Saturday, at half-past ten, too—let me think
again—nine—ten—half-past ten—twenty-five
—twenty—fifteen—fourteen."

He glances once at the young lady with
the flashing eyes, and seems decided.

"Sir," he says to her brother, "you may
count upon me on Saturday; but, I regret to
say that, as I have business at Marseilles
between this and then, it will be unfortunately
fourteen minutes to eleven before I can be
on the field."

"That will be in excellent time," replies
the youth, "we are happy to have secured
your assistance."

They bow—Monte Cristo raises his hat
in acknowledgment of the flashing beauty,
and the interview terminates. The cricketing
party whisper to each other in evident
astonishment as they go to their boat; and
once, as she enters it, the young lady looks
round at the figure of the impassible stranger.
He has not altered his position, except to
make a further entry in his tablets.

The day which is to decide the long-vexed
question, whether Stumpton or Smallport is
to stand highest in the cricketing world, is as
fine a day as heart could desire. The players
are on the ground at an early hour. The
preliminaries are arranged, and the
Stumptonians are to have the first innings.
Everybody has arrived, with the exception of the
stranger, whose black servant, Ben Zine
Collas, is standing at the entrance to the
field, on the look out for his master.
Suddenly he makes a signal of silence to the
expectant cricketers, who are gathered round
—and flings himself down with his ear to the
ground.

"My master is at hand," he says, as he
rises. "I know the sound of the Black
Eagle's hoofs." And sure enough in a
moment more, a man on a coal-black horse,
covered with foam, is seen advancing towards
them at full gallop. In another instant
he is in the midst of them. It is the
stranger.

"Gentlemen," he says, as he calmly
dismounts, gives the bridle to his attendant,
and taking off a light paletot, discovers
himself in full cricketer's costume, "Gentlemen,
I trust I have not kept you waiting."

A fat Stumptonian here looks at his watch.

"May I ask the time, sir?" continues the
count.

"It wants, sir," replies he of Stumpton,
"just fourteen minutes to eleven."

The game commences, and the
Stumptonians score well. They score, indeed, so
well, that when their innings is over, the
Smallport faction exchange glances of mute
despair, as they proceed to the tent where
a substantial luncheon is spread. The Smallport
innings is to succeed this meal, to which
by-the-way, both sides may be observed to
do ample justice, with the exception of the
stranger, who refuses all refreshment except
what may be afforded by a richly-jewelled
hookah, and a few drops of a rose-coloured
liquid which Ben Zine Collas pours out of a
small golden bottle which he carries with
him.

There is a new feature in the cricket-field
when they return to it; a little mite of a
pony-chaise, with a light wilful-looking pony,
which the young lady with the flashing eyes
has driven over, that she may see the
conclusion of the game.

The Smallport innings begins at once, but
it does not prosper. There is something
about the way in which the first two or
three batsmen get put out which seems to
daunt and discourage their successors. The
losing game is ever a difficult one, and the
Smallport score is no less than one hundred
and fifty runs behind that of Stumpton,
when the stranger and the batsman who
goes in with him, and who are the last
players on the Smallport side, advance to the
wickets.

As they approach them, the youngster
who first invited the count to join the
match, comes up to him, and asks him
rather anxiously, what sort of a player he is.

"I used to play tolerably as a boy," is
the stranger's answer, as he places himself
before the stumps.

The batsman who is to officiate at the
other wicket, now crosses over, and addresses
the stranger. "Don't you think," he says,
"that we had better give it up? The odds
are so absurdly against us."

"By no means," replies the Count; "permit
me, however, to suggest a course which
you may, perhaps, as our innings advances,
see to be a judicious one; it is this, that
you should play a very cautious game,
keeping before you always the one object of
remaining in. You may leave, sir, the
striking of the ball to me."

There seemed to be something about this
innings, which, hopeless as it appeared,
excited yet great interest in the bystanders.
But when the first few balls had been played,
and some admirable strokes on the part of
the strange cricketer had shown him to be an
able performer, the attention to the play
became keener still, and the game was
watched with eagerness. How was that
eagerness quickened when his single score
had attained to fifty, and still he showed no
symptoms of fatigue or flagging energy. Just
Heaven! how they tried to get him out.
Fielders were sent to the particular parts of
the ground across which he was observed to
strike the ball the oftenest, and at the next
stroke it would fly over the very spot from
which the man on the look-out had been
removed. There was no fatiguing him. Once,
and once only, did he cause a moment's
delay in the proceedings: it was to caution
the brother of the young lady with the flashing
eyes, that his sister had, in her interest
in the game, driven imprudently near to the
players.