On the following morning, at breakfast, some sports and diversions were proposed; and the governor, who wished to afford amusement to all parties and to keep them in especial good humour till after the meeting of the states, proposed to set out almost immediately to force a stag in the neighbouring woods. There were several young noblemen present, swelling the train of la belle ClÉmence, but she had shown herself somewhat grave, and less lively than usual; and after the proposal had been made and agreed to by almost all, she remarked the silence of the Count de Morseiul, saying, that she feared, from the profound silence that he kept, they were again to be deprived of the pleasure of Monsieur de Morseiul's society, as they had been on their ride of the day before. She spoke in rather a low voice, and, perhaps one might say, timidly, for her manner was very different from that which she usually assumed.

"I fear, fair lady," replied the Count, who felt that under any other circumstances her speech would have been a sore temptation, "I fear that I have engaged myself to visit a friend in the neighbourhood at noon to-day."

"Oh, we will take no excuse," cried the Duc de RouvrÉ; "indeed, Count, you must send a messenger to tell your friend you cannot come. You who are famed for your skill in forest sports must positively be with us."

The Count, however, remained firm, saying, that he had appointed to meet his friend on business of importance to them both; and the Duc de RouvrÉ was of course silent. The young De Hericourt, who had been absent for a day or two, and had only lately returned, gazed at ClÉmence with a sort of ironical smile, as he saw upon her countenance a look of mortification which she could not or would not restrain; but the Count saw it too, and was struck with it; for, though skilful by habit in reading the hearts of those with whom he was brought into contact, he could not perfectly satisfy himself with regard to the nature of that look and the feelings from which it sprung. He felt, too, that something more than a dry refusal was, perhaps, owing in mere courtesy to ClÉmence for the wish she had expressed for his society, and he added,--

"I do assure you, Mademoiselle de Marly, that nothing could have been so great a temptation to me as the thought of accompanying you, and our gay friends here, to wake the woods with the sounds of horns and dogs, and I grieve very much that this appointment should have been made so unfortunately."

"Indeed," she exclaimed, brightening up, "if such be your feelings I will coax ma reine, as I always call our good Duchess, to coax the governor, who never refuses any thing to her, though he refuses plenty of things to me, to delay the party for an hour. Then we shall be some time getting to the woodside, you know; some time making all our preparations; and you shall come and join us whenever you have done. We will make noise enough to let you know where we are."

Of course there was now no refusing; the Count promised to come if the important business in which he was about to be engaged was over in time, and ClÉmence repaid him with a smile, such as she but rarely gave to any. It was now well nigh time for him to depart; and after shutting himself up for a few minutes alone, in order to think over the circumstances about to be discussed, he set out, with some servants, and rode rapidly to the chÂteau of the Maille. He found several horses in the court yard, and judged rightly, from that sight, that the others had arrived before him. He found them all assembled in the large hall, and each greeted him gladly and kindly, looking with some eagerness for what he had to communicate. But the master of the chÂteau asked him to pause for a moment, adding,--

"I have a friend here who arrived last night, and whom you will all be glad to see. He will join us in a moment, as he is but writing a short despatch in another room."

"Who is he?" demanded the Count; "is it Monsieur de l'Estang?"

"Oh no," replied the other. "He is a man of arms instead of a man of peace." But almost as he spoke the door opened, and the famous MarÉchal de Schomberg entered the room.

"I am happy to see you all, gentlemen," he said; "Monsieur de Morseiul, my good friend," he continued, shaking him warmly by the hand, "I am delighted to meet you. I have not seen you since we were fellow-soldiers together in very troublous times."

"I hope, Marshal," replied the Count, "that at the present we may be fellow-pacificators instead of fellow-soldiers. We are all Protestants, gentlemen, and as what I have lately learned affects us all, I thought it much the best plan, before I took any steps in consequence, in my own neighbourhood, to consult with you, and see whether we could not draw up such a remonstrance and plain statement of our case to the King, as to induce him to oppose the evil intentions of his ministers, and once more guarantee to us the full and entire enjoyment of those rights in which he promised us security on his accession to the throne, but which have been sadly encroached upon and curtailed within the last ten years."

"They have, indeed," said the Count de Champclair; "but I trust, Monsieur de Morseiul, you have nothing to tell us which may lead us to believe that greater encroachments still are intended."

