n. The waves,
as far out as sight could reach, were one mass of foam, and the
ghastly lightning flashed upon the torn sails of a ship as near
destruction as it well could be. Cries came up from below in the brief
pauses of the storm, and above lanterns were quickly carried to and
fro, while pale attendants hurriedly and silently obeyed the signals
of a more collected master. The occupants of the castle hardly knew to
what its chambers might be destined--whether to receive the dead or to
afford rest to the saved. Beds, fires and cordials were in readiness,
and strong men bore dread burdens up dizzy paths leading from beneath.
The ship broke in pieces on the merciless rocks, and many a drowned
sailor went down to meet the army of his fellow-victims of all times
who no doubt lay sleeping in the submarine caves of Slains. Those who
survived soon disappeared, full of gratitude for the timely relief
offered them at the castle, but one old man remained. He was never
known by any other name than "Monsieur," and was beloved by every
individual member of the household. A French _emigre_ of the old
school, with the dainty, gallant ways of the _ancien regime_, he still
clung to the dress of his earlier days, and wore a veritable _queue_,
silk stockings and buckled shoes. For some time he remained a welcome
guest in the "red chamber," where the host's little children would
sometimes join him and play with his watch and jeweled baubles. But
one day poor little "Monsieur" sickened, and the tiny feet that had
made such haste to run to him, now trod the corridor softly and bore a
baby-nurse to the gentle invalid. It was a high and coveted reward for
the little girls to carry "Monsieur's" medicine to his bedside, and
everything that kindness and hospitality could suggest was equally
lavished on him; but his feeble life, which had no doubt received a
shock from the shipwreck it had barely escaped, went out peacefully
like the soft flame of a lamp.

Slains Castle had many gentle and pleasant memories about it, as well
as its traditional horrors, and among these were many connected with
the history of the old family that owned it. In one of the corridors
hangs the picture of James, Lord Hay, a fair-haired, sunny-faced boy,
tall and athletic, standing with a cricket-bat in his hand. He would
have been earl of Erroll had he lived, but if we follow him in his
short life from classic Eton to the field of Quatre-Bras, we shall
find him again, o