the light faded, forming only a vague, gray blot in the distance as the gloaming succeeded to the glow.  But de Sigognac knew every step of the way perfectly, and soon turned from the highway into the neglected, grass-grown road that led to the chateau.  In the profound stillness, which seemed wonderfully peaceful and pleasant to him, he fancied that he could distinguish the distant barking of a dog, and that it sounded like Miraut.  He stopped to listen; yes, there could be no doubt about it, and it was approaching.  The baron gave a clear, melodious whistle—­a signal well known of old to Miraut-and in a few moments the faithful dog, running as fast as his poor old legs could carry him, burst through a break in the hedge—­panting, barking, almost sobbing for joy.  He strove to jump up on the horse’s neck to get at his beloved master; he was beside himself with delight, and manifested it in the most frantic manner, whilst de Sigognac bent down to pat his head and try to quiet his wild transports.  After bearing his master company a little way, Miraut set off again at full speed, to announce the good news to the others at the chateau—­that is to say, to Pierre, Bayard, and Beelzebub—­and bounding into the kitchen where the old servant was sitting, lost in sad thoughts, he barked in such a significant way that Pierre knew at once that something unusual had happened.

“Can it be possible that the young master is coming? said he aloud, rising, in compliance with Miraut’s wishes, who was pulling at the skirts of his coat, and imploring him with his eyes to bestir himself and follow him.  As it was quite dark by this time, Pierre lighted a pine torch, which he carried with him, and as he turned into the road its ruddy light suddenly flashed upon de Sigognac and his horse.

“Is it really you, my lord?” cried Pierre, joyfully, as he caught sight of his young master; “Miraut had tried to tell me of your arrival in his own way before I left the house, but as I had not heard anything about your even thinking of coming, I feared that he might be mistaken.  Welcome home to your own domain, my beloved master!  We are overjoyed to see you.”

“Yes, my good Pierre, it is really I, and not my wraith.  Miraut was not mistaken.  Here I am again, if not richer than when I went away, at least all safe and sound.  Come now, lead the way with your torch, and we will go into the chateau.”

Pierre, not without considerable difficulty, opened the great door, and the Baron de Sigognac rode slowly through the ancient portico, fantastically illuminated by the flaring torchlight, in which the three sculptured storks overhead seemed to be flapping their wings, as if in joyful salutation to the last representative of the family they had symbolized for so many centuries.  Then a loud, impatient whinny, like the blast of a trumpet, was heard ringing out on the still night air, as Bayard, in his stable, caught the welcome sound of his master’s voice.