Marshal Schomberg shook his head with a melancholy smile; but he did not interrupt the Count de Morseiul, who proceeded to relate what he knew of the mission of Pelisson and St. Helie, and the further information which he had gained in regard to their commission on the preceding day. The first burst of anger and indignation was greater than he expected, and nothing was talked of for a few minutes but active resistance to the powers of the crown, of reviving the days of the League or those of Louis XIII., and defending their rights and privileges to the last. Marshal Schomberg, however eminently distinguished for his attachment to his religion, maintained a profound silence during the whole of the first ebullitions; and at length Monsieur de Champclair remarked, "The Marshal does not seem to think well of our purposes. What would he have us do, thus brought to bay?"

"My good friends," replied Schomberg, with his slight foreign accent, "I think only that you do not altogether consider how times have changed since the days of Louis XIII. Even then the reformed church of France was not successful in resisting the King, and now resistance, unless men were driven to it by despair, would be madness. Forced as I am to be much about the court, I have seen and known these matters in their progress more intimately than any of you, and can but believe that our sole hope will rest in showing the King the utmost submission, while at the same time we represent to him the grievances that we suffer."

"But does he not know those grievances already?" exclaimed one of the other gentlemen; "are they not his own act and deed?"

"They are, it is true," replied Schomberg, mildly, "but he does not know one half of the consequences which his own acts produce. Let me remind you that it is the people who surround the King that urge him to these acts, and it is consequently their greatest interest to prevent him from knowing the evil consequences thereof. Not one half of the severities that are exercised in the provinces--indeed I may say, no severities at all--are exercised towards the Protestants in the immediate neighbourhood of Paris, Versailles, or Fontainbleau. They take especial care that the eyes of majesty, and the ear of authority, shall not be opened to the cries, groans, or sufferings of an injured people. Louis the Great is utterly ignorant that the Protestants have suffered, or are likely to suffer, under any of his acts. The King has been always, more or less, a bigot, and his mother was the same: Colbert is dead, who stood between us and our enemies. His son is a mere boy, unable if not unwilling to defend us. The fury, Louvois, and his old Jesuitical father, are, in fact, the only ministers that remain, and they have been our enemies from the beginning. But they have now stronger motives to persecute us. The King must be ruled by some passion; he is tired of the domination of Louvois, and that minister seeks now for some new hold upon his master. He supported his tottering power for many years by the influence of Madame de Montespan. Madame de Montespan has fallen; and a new reign has commenced under a woman, who is the enemy of that great bad man; but she also is a bigot, and the minister clearly sees that if he would remain a day in power he must link Madame Scarron to himself in some general plan which will identify their interests together. She sees, and he sees, that whatever be that plan it must comprise something which affords occupation to the bigoted zeal of the King. The Jesuits see that too, and are very willing to furnish such occupation; but the King, who thinks himself a new St. George, is tired of persecuting Jansenism. That dragon is too small and too tenacious of life to afford a subject of interest to the King any longer; when he thinks it is quite dead, it revives again, and crawls feebly here and there, so that the saint is weary of killing a creature that seems immortal. Under these circumstances they have turned his eyes and thoughts towards the Protestants; and what have they proposed to him which might not seduce a glory-loving monarch like himself? They have promised him that he shall effect what none of his ancestors could ever accomplish, by completely triumphing over subjects who have shown that they can resist powerfully when oppressed. They have promised him this glory as an absolute monarch. They have promised him almost apostolic glory in converting people whom he believes to be heretics. They have promised him the establishment of one, and one only religion in France; and they have promised him that, by so doing, he will inflict a bitter wound on those Protestant princes with whom he has been so long contending. Such are the motives by which they lead on the mind of Louis to severe acts against us; but there is yet one other motive; and to that I will particularly call your attention, as it ought, I think, greatly to affect our conduct. They have misrepresented the followers of the reformed religion in France as a turbulent, rebellious, obstinate race of men, who adhere to their own creed more out of opposition to the sovereign than from any real attachment to the religion of their forefathers. By long and artful reasonings they have persuaded the King that such is the case. He himself told me long ago, that individually there are a great many good men, and brave men, and loyal men amongst us; but that as a body we are the most stiff-necked and rebellious race he ever read of in history."

"Have we not been driven to rebellion?" demanded Monsieur de Champclair, "have we not been driven to resistance? Have we ever taken arms but in our own defence?"

