accustomed to his pleasantries.

These details will give a notion of the excellent understanding that
existed between the twin sisters, the old soldier, the horse, and the
dog.

The little caravan proceeded on its ways anxious to reach, before night,
the village of Mockern, which was now visible on the summit of a hill.
Ever and anon, Dagobert looked around him, and seemed to be gathering up
old recollections; by degrees, his countenance became clouded, and
when he was at a little distance from the mill, the noise of which had
arrested his attention, he stopped, and drew his long moustache several
times between his finger and thumb, the only sign which revealed in him
any strong and concentrated feeling.

Jovial, having stopped short behind his master, Blanche, awakened
suddenly by the shock, raised her head; her first look sought her
sister, on whom she smiled sweetly; then both exchanged glances of
surprise, on seeing Dagobert motionless, with his hands clasped and
resting on his long staff, apparently affected by some painful and deep
emotion.

The orphans just chanced to be at the foot of a little mound, the summit
of which was buried in the thick foliage of a huge oak, planted half
way down the slope. Perceiving that Dagobert continued motionless and
absorbed in thought, Rose leaned over her saddle, and, placing her
little white hand on the shoulder of their guide, whose back was turned
towards her, said to him, in a soft voice, "Whatever is the matter with
you, Dagobert?"

The veteran turned; to the great astonishment of the sisters, they
perceived a large tear, which traced its humid furrow down his tanned
cheek, and lost itself in his thick moustache.

"You weeping--you!" cried Rose and Blanche together, deeply moved. "Tell
us, we beseech, what is the matter?"

After a moments hesitation, the soldier brushed his horny hand across
his eyes, and said to the orphans in a faltering voice, whilst he
pointed to the old oak beside them: "I shall make you sad, my poor
children: and yet what I'm going to tell you has something sacred in it.
Well, eighteen years ago, on the eve of the great battle of Leipsic,
I carried your father to this very tree. He had two sabre-cuts on the
head, a musket ball in his shoulder; and it was here that he and I--who
had got two thrust of a lance for my share--were taken prisoners; and by
whom, worse luck?--why, a renegado! By a Frenchman--an emigrant marquis,
then colonel in the s