It was a large chateau of the genuine old ghostly kind, with round towers, and extinguishers, and a high leaden roof, and more windows than Aladdin’s Palace.  The lattice blinds were all thrown open after the heat of the day, and there were glimpses of rambling walls and corridors within.  Then there were immense out-buildings fallen into partial decay, masses of dark trees, terrace-gardens, balustrades; tanks of water, too weak to play and too dirty to work; statues, weeds, and thickets of iron railing that seemed to have overgrown themselves like the shrubberies, and to have branched out in all manner of wild shapes.  The entrance doors stood open, as doors often do in that country when the heat of the day is past; and the Captain saw no bell or knocker, and walked in.

He walked into a lofty stone hall, refreshingly cool and gloomy after the glare of a Southern day’s travel.  Extending along the four sides of this hall was a gallery, leading to suites of rooms; and it was lighted from the top.  Still no bell was to be seen.

“Faith,” said the Captain halting, ashamed of the clanking of his boots, “this is a ghostly beginning!”

He started back, and felt his face turn white.  In the gallery, looking down at him, stood the French officer—­the officer whose picture he had carried in his mind so long and so far.  Compared with the original, at last—­in every lineament how like it was!

He moved, and disappeared, and Captain Richard Doubledick heard his steps coming quickly down own into the hall.  He entered through an archway.  There was a bright, sudden look upon his face, much such a look as it had worn in that fatal moment.

Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick?  Enchanted to receive him!  A thousand apologies!  The servants were all out in the air.  There was a little fete among them in the garden.  In effect, it was the fete day of my daughter, the little cherished and protected of Madame Taunton.

He was so gracious and so frank that Monsieur le Capitaine Richard Doubledick could not withhold his hand.  “It is the hand of a brave Englishman,” said the French officer, retaining it while he spoke.  “I could respect a brave Englishman, even as my foe, how much more as my friend!  I also am a soldier.”

“He has not remembered me, as I have remembered him; he did not take such note of my face, that day, as I took of his,” thought Captain Richard Doubledick.  “How shall I tell him?”

The French officer conducted his guest into a garden and presented him to his wife, an engaging and beautiful woman, sitting with Mrs. Taunton in a whimsical old-fashioned pavilion.  His daughter, her fair young face beaming with joy, came running to embrace him; and there was a boy-baby to tumble down among the orange trees on the broad steps, in making for his father’s legs.  A multitude of children visitors were dancing to sprightly music; and all the servants and peasants about the chateau were dancing too.  It was a scene of innocent happiness that might have been invented for the climax of the scenes of peace which had soothed the Captain’s journey.