"True," replied Schomberg, "quite true. But kings unfortunately see through the eyes of others. The causes of our resistance are hidden from him scrupulously. The resistance itself is urged upon him vehemently."

"Then it is absolutely necessary," said the Count de Morseiul, "that he should be made clearly and distinctly to know how much we have been aggrieved, how peaceably and loyally we are really disposed, and how little but the bitterest fruits can ever be reaped from the seeds that are now sowing."

"Precisely," replied Schomberg. "That is precisely what I should propose to do. Let us present a humble remonstrance to the King, making a true statement of our case. Let us make him aware of the evils that have accrued, of the evils that still must accrue from persecution; but in the language of the deepest loyalty and most submissive obedience. Let us open his eyes, in fact, to the real state of the case. This is our only hope, for in resistance I fear there is none. The Protestant people are apathetic, they are not united--and they are not sufficiently numerous, even if they were united, to contend successfully with the forces of a great empire in a time of external peace."

"I do not know that," exclaimed Monsieur de Champclair. But he had the great majority of the persons who were then present against him, and, in a desultory conversation that followed, those who had most vehemently advocated resistance but a few minutes before, who had been all fire and fury, and talked loudly of sacrificing their lives a thousand times rather than sacrificing their religion, viewed the matter in a very different light now when the first eagerness was over. One declared that not an able-bodied man in forty would take the field in defence of his religion; another said, that they had surely had warning enough at La Rochelle; another spoke, with a shudder, of Alaix. In short, Albert de Morseiul had an epitome in that small meeting of the doubts, fears, and hesitations; the apathy, the weakness, the renitency which would affect the great body of Protestants, if called upon suddenly to act together. He was forced, then, to content himself with pressing strongly upon the attention of all present the necessity of adopting instantly the suggestion of Marshal Schomberg, and of drawing up a representation to the King, to be signed as rapidly as possible by the chief Protestants throughout the kingdom, and transmitted to Schomberg, who was even then on his way towards Paris.

Vain discussions next ensued in regard to the tone of the remonstrance, and the terms that were to be employed; and those who were inclined to be more bold in words than in deeds, proposed such expressions as would have entirely obviated the result sought to be obtained, giving the petition the character of a threatening and mutinous manifesto. Though this effect was self-evident, yet the terms had nearly been adopted by the majority of those present, and most likely would have been so, had not a fortunate suggestion struck the mind of Albert of Morseiul.

"My good friends," he said, "there is one thing which we have forgotten to consider. We are all of us soldiers and country gentlemen, and many of us have, perhaps, a certain tincture of belles lettres; but a petition from the whole body of Protestants should be drawn up by some person eminent alike for learning, wisdom, and piety, whose very name may be a recommendation to that which he produces. What say you, then, to request Monsieur Claude de l'Estang to draw up the petition for our whole body. I intend to leave Poitiers to-morrow, and will communicate your desire to him. The paper shall be sent to you all as soon as it is drawn up, and nothing will remain but to place our hands to it, and lay it before the King."

The proposal was received with joy by all; for even those who were pressing their own plans obstinately were at heart glad to be delivered from the responsibility; and this having been decided, the meeting broke up.

The Count de Morseiul lingered for a few minutes after the rest were gone to speak with Marshal Schomberg, who asked, "So you are not going to wait for the opening of the states?"

"I see no use of so doing," replied the Count; "now that I know the measures which the King's commission dictates, I have nothing farther to detain me. But tell me, Marshal, do you really believe that Louvois and his abettors will urge the King seriously to such steps?"

"To a thousand others," replied Schomberg; "to a thousand harsher, and a thousand more dangerous measures. I can tell you that it is already determined to prohibit for the future the marriages of Catholics and Protestants. That, indeed, were no great evil, and I think rather favourable to us, than not; but it is only one out of many encroachments on the liberty of conscience, and, depend upon it, our sole hope is in opening the King's eyes to our real character as a body, and to the awful evils likely to ensue from oppressing us."

"But should we be unable so to do," demanded the Count, "what remains for us then, my noble friend? Must we calmly submit to increasing persecution? must we renounce our faith? must we resist and die?"

