the outer door for news of their comrades, fearing the worst, yet prayerfully striving to hope for the best.  At sight of de Sigognac—­who, alarmed at her extreme pallor, hastened anxiously to her side—­she impetuously raised her arms to heaven, as a low cry of thanksgiving escaped her lips, and letting them fall around his neck, for one moment hid her streaming eyes against his shoulder; but quickly regaining her self-control, she withdrew herself gently from the detaining arm that had fondly encircled her slender, yielding form, and stepping back from him a little, resumed with a strong effort her usual reserve and quiet dignity.

“And you are not wounded or hurt?” she asked, in her sweetest tones, her face glowing with happiness as she caught his reassuring gesture; he could not speak yet for emotion.  The clasp of her arms round his neck had been like a glimpse of heaven to him a moment of divine ecstasy.  “Ah! if he could only snatch her to his breast and hold her there forever,” he was thinking, “close to the heart that beat for her alone,” as she continued:  “If the slightest harm had befallen you, because of me, I should have died of grief.  But, oh! how imprudent you were, to defy that handsome, wicked duke, who has the assurance and the pride of Lucifer himself, for the sake of a poor, insignificant girl like me.  You were not reasonable, de Sigognac!  Now that you are a comedian, like the rest of us, you must learn to put up with certain impertinences and annoyances, without attempting to resent them.”

“I never will,” said de Sigognac, finding his voice at last, “I swear it, I never will permit an affront to be offered to the adorable Isabelle in my presence even when I have on my player’s mask.”

“Well spoken, captain,” cried Herode, “well spoken, and bravely.  I would not like to be the man to incur your wrath.  By the powers above! what a fierce reception you gave those rascals yonder.  It was lucky for them that poor Matamore’s sword had no edge.  If it had been sharp and pointed, you would have cleft them from head to heels, clean in two, as the ancient knight-errants did the Saracens, and wicked enchanters.”

“Your club did as much execution as my sword, Herode, and your conscience need not reproach you, for they were not innocents that you slaughtered this time.”

“No, indeed!” the tyrant rejoined, with a mighty laugh, “the flower of the galleys these—­the cream of gallows-birds.”

“Such jobs would scarcely be undertaken by any other class of fellows you know,” de Sigognac said; “but we must not neglect to make Scapin’s valiant deeds known, and praise them as they deserve.  He fought and conquered without the aid of any other arms than those that nature gave him.”

Scapin, who was a natural buffoon, acknowledged this encomium with a very low obeisance—­his eyes cast down, his hand on his heart—­and with such an irresistibly comical affectation of modesty and embarrassment that they all burst into a hearty laugh, which did them much good after the intense excitement and alarm.