This latter, who, doubtless for the sake of contrast, was called Spoil-sport (Rabat-joie), being always at his master’s heels, found himself within the reach of Jovial, who from time to time nipped him delicately by the nape of the neck, lifted him from the ground, and carried him thus for a moment.  The dog, protected by his thick coat, and no doubt long accustomed to the practical jokes of his companion, submitted to all this with stoical complacency; save that, when he thought the jest had lasted long enough, he would turn his head and growl.  Jovial understood him at the first hint, and hastened to set him down again.  At other times, just to avoid monotony, Jovial would gently bite the knapsack of the soldier, who seemed, as well as the dog, to be perfectly accustomed to his pleasantries.

These details will give a notion of the excellent understanding that existed between the twin sisters, the old soldier, the horse, and the dog.

The little caravan proceeded on its ways anxious to reach, before night, the village of Mockern, which was now visible on the summit of a hill.  Ever and anon, Dagobert looked around him, and seemed to be gathering up old recollections; by degrees, his countenance became clouded, and when he was at a little distance from the mill, the noise of which had arrested his attention, he stopped, and drew his long moustache several times between his finger and thumb, the only sign which revealed in him any strong and concentrated feeling.

Jovial, having stopped short behind his master, Blanche, awakened suddenly by the shock, raised her head; her first look sought her sister, on whom she smiled sweetly; then both exchanged glances of surprise, on seeing Dagobert motionless, with his hands clasped and resting on his long staff, apparently affected by some painful and deep emotion.

The orphans just chanced to be at the foot of a little mound, the summit of which was buried in the thick foliage of a huge oak, planted half way down the slope.  Perceiving that Dagobert continued motionless and absorbed in thought, Rose leaned over her saddle, and, placing her little white hand on the shoulder of their guide, whose back was turned towards her, said to him, in a soft voice, “Whatever is the matter with you, Dagobert?”

The veteran turned; to the great astonishment of the sisters, they perceived a large tear, which traced its humid furrow down his tanned cheek, and lost itself in his thick moustache.

“You weeping—­you!” cried Rose and Blanche together, deeply moved.  “Tell us, we beseech, what is the matter?”

After a moments hesitation, the soldier brushed his horny hand across his eyes, and said to the orphans in a faltering voice, whilst he pointed to the old oak beside them:  “I shall make you sad, my poor children:  and yet what I’m going to tell you has something sacred in it.  Well, eighteen years ago, on the eve of the great battle of Leipsic, I carried your father to this very tree.  He had two sabre-cuts on the head, a musket ball in his shoulder; and it was here that he and I—­who had got two thrust of a lance for my share—­were taken prisoners; and by whom, worse luck?—­why, a renegado!  By a Frenchman—­an emigrant marquis, then colonel in the service of Russia—­and who afterwards—­but one day you shall know all.”