"If by our death," replied Schomberg firmly, but sadly, "we could seal for those who come after us, even with our hearts' blood, a covenant of safety--if by our fall in defence of our religion we could cement, as with the blood of martyrs, the edifice of the reformed church--if there were even a hope that our destruction could purchase immunity to our brethren or our children, I should say that there is but one course before us. But, alas! my good young friend, do you not know, as well as I do, that resistance is hopeless in itself, and must be ruinous in its consequences; that it must bring torture, persecution, misery, upon the women, the children, the helpless; that it must crush out the last spark of toleration that is likely to be left; and that the ultimate ruin of our church in France will but be hastened thereby? No one deserving the title of man, gentleman, or Christian, will abandon his religion under persecution; but there is another course to be taken, and it I shall take, if these acts against us be not stayed. I will quit the land--I will make myself a home elsewhere. My faith shall be my country, as my sword has been my inheritance! Would you take my advice, my dear Count, you would follow my example, and forming your determination before hand, be prepared to act when necessary."

The Count shook his head. "I thank you," he said, "I thank you, and will give what you propose the fullest consideration; but it is a resolution that cannot be taken at once--at least by such as feel as I do. Oh! my good friend, remember how many ties I have to break asunder before I can act as you propose. There are all the sweet memories of youth, the clinging household dreams of infancy, the sunny home of my first days, when life's pilgrimage took its commencement in a garden of flowers. I must quit all these,--every dear thing to which the remembrance of my brightest days is attached--and spend the autumn and the winter of my latter life in scenes where there is not even a memory of its spring. I must quit all these, Schomberg. I must quit more. I must quit the faithful people that have surrounded me from my boyhood--who have grown up with me like brothers--who have watched over me like fathers--who have loved me with that hereditary love that none but lord and vassal can feel towards each other--who would lay down their lives to serve me, and who look to me for direction, protection, and support. I must quit them, I must leave them a prey to those who would tear and destroy them. I must leave, too, the grave of my father, the tombs of my ancestors, round which the associations of the past have wreathed a chain of glorious memories that should bind me not to abandon them. I, too, should have my grave there, Schomberg; I, too, should take my place amongst the many who have served their country, and left a name without a stain. When I have sought the battle field, have I not thought of them, and burned to accomplish deeds like theirs? When I have been tempted to do any thing that is wrong, have I not thought upon their pure renown, and cast the temptation from me like a slimy worm? And should I leave those tombs now? Were it not better to do as they would have done, to hang out my banner from the walls against oppression, and when the sword which they have transmitted to me can defend my right no longer, perish on the spot which is hallowed by the possession of their ashes?"

"No, my friend, no," replied Schomberg, "it were not better, for neither could you so best do honour to their name, neither would your death and sacrifice avail aught to the great cause of religious liberty. But there is more to be considered, Albert of Morseiul; you might not gain the fate you sought for. The perverse bullet and the unwilling steel often, too often, will not do their fatal mission upon him that courts them. How often do we see that the timid, the cowardly, or the man who has a thousand sweet inducements to seek long life, meets death in the first field he enters, while he who in despair or rage walks up to the flashing cannon's mouth escapes as by a miracle? Think; Morseiul, if such were to be your case, what would be the result: first to linger in imprisonment, next to see the exterminating sword of persecution busy amongst those that you had led on into revolt, to know that their hearths were made desolate, their children orphans, their patrimony given to others, their wives and daughters delivered to the brutal insolence of victorious soldiers; and then, knowing all this, to end your own days as a common criminal, stretched on a scaffold on the torturing wheel, amidst the shouts and derisions of superstitious bigots, with the fraudulent voice of monkish hypocrisy pouring into your dying ear insults to your religion and to your God. Think of all this! and think also, that, at that last moment, you would know that you yourself had brought it all to pass, without the chance of effecting one single benefit to yourself or others."

The Count put his hand before his eyes, but made no reply; and then, wringing Marshal Schomberg's hand, he mounted his horse and rode slowly away.

For a considerable distance he went on towards Poitiers at the same slow pace, filled with dark and gloomy thoughts, and with nothing but despair on every side. He felt that the words of Marshal Schomberg were true to their fullest extent, and a sort of presage of the coming events seemed to gather slowly upon his heart, like dark clouds upon the verge of the sky. His only hope reduced itself to the same narrow bounds which had long contained those of Schomberg; the result, namely, of the proposed petition to the King.

