“Well, what success?” eagerly asked Leslie and Captain Erskine in the same breath, as the dripping Johnstone buried himself in the folds of a capacious cloak procured during his absence.

“You shall hear,” was the reply; “but first, gentlemen, allow me, if you please, to enjoy, with yourselves, the luxury of dry clothes.  I have no particular ambition to contract an American ague fit just now; yet, unless you take pity on me, and reserve my examination for a future moment, there is every probability I shall not have a tooth left by to-morrow morning.”

No one could deny the justice of the remark, for the teeth of the young man were chattering as he spoke.  It was not, therefore, until after he had changed his dress, and swallowed a couple of glasses of Captain Erskine’s never failing spirit, that they all repaired once more to the mess-room, when Johnstone anticipated all questions, by the production of the mysterious packet.

After removing several wrappers of bark, each of which was secured by a thong of deerskin, Colonel de Haldimar, to whom the successful officer had handed his prize, at length came to a small oval case of red morocco, precisely similar, in size and form, to that which had so recently attracted the notice of his son.  For a moment he hesitated, and his cheek was observed to turn pale, and his hand to tremble; but quickly subduing his indecision, he hurriedly unfastened the clasp, and disclosed to the astonished view of the officers the portrait of a young and lovely woman, habited in the Highland garb.

Exclamations of various kinds burst from the lips of the group of officers.  Several knew it to be the portrait of Mrs. de Haldimar; others recognised it from the striking likeness it bore to Clara and to Charles; all knew it had never been absent from the possession of the former since her mother’s death; and feeling satisfied as they did that its extraordinary appearance among them, at the present moment, was an announcement of some dreadful disaster, their countenances wore an impress of dismay little inferior to that of the wretched Charles, who, agonized beyond all attempt at description, had thrown himself into a seat in the rear of the group, and sat like one bewildered, with his head buried in his hands.

“Gentlemen,” at length observed Colonel de Haldimar, in a voice that proved how vainly his natural emotion was sought to be subdued by his pride, “this, I fear me, is an unwelcome token.  It comes to announce to a father the murder of his child; to us all, the destruction of our last remaining friends and comrades.”

“God forbid!” solemnly aspirated Captain Blessington.  After a pause of a moment or two he pursued:  “I know not why, sir; but my impression is, the appearance of this portrait, which we all recognise for that worn by Miss de Haldimar, bears another interpretation.”

Colonel de Haldimar shook his head.—­“I have but too much reason to believe,” he observed, smiling in mournful bitterness, “it has been conveyed to us not in mercy but in revenge.”