assassin (all cloak) advances stealthily; he
stands over him—traveller breathes hard—
agitated music—Ha! what was that? some
one comes! music still more agitated—they
are at the door—lamp extinguished—a groan
—scene closes in slowly to heart-rending
music.

It was curious certainly that there were
so few signs of life about the inn. It is odd
not hearing some sounds of moving about.
Could it be that I am the only inhabitant?
I can make nothing of it. This Burgundy is
decidedly good. Then those queer stories I
have read about posadas and patrones—people
going to sleep in a posada (with the horse
tethered at the other end) and awaking at
the critical moment when the patrone's knife
is in the air! A very unpleasant state of
things. It would be a good joke if my
patrone were to pay me such a visit—why
if—

There came a sound of footsteps on the
oak floor, and the figure of the host himself
stepped from out of the black cloud
at the end of the room. As he advanced
the light fell upon his yellow polished head,
which seemed as if it had been carved out of
some hard, close-grained wood.

"The Burgundy, would I have more of it?"

(The chin so grim and grizzled! with a
sort of bluish tint over it. It was Messire
Beze for all the world!)

"Well, then, should he show me the room
where I am to sleep—that is, if Monsieur
will permit him?"

"No, thank you," I said, "I am not going
to bed just yet. By-the-way, many people
stopping in the house?"

"Besides yourself, not one."

"Ah! that is bad for trade!"

"I do not complain."

"And the next town?"

"It is three leagues away."

"And the village?"

"One league."

"Not a very social neighbourhood, I should
say?"

"There is not a house within a league's
distance."

I was a little discomposed by this
confession; and there was a pause for a second
or so.

"To say the truth, mon ami," I said at
last, "I can scarcely think this house was
ever intended for an inn."

"No more was it," said he, rubbing his
hand slowly over his chin, with a grinding
sound like that of a file. "It was once the
house of a great marquis, now passed away
with all his tribe. But that was long ago, in
the days of the Persecutions."

"And the marquis?"

"He passed over into foreign countries.
But there was an old man—his chaplain, in
fact—who refused to abandon the ancestral
walls, and so met his death here. This was an
ancestor of mine."

(I could have sworn it! I had only to
supply the Geneva bands, and the old
preacher was there before me!)

"The hand of the Lord lay heavy on us in
those times," he continued. "There is a
tradition of their having dragged him bleeding
down the long gallery outside, with his young
daughter clinging to him, and shrieking all
the way.—A night of horrors! But it is
time that I withdraw. Monsieur will excuse
me if I wish him good night!"

"Wait a moment," I said, rising, "I think I
shall go myself, too. Where am I to sleep
to-night?"

He took up the lamp and preceded me. As
we came out upon the gallery a fierce gust
came sweeping by, slamming the door behind
us, and almost extinguishing the light.
Presently another door was heard to slam—
afar off; and the sound echoed down what
seemed to be a long and lofty gallery. My
sleeping room lay at the very end of this
gallery, vis-à-vis to the one we had just left.
I thought we would never reach the end of
it,—it seemed such a lone and dreary journey.
At intervals, too, we would come suddenly
upon some black yawning recess, from which
I was momentarily expecting some unearthly
figure to glide forth.

"And the young lady?" I said, as we
at last found ourselves in the gloomy chamber
I was to inhabit for the night. "You
did not say what became of her."

"You are interested in my tale, Monsieur?"

"Why, yes," I said, "it has made rather
an impression on me."

"Well! there is little more to tell. That
night they put her in a lonely room, with a
guard at the door; meaning, no doubt, to
preserve her for deeper suffering and humiliation.
But the Lord is mindful of his own,
and he assisted her out of this lion's den.
That night she fled away, nor was she ever
seen again by mortal man."

Come, I thought, the plot thickens.
Marvels and mysteries are gathering round me.

"They said she sat up late that night
writing. The light in the window was seen
burning all night; and, when they came in
the morning, the only trace they could find
of her was a note, lying on her desk, addressed
to themselves—her father's murderers. See,"
he continued, taking from his pocket-book
an old crumbling scrap of paper, grown
tawny with age like a mummy's skin—"see!
this is the holy relic itself. It has come
down to me by the hands of the persecuted,
written in words of fire."

He unfolded it; and, drawing the lamp to
him, read slowly and in a tone that sounded
strangely solemn from the perfect stillness
that reigned around:

On a tué mon père et deshonnoré son corps.
Malheur à vous! Maudit soit votre race! Le sang des
Martyrs monte vers les cieux et réclame le justice.
H——. O mon Dieu! avec mon dernier soupir
j'invoque ta vengeance!