The next scene which we adduce is that where the battered figure of a pale, grisly man walks into the garrison-town of Bayonne, after a three-years’ absence, explained only to his disgrace, mutely overcomes the guard, and rings the bell of the Governor’s house.

    “The servant left him in the hall, and went up-stairs to tell his
    master.  At the name, the Governor reflected, then frowned, then
    bade his servant reach him down a certain book.  He inspected it.

    “‘I thought so:  any one with him?’

    “‘No, Monsieur the Governor.’

    “’Load my pistols:  put them on the table:  put that book back:  show
    him in:  and then order a guard to the door.’

“The Governor was a stern veteran, with a powerful brow, a shaggy eyebrow, and a piercing eye.  He never rose, but leaned his chin on his hand, and his elbow on a table that stood between them, and eyed the new-comer very fixedly and strangely.

    “‘We did not expect to see you on this side of the Pyrenees.’

    “‘Nor I myself, Governor.’

    “‘What do you come to me for?’

    “’A welcome, a suit of regimentals, and money to take me to
    Paris.’

    “’And suppose, instead of that, I turn out a corporal’s guard, and
    bid them shoot you in the court-yard?’

    “’It would be the drollest thing you ever did, all things
    considered,’ said the other, coolly; but he looked a little
    surprised.

“The Governor went for the book he had lately consulted, found the page, handed it to the rusty officer, and watched him keenly:  the blood rushed all over his face, and his lip trembled; but his eye dwelt stern, yet sorrowful, on the Governor.

    “‘I have read your book:  now read mine.’

    “He drew off his coat, and showed his wrists and arms, blue and
    waled.

    “‘Can you read that, Monsieur?’

    “‘No.’

    “‘All the better for you!  Spanish fetters, General.’

    “He showed a white scar on his shoulder.

    “‘Can you read that, Sir?’

    “‘Humph?’

    “’This is what I cut out of it,’—­and he handed the Governor a
    little round stone, as big and almost as regular as a musket-ball.

    “‘Humph! that could hardly have been fired from a French musket.’

    “’Can you read this?’—­and he showed him a long cicatrix on his
    other arm.

    “‘Knife, I think?’ said the Governor.

    “’You are right, Monsieur:  Spanish knife!—­Can you read
    this?’—­and opening his bosom, he showed a raw and bloody wound on
    his breast.

    “‘Oh, the Devil!’ cried the General.

    “The wounded man put his coat on again, and stood erect and
    haughty and silent.

    “The General eyed him, and saw his great spirit shining through
    this man.  The more he looked, the less could the scarecrow veil
    the hero from his practised eye.