filled with drunken and rude troopers; Lucille
herself trembled in the fierce gripe of one of those dissolute soldiers,
more bandit than soldier, whom the subtle Dumouriez had united to his
army, and by whose blood he so often saved that of his nobler band. Her
shrieks, her cries, were vain, when suddenly the troopers gave way. "The
Captain! brave Captain!" was shouted forth; the insolent soldier, felled
by a powerful arm, sank senseless at the feet of Lucille, and a glorious
form, towering above its fellows,--even through its glittering garb,
even in that dreadful hour, remembered at a glance by Lucille,--stood
at her side; her protector, her guardian! Thus once more she beheld St.
Amand!

The house was cleared in an instant, the door barred. Shouts, groans,
wild snatches of exulting song, the clang of arms, the tramp of horses,
the hurrying footsteps, the deep music sounded loud, and blended
terribly without. Lucille heard them not,--she was on that breast which
never should have deserted her.

Effectually to protect his friends, St. Amand took up his quarters at
their house; and for two days he was once more under the same roof as
Lucille. He never recurred voluntarily to Julie; he answered Lucille's
timid inquiry after her health briefly, and with coldness, but he spoke
with all the enthusiasm of a long-pent and ardent spirit of the new
profession he had embraced. Glory seemed now to be his only mistress;
and the vivid delusion of the first bright dreams of the Revolution
filled his mind, broke from his tongue, and lighted up those dark eyes
which Lucille had redeemed to day.

She saw him depart at the head of his troops; she saw his proud crest
glancing in the sun; she saw his steed winding through the narrow
street; she saw that his last glance reverted to her, where she stood at
the door; and, as he waved his adieu, she fancied that there was on his
face that look of deep and grateful tenderness which reminded her of the
one bright epoch of her life.

She was right; St. Amand had long since in bitterness repented of a
transient infatuation, had long since distinguished the true Florimel
from the false, and felt that, in Julie, Lucille's wrongs were avenged.
But in the hurry and heat of war he plunged that regret--the keenest of
all--which embodies the bitter words, "TOO LATE!"

Years passed away, and in the resumed tranquillity of Lucille's life the
brilliant apparition of St. Amand appeared as something dre