ure of
innocence and happiness.

But neither happiness nor innocence was suggested by the look of the
Chateau itself, as it stood bathed in bright sunshine. Its great doors
were close-shut in the face of all the beauty of the world without.
Its mullioned windows, that should have stood wide open to let in the
radiance and freshness of morning, were closely blinded, like eyes
wickedly shut against God's light that beat upon them, vainly seeking
entrance.

Outside all was still: the song of birds and the rustle of leaves alone
met the ear. Neither man nor beast was stirring to challenge Colonel
Philibert's approach, but long ere he reached the door of the Chateau,
a din of voices within, a wild medley of shouts, song, and laughter,
a clatter of wine-cups, and pealing notes of violins struck him with
amazement and disgust. He distinguished drunken voices singing snatches
of bacchanalian songs, while now and then stentorian mouths called for
fresh brimmers, and new toasts were drunk with uproarious applause.

The Chateau seemed a very pandemonium of riot and revelry, that
prolonged the night into the day, and defied the very order of nature by
its audacious disregard of all decency of time, place, and circumstance.

"In God's name, what means all this, Master Pothier?" exclaimed
Philibert, as they hastily dismounted and, tying their horses to a tree,
entered the broad walk that led to the terrace.

"That concert going on, your Honor?"--Master Pothier shook his head
to express disapproval, and smiled to express his inborn sympathy with
feasting and good-fellowship--"that, your Honor, is the heel of the
hunt, the hanging up of the antlers of the stag by the gay chasseurs who
are visiting the Intendant!"

"A hunting party, you mean? To think that men could stand such
brutishness, even to please the Intendant!"

"Stand! your Honor. I wager my gown that most of the chasseurs are lying
under the table by this time, although by the noise they make it must be
allowed there are some burly fellows upon their legs yet, who keep the
wine flowing like the cow of Montmorency."

"'Tis horrible! 'tis damnable!" Philibert grew pale with passion
and struck his thigh with his palm, as was his wont when very angry.
"Rioting in drunkenness when the Colony demands the cool head, the
strong arm, and the true heart of every man among us! Oh, my country! my
dear country! what fate is thine to expect when men like these are thy
rulers?"