fallen enemy.  Whether the man dies or lives, whether his wound be mortal or no, you will never hear.  And so you advance, till gradually you begin to feel, rather than to see, that the blues are retreating from you.  You hear unarmed men asking for quarter, begging for their lives, and the sound of entreaty again softens your heart; you think of sparing life, instead of taking it; you embrace your friends as you meet them here and there; you laugh and sing as you feel that you have done your best and have conquered; and when you once more become sufficiently calm to be aware what you are yourself doing, you find that you have a sword in your hand, or a huge pistol; you know not from whom you took them, or where you got them, or in what manner you have used them.  How can a man say then, whom he has killed in battle, or whether he has killed any man?  I do not recollect that I ever fired a shot at Varin myself, and yet my musket was discharged and the pan was up.  I will not say that I ever killed a man; but I will say that I never struck a man who asked for mercy, or fired a shot even on a republican, who had thrown down his arms.”

Henri’s voice was now heard in the hall, loudly calling for Jacques, and away he ran to join his master, as he finished his history.

“It makes my blood run cold,” said the housekeeper, “to think of such horrid things.”

“Chapeau describes it very well, though,” said the confidential maid; “I’m sure he has seen it all himself.  I’m sure he’s a brave fellow.”

“It’s not always those who talk the most that are the bravest,” said Momont.

Henri and his sister sat talking that night for a long time, after the other inhabitants of the chateau were in bed, and though they had so many subjects of interest to discuss, their conversation was chiefly respecting Adolphe Denot.

“I cannot guess what has become of him,” said Henri; “I made every possible inquiry, short of that which might seem to compromise his character.  I do not think he can have returned to the Bocage, or we should have heard of him.”

“He must have gone to Fleury,” said Agatha.  “I am sure you will not find that he is at his own house.”

“Impossible, my love; we must have heard of him on the way; had he gone round by Montrenil, he must still have passed over the bridge of Fouchard, and we should have heard of him there.”

“He must have ridden over in the night; you see he so evidently wanted to conceal from you where he was going.”

“My own impression is, that he is gone to Paris,” said Henri; “but let him have gone where he may, of one thing I am sure; he was not in his right senses when he left the council-room, nor yet when he was speaking to me in the street; poor Adolphe!  I pity him with all my heart.  I can feel how miserable he must be.”

“Why should he be miserable, Henri?  The truth is, you mistake his character.  I do not wish to make you think ill of your friend; but Adolphe is one of those men whom adversity will improve.  You and our father have rather spoilt him between you; he is too proud, too apt to think that everything should bend to his wishes:  he has yet to learn that in this world he must endure to have his dearest wishes thwarted; and till adversity has taught him that, his feelings will not be manly, nor his conduct sensible.”