ither--to what end I know
not--lay aside Thy wrath, I beseech Thee--let me be no longer the
instrument of Thy vengeance!

"Enough of woe upon the earth! for the last two years, Thy creatures
have fallen by thousands upon my track. The world is decimated. A veil
of mourning extends over all the globe.

"From Asia to the icy Pole, they died upon the path of the wanderer.
Dost Thou not hear the long-drawn sigh that rises from the earth unto
Thee, O Lord?

"Mercy for all! mercy for me!--Let me but unite the descendants of my
sister for a single day, and they will be saved!"

As he pronounced these words, the wayfarer sank upon his knees, and
raised to heaven, his supplicating hands. Suddenly, the wind blew with
redoubled violence; its sharp whistlings were changed into the roar of a
tempest.

The traveller shuddered; in a voice of terror he exclaimed: "The blast
of death rises in its fury--the whirlwind carries me on--Lord! Thou art
then deaf to my prayer?"

"The spectre! oh, the spectre! it is again here! its green face
twitching with convulsive spasms--its red eyes rolling in their orbits.
Begone! begone!--its hand, oh! its icy hand has again laid hold of mine.
Have mercy, heaven!"

"GO ON!"

"Oh, Lord! the pestilence--the terrible plague--must I carry it into
this city?--And my brethren will perish the first--they, who are so
sorely smitten even now! Mercy!"

"GO ON!"

"And the descendants of my sister. Mercy! Mercy!"

"GO ON!"

"Oh, Lord, have pity!--I can no longer keep my ground; the spectre drags
me to the slope of the hill; my walk is rapid as the deadly blast that
rages behind me; already do I behold the city gates. Have mercy, Lord,
on the descendants of my sister! Spare them; do not make me their
executioner; let them triumph over their enemies!"

"GO ON! GO ON!"

"The ground flies beneath my feet; there is the city gate. Lord, it is
yet time! Oh, mercy for that sleeping town! Let it not waken to cries
of terror, despair, and death! Lord, I am on the threshold. Must it
be?--Yes, it is done. Paris, the plague is in thy bosom. The curse--oh,
the eternal curse!"

"GO ON! GO ON! GO ON!"

CHAPTER XVI. THE LUNCHEON.

The morning after the doomed traveller, descending the heights of
Montmartre, had entered the walls of Paris, great activity reigned in
St. Dizier House. Though it was hardly noon, the Princess de St. Dizier,
without being exactly in full dress (she had too much taste for tha