that the knowledge of Osbert’s situation had oozed out through the servants, and gratitude and humanity alike impelled Berenger to run some risk for his foster-brother’s sake.  He was greatly touched at the poor fellow’s devotion, and somewhat amused, though with an almost tearful smile at the joy with which he had proclaimed—­what Berenger was quite unaware of, since the keep furnished no mirrors--the disappearance of his scars. ‘’Tis even so,’ said Philip, ’though I never heeded it.  You are as white from crown to beard as one of the statues at Paris; but the great red gash is a mere seam, save when yon old Satan angers you, and then it blushes for all the rest of your face.’

‘And the cheek-wound is hidden, I suppose,’ said Berenger, feeling under the long fair moustache and the beard, which was developing into respectable proportions.

’Hidden? ay, entirely.  No one would think your bald crown had only twenty-one years over it; but you are a personable fellow still, quite enough to please Daphne,’ said Philip.

‘Pshaw!’ replied Berenger, pleased nevertheless to hear the shadow of a jest again from Philip.

It was quite true.  These months of quiescence—­enforced though they were—­had given his health and constitution time to rally after the terrible shock they had sustained.  The severe bleedings had, indeed, rendered his complexion perfectly colourless; but there was something in this, as well as in the height which the loss of hair gave his brow, which, added to the depth and loftiness of countenance that this long period of patience and resolution had impressed on his naturally fine features, without taking away that open candour that had first attracted Diane when he was a rosy lad.  His frame had strengthened at the same time, and assumed the proportions of manhood; so that, instead of being the overgrown maypole that Narcisse used to sneer at, he was now broad-shouldered and robust, exceedingly powerful, and so well made that his height, upwards of six feet, was scarcely observed, except by comparison with the rest of the world.

And his character had not stood still.  He had first come to Paris a good, honest, docile, though high-spirited boy:  and though manly affections, cares, and sorrows had been thrust on him, he had met them like the boy that he was, hardly conscious how deep they went.  Then had come the long dream of physical suffering, with only one thought pertinaciously held throughout—­that of constancy to his lost wife; and from this he had only thoroughly wakened in his captivity, the resolution still holding fast, but with more of reflection and principle, less of mere instinct, than when his powers were lost or distracted in the effort of constant endurance of pain and weakness.  The charge of Philip, the endeavour both of educating him and keeping up his spirits, as well as the controversy with Pere Bonami, had been no insignificant parts of the discipline of these months; and, little as the Chevalier had intended it, he had trained his young kinsman into a far more substantial and perilous adversary, both in body and mind, than when he had caged him in his castle of the Blackbird’s Nest.