But there were one or two words which Schomberg had dropped accidentally, and which it would seem, from what we have told before, ought not to have produced such painful and bitter feelings in the breast of Albert of Morseiul as they did produce. They were those words which referred to the prohibition about to be decreed against the marriages of Protestants and Catholics. What was it to him, he asked himself, whether Catholics and Protestants might or might not marry? Was not his determination taken with regard to the only person whom he could have ever loved? and did it matter that another barrier was placed between them, when there were barriers impassable before. But still he felt the announcement deeply and painfully; reason had no power to check and overcome those sensations; and oppressed and overloaded as his mind then was, it wandered vaguely from misery to misery, and seemed to take a pleasure in calling up every thing that could increase its own pain and anguish.

When he had thus ridden along for somewhat more than two miles, he suddenly heard a horn winded lowly in the distance, and, as he fancied, the cry of dogs. It called to his mind his promise to ClÉmence de Marly. He felt that his frame of mind was in strange contrast with a gay hunting scene. Yet he had promised to go as soon as ever he was free, and he was not a man to break his promise, even when it was a light one. He turned his horse's head, then, in the direction of the spot from which the sound seemed to proceed, still going on slowly and gloomily.

A moment after he heard the sounds again. The memory of happy days, and of his old forest sports, came upon him, and he made a strong effort against the darker spirit in his bosom.

"I will drive these gloomy thoughts from me," he said, "if it be but for an hour; I will yet know one bright moment more. For this day I will be a boy again, and to-morrow I will cast all behind me, and plunge into the stream of care and strife!"

As he thus thought he touched his horse with the spur; the gallant beast bounded off like lightning; the cry of the hounds, the sound of the horns came nearer and nearer; and in a few moments more the Count came suddenly upon a relay of horses and dogs, established upon the side of a hill, as was then customary, for the purpose of giving fresh vigour to the chase when it had been abated by weariness.

"Is the deer expected to pass here?" demanded the Count, speaking to one of the veneurs, and judging instantly, by his own practised eye, that it would take another direction.

"The young Marquis Hericourt thought so," replied the man, "but he knows nothing about it."

At that moment the gallant stag itself was seen, at the distance of about half a mile, bounding along in the upland towards a point directly opposite; and the Count knowing that he must come upon the hunt at the turn of the valley, spurred on at all speed, followed by his attendants. In a few minutes more a few of the huntsmen were seen; and, in another, ClÉmence de Marly was before his eyes. She was glowing with exercise and eagerness, her eyes bright as stars, her clustering hair floating back from her face, her whole aspect like that which she bore, when first he saw her in all the brightness of her youth and beauty. The Chevalier was seen at a distance amusing himself by teasing, almost into madness, a fiery horse, that was eager to bound forward before all the rest; the train of suitors, and of flatterers, that generally followed her, was scattered about the field; and, in a moment--with his hat off, his dark hair curling round his brow, his features lighted up with a smile which was strangely mingled with the strong lines of deep emotions just passed, like the sun scattering the remnants of a thunder cloud; with his chest thrown forward, his head bending to a graceful salute, and his person erect as a column--Albert of Morseiul was by the side of ClÉmence de Marly and galloping on with her, seeming but of one piece with the noble animal that bore him.

The eyes of almost all those that followed, or were around, were turned to those two; and certainly almost every thing else in the gay and splendid scene through which they moved seemed to go out extinguished by the comparison. In the whole air, and aspect, and figure of each, there was that clear, concentrated expression of grace, dignity, and power, that seems almost immortal; so that the Duke de RouvrÉ and his train, the gay nobles, the dogs, the huntsmen, and the whole array, were for an instant forgotten. Men forgot even themselves for a time to wonder and admire.

Unconscious that such was the case, Albert de Morseiul and ClÉmence de Marly rode on; and he--with his fate, as he conceived, sealed, and his determination taken--cast off all cold and chilling restraint, and appeared what he really was--nay, more, appeared what he was when eager, animated, and with all the fine qualities of his heart and mind welling over in a moment of excitement. All the tales that she had heard of him as he appeared in the battle field, or in the moment of difficulty and danger, were now realised to the mind of ClÉmence de Marly, and while she wondered and enjoyed, she felt that for the first time in her life, she had met with one to whom her own high heart and spirit must yield. Her eyes sunk beneath the eagle gaze of his; her hand held the rein more timidly; new feelings came upon her, doubts of her own sufficiency, of her own courage, of her own strength, of her own beauty, of her own worthiness: she felt that she had admired and esteemed Albert of Morseiul before, but she felt that there was something more strange, more potent in her bosom now.

