“Why did they leave Coblentz, then, in such hot haste?”

“Ah, the ladies never give reasons.  There were letters waiting for them at our house; and no sooner read, but they leaped up, and would forth.  Come home now, and go by the steamer to-morrow morning.”

“Impossible! most hospitable of Israelites.”

“To go to-night,—­for see the clouds!—­Not a postilion will dare to leave Coblentz, under that quick-coming allgemein und ungeheuer henker-hund-und-teufel’s-gewitter.”

Stangrave looked up, growling; and gave in.  A Rhine-storm was rolling up rapidly.

“They will be caught in it.”

“No.  They are far beyond its path by now; while you shall endure the whole visitation; and if you try to proceed, pass the night in a flea-pestered post-house, or in a ditch of water.”

So Stangrave went home with Herr Salomon, and heard from him, amid clouds of Latakia, of wars and rumours of wars, distress of nations, and perplexity, seen by the light, not of the Gospel, but of the stock-exchange; while the storm fell without in lightning, hail, rain, of right Rhenish potency.

CHAPTER XXIV.

THE THIRTIETH OF SEPTEMBER.

We must go back a week or so, to England, and to the last day of September.  The world is shooting partridges, and asking nervously, when it comes home, What news from the Crimea?  The flesh who serves it is bathing at Margate.  The devil is keeping up his usual correspondence with both.  Eaton Square is a desolate wilderness, where dusty sparrows alone disturb the dreams of frowzy charwomen, who, like Anchorites amid the tombs of the Thebaid, fulfil the contemplative life each in her subterranean cell.  Beneath St. Peter’s spire the cabman sleeps within his cab, the horse without:  the waterman, seated on his empty bucket, contemplates the untrodden pavement between his feet, and is at rest.  The blue butcher’s boy trots by with empty cart, five miles an hour, instead of full fifteen, and stops to chat with the red postman, who, his occupation gone, smokes with the green gatekeeper, and reviles the Czar.  Along the whole north pavement of the square only one figure moves, and that is Major Campbell.

His face is haggard and anxious; he walks with a quick, excited step; earnest enough, whoever else is not.  For in front of Lord Scoutbush’s house the road is laid with straw.  There is sickness there, anxiety, bitter tears.  Lucia has not found her husband, but she has lost her child.

Trembling, Campbell raises the muffled knocker, and Bowie appears.  “What news to-day?” he whispers.

“As well as can be expected, sir, and as quiet as a lamb now, they say.  But it has been a bad time, and a bad man is he that caused it.”

“A bad time, and a bad man.  How is Miss St. Just?”

“Just gone to lie down, sir.  Mrs. Clara is on the stairs, if you’d like to see her.”