stable. One or two slim officers, in pale-blue fur-edged
pelisses, strolled among the trampled flower-beds, smoking cigars
and watching a line of men shovelling earth into canvas sacks.
The odour of soup was in the air; the kitchen echoed with the din
of pots and pans. Outside, too, the camp-kettles were steaming
and the rattle of gammels came across the lawn.

"Who is in command here?" asked Jack, turning to a handsome
dragoon officer who stood leaning on his sabre, the horse-hair
criniere blowing about his helmet.

"Why, General Farron!" said the officer in surprise.

"Farron!" repeated Jack; "is he back from Africa, here in
France--here at Morteyn?"

"He is at the Chateau de Nesville," said the officer, smiling.
"You seem to know him, monsieur."

"Indeed I do," said Jack, warmly. "Do you think he will come
here?"

"I suppose so. Shall I send you word when he arrives?"

Another officer came up, a general, white-haired and sombre.

"Is this the Vicomte de Morteyn?" he asked, looking at Jack.

"His nephew; the vicomte has gone to Paris. My name is Marche,"
said Jack.

The general saluted him; Jack bowed.

"I regret the military necessity of occupying the Chateau; the
government will indemnify Monsieur le Vicomte--"

Jack held up his hand: "My uncle is an old soldier of France--the
government is welcome; I bid you welcome in the name of the
Vicomte de Morteyn."

The old general flushed and bowed deeply.

"I thank you in the name of the government. Blood will tell. It
is easy, Monsieur Marche, to see that you are the nephew of the
Vicomte de Morteyn."

"Monsieur Marche," said the young dragoon officer, respectfully,
"is a friend of General Farron."

"I had the honour to be attached as correspondent to his
staff--in Oran," said Jack.

The old general held out his hand with a gesture entirely
charming.

"I envy General Farron your friendship," he said. "I had a
son--perhaps your age. He died--yesterday." After a silence, he
said: "There are ladies in the Chateau?"

"Yes," replied Jack, soberly.

The general turned with a gesture towards the woods. "It is too
late to move them; we are, it appears, fairly well walled in. The
cellar, in case of bombardment, is the best you can do for them.
How many are there?"

"Two, general. One is a Sister of Mercy."

Other officers began to gather on the terrace, glasses
persistently focussed on the nearer woods. Somebody called to an
officer below the terra