Framed in one of those pointed natural cathedral-windows of vivid green, gemmed with red roses, of which the division-posts of the porch formed the white outlines, stood the most remarkable-looking aged woman I have ever seen.  At a first glance, indeed, the question of sex would have arisen, and been found difficult to decide.  Her attire seemed that of a friar, even to the small scalloped cape that scantily covered her shoulders, and the coarse black serge, of which her strait gown was composed, leaving exposed her neatly though coarsely clad feet, with their snow-white home-knit stockings, and low-quartered, well-polished calf-skin shoes, confined with steel buckles, and elevated on heels, then worn by men alone.

She wore a white habit shirt, the collar, bosom, and wristbands of which were visible; but no cap covered her silver hair, which was cropped in the neck, and divided at one side in true manly fashion.  It was brushed well back from her expansive, fair, and unwrinkled forehead, beneath which large blue eyes looked out with that strange solemnity we see alone in the orbs of young, thoughtful children, or the very old.

Scott’s description of the “Monk of Melrose Abbey” occurred to me, as I gazed on this calm and striking figure!

  “And strangely on the knight looked he,
  And his blue eyes gleamed wild and wide.”

She stood watching our approach, leaning with both hands on her ebony, silver-headed cane, above which she stooped slightly, her aged and somewhat severe, but serene face fully turned toward us, in the clear light of morning, with a grave majesty of aspect.

Above her head in its wicker cage swung the gray and crimson parrot, of which Sylphy had spoken, and to which, it may be remembered, she had so irreverently likened her master on one occasion; bursting forth, as it saw us coming, into a shrill, stereotyped phrase of welcome—­“Bien venu, compatriote,” that was irresistibly ludicrous and irrelevant.

“Tremble, France! we come—­we come,” said Major Favraud; “there’s your quotation well applied this time, Miss Harz!  It is impressive, after all.”

“Hush! she will hear you,” I remonstrated, quite awed in that still, majestic presence, for now we stood before our aged hostess, who, with a cold but stately politeness after Major Favraud’s salutation and introduction, waved us in and across her threshold.  As for Major Favraud, he had turned to leave us on the door-sill, to see to the comfort and safety of his horses; not liking, perhaps, the appearance of the superannuated ostler, who lounged near the stable of the inn, if such might be called this rustic retreat without sign, lodging, or bar-rooms.

“Are we in the mansion of a decayed queen, or the log-hut of a wayside innkeeper?” I questioned low of Marion.

“Both in one, it seems to me,” was the reply.  “But Madame Grambeau is no curiosity, no novelty to me, I have stopped here so frequently.  I ought to have told you, before we came, not to be surprised.”