendale, on the other hand, always contending
generously against his first vague mistrust, now
felt bound to contend against it more than ever:
reminding himself, "He is Marguerite's
guardian. We are on perfectly friendly terms;
he is my companion of his own proposal, and
can have no interested motive in sharing this
undesirable journey." To which pleas in behalf
of Obenreizer, chance added one consideration
more, when they came to Basle, after a journey
of more than twice the average duration.

They had had a late dinner, and were alone
in an inn room there, overhanging the Rhine:
at that place rapid and deep, swollen and loud.
Vendale lounged upon a couch, and Obenreizer
walked to and fro: now, stopping at the window,
looking at the crooked reflections of the town
lights in the dark water (and peradventure
thinking, "If I could fling him into it!"); now,
resuming his walk with his eyes upon the floor.

"Where shall I rob him, if I can? Where
shall I murder him, if I must?" So, as he
paced the room, ran the river, ran the river, ran
the river.

The burden seemed to him at last, to be growing
so plain that he stopped; thinking it as well
to suggest another burden to his companion.

"The Rhine sounds to-night," he said with
a smile, "like the old waterfall at home. That
waterfall which my mother showed to travellers
(I told you of it once). The sound of it changed
with the weather, as does the sound of all falling
waters and flowing waters. When I was
pupil of the watchmaker, I remembered it as
sometimes saying to me for whole days, 'Who
are you, my little wretch? Who are you, my
little wretch?' I remembered it as saying,
other times, when its sound was hollow, and
storm was coming up the Pass: 'Boom, boom,
boom. Beat him, beat him, beat him.' Like
my mother enraged—if she was my mother."

"If she was?" said Vendale, gradually changing
his attitude to a sitting one. "If she was?
Why do you say 'if'?"

"What do I know?" replied the other
negligently, throwing up his hands and letting them
fall as they would. "What would you have?
I am so obscurely born, that how can I say? I