Marston was walking, as usual, alone, and in the most solitary region of his lonely park.  One hand grasped his walking stick, not to lean upon it, but as if it were the handle of a battle-axe; the other was buried in his bosom; his dark face looked upon the ground, and he strode onward with a slow but energetic step, which had the air of deep resolution.  He found himself at last in a little churchyard, lying far among the wild forest of his demesne, and in the midst of which, covered with ivy and tufted plants, now ruddy with autumnal tints, stood the ruined walls of a little chapel.  In the dilapidated vault close by lay buried many of his ancestors, and under the little wavy hillocks of fern and nettles, slept many an humble villager.  He sat down upon a worn tombstone in this lowly ruin, and with his eyes fixed upon the ground, he surrendered his spirit to the stormy and evil thoughts which he had invited.  Long and motionless he sat there, while his foul fancies and schemes began to assume shape and order.  The wind rushing through the ivy roused him for a moment, and as he raised his gloomy eye it alighted accidentally upon a skull, which some wanton hand had fixed in a crevice of the wall.  He averted his glance quickly, but almost as quickly refixed his gaze upon the impassive symbol of death, with an expression glowering and contemptuous, and with an angry gesture struck it down among the weeds with his stick.  He left the place, and wandered on through the woods.

“Men can’t control the thoughts that flit across their minds,” he muttered, as he went along, “anymore than they can direct the shadows of the clouds that sail above them.  They come and pass, and leave no stain behind.  What, then, of omens, and that wretched effigy of death?  Stuff—­pshaw!  Murder, indeed!  I’m incapable of murder.  I have drawn my sword upon a man in fair duel; but murder!  Out upon the thought, out upon it.”

He stamped upon the ground with a pang at once of fury and horror.  He walked on a little, stopped again, and folding his arms, leaned against an ancient tree.

“Mademoiselle de Barras, vous etes une traitresse, and you shall go.  Yes, go you shall; you have deceived me, and we must part.”

He said this with melancholy bitterness; and, after a pause, continued: 

“I will have no other revenge.  No; though, I dare say, she will care but little for this; very little, if at all.”

“And then, as to the other person,” he resumed, after a pause, “it is not the first time he has acted like a trickster.  He has crossed me before, and I will choose an opportunity to tell him my mind.  I won’t mince matters with him either, and will not spare him one insulting syllable that he deserves.  He wears a sword, and so do I; if he pleases, he may draw it; he shall have the opportunity; but, at all events, I will make it impossible for him to prolong his disgraceful visit at my house.”