We must pause on no other scene of that hunting. Throughout the whole of that afternoon the Count gave way to the same spirit. Whether alone with ClÉmence, or surrounded by others, the high and powerful mind broke forth with fearless energy. A bright and poetical imagination; a clear and cultivated understanding; a decision of character and of tone, founded on the consciousness of rectitude and of great powers; a wit as graceful as it was keen, aided by the advantages of striking beauty, and a deep-toned voice of striking melody, left every one so far behind, so out of all comparison, that even the vainest there felt it themselves, and felt it with mortification and anger. The hunting was over, and by chance or by design Albert of Morseiul was placed next to ClÉmence de Marly at supper. The Duke de RouvrÉ had noticed the brightening change which had come over his young friend, and attributing it to a wrong cause, he said good-humouredly,--

"Monsieur de Morseiul, happy am I to see you shake off your sadness. You are so much more cheerful, that I doubt not you have heard good news to-day."

This was spoken at some distance across the table, and every one heard it; but the young Count replied calmly, "Alas! no, my Lord; I was determined to have one more day of happiness, and therefore cast away every other thought but the pleasure of the society by which I was surrounded. I gave way to that pleasure altogether this day, because I am sorry to say, I must quit your hospitable roof tomorrow, in order to return to Morseiul, fearing that I shall not be able to come to Poitiers again, while I remain in this part of France."

ClÉmence de Marly turned very pale, but then again the blood rushed powerfully over her face. But the Duke de RouvrÉ, by replying immediately, called attention away from her.

"Nay, nay, Monsieur le Comte," he said, "you promised me to stay for several days, longer, and I cannot part with an old friend, and the son of an old friend, so soon."

"I said, my Lord, that I would stay if it were possible," replied the Count. "But I can assure you that it is not possible; various important causes of the greatest consequence not only to me, but to the state, call me imperatively away, when, indeed, there are but too many inducements to stay here."

"I know one of the causes," said the Duke; "I hear you have taken measures for suppressing that daring band of plunderers--night hawks, as they call themselves, who have for some time hung about that part of the country, and who got possession of poor Monsieur Pelisson and Monsieur St. Helie, as they were telling me the other day; but you might trust that to your seneschals, Count."

"Indeed I cannot, my Lord Duke," replied the Count; "that affair has more branches than you know of--or, perhaps I should say, more roots to be eradicated. Besides there are many other things."

"Well, well," said the Duke, "if it must be so, it must. However, as soon as the states have ceased to hold their meetings, I shall come for a little repose to Ruffigny, and then, if you have not been fully successful, I will do my best to help you; but we are not going to lose our friend Louis here too. Chevalier, do you go back with your friend?"

"Not to hunt robbers," replied the Chevalier with a smile; "I would almost as soon hunt rats with the Dauphin. Besides, he has never asked me; this is the first intelligence I had of his intention."

"I only formed it this morning," replied the Count. "But you have promised me a whole month, Louis, and you shall give it me when you find it most pleasant to yourself."

"Well, I shall linger on here for a few days," replied the Chevalier, "if the governor will feed and lodge me; and then, when I have seen all the bright things that are done by the states, I will come and join you at Morseiul."

Thus ended the discussion which followed the young Count's announcement. No further conversation took place between him and ClÉmence, who devoted her whole attention, during the rest of the evening, either to the Chevalier, the Duc de Melcourt, or the young Marquis de Hericourt. The hour for Albert de Morseiul's departure was announced as immediately after breakfast on the following day; but ClÉmence de Marly did not appear that morning at the table, for the first time since his arrival at Poitiers. When the hour was come, and his horses were prepared, he took leave of the rest of the party, and with many painful emotions at his heart quitted the saloon, the Duke and the Chevalier, with one or two others, accompanying him to the top of the stairs. At that moment, however, as he was about to descend, ClÉmence appeared as if going into the saloon. She was somewhat paler than usual; but her manner was the same as ever.

"So, Monsieur de Morseiul," she said, "you are going! I wish you a happy journey;" and thus treating him like a mere common acquaintance, she bowed her head and entered the saloon.