‘That, Madame,’ said Berenger, with the same grave dryness, ’is likely to be better known to other persons than this wandering Greek boy.’

Here Philip’s step was heard returning hastily.  He was pale, and looked a good deal excited, so that Madame de Selinville uttered a little cry, and exclaimed, ‘Ah! is it so dreadful then?’

‘No, no, Madame,’ said Philip, turning round, with a fervour and confidence he had never before shown.  ’On my word, there is nothing formidable.  You see nothing—­nothing but the Italia and the boy.  The boy gazes into a vessel of some black liquid, and sees—­sees there all you would have revealed.  Ah!’

‘Then you believe?’ asked Madame de Selinville.

‘It cannot be false,’ answered Philip; ’he told me everything.  Things he could not have known.  My very home, my father’s house, passed in review before that strange little blackamoor’s eyes; where I—­though I would have given worlds to see it—­beheld only the lamp mirrored in the dark pool.’

‘How do you know it was your father’s house?’ said Berenger.

’I could not doubt.  Just to test the fellow, I bade him ask for my native place.  The little boy gazed, smiled, babbled his gibberish, pointed.  The man said he spoke of a fair mansion among green fields and hills, “a grand cavalier embonpoint,”—­those were his very words,—­at the door, with a tankard in one hand.  Ah! my dear father, why could not I see him too?  But who could mistake him or the Manor?’

‘And did he speak of future as well as past?’ said Diane.

‘Yes, yes, yes,’ said Philip, with more agitation.  ’Lady, that will you know for yourself.’

‘It was not dreadful?’ she said, rising.

‘Oh no!’ and Philip had become crimson, and hesitated; ’certes, not dreadful.  But—–­I must not say more.’

‘Save good night,’ said Berenger, rising; ’See, our gendarmes are again looking as if we had long exceeded their patience.  It is an hour later than we are wont to retire.’

’If it be your desire to consult this mysterious fellow now you have heard your brother’s report, my dear Baron,’ said the Chevalier, ’the gendarmes may devour their impatience a little longer.’

‘Thanks, sir,’ said Berenger; ‘but I am not tempted,’ and he gave the usual signal to the gendarmes, who, during meals, used to stand as sentries at the great door of the hall.

‘It might settle your mind,’ muttered Philip, hesitating.  ’And yet—­yet—–­’

But he used no persuasions, and permitted himself to be escorted with his brother along the passages to their own chamber, where he threw himself into a chair with a long sigh, and did not speak.  Berenger meantime opened the Bible, glanced over the few verses he meant to read, found the place in the Prayer-book, and was going to the stairs to call Humfrey, when Philip broke forth:  ’Wait, Berry; don’t be in such haste.’