ness."

"My forgiveness!"

"Yes, sir, for having wronged you unconsciously so lately as last
evening."

"Wronged me, and how, strange boy? you talk in riddles."

"Last evening, sir, on the eve of battle, which might well,
considering what followed, have been my last of life, I sought your
daughter. Her manner, some unguarded words she dropped, emboldened me
to declare a secret which I had hitherto kept fast locked in my
breast. I threw myself at her feet, and told her that I loved her."

"And she--"

"Confessed that she loved me in return."

"Henri! my boy--my son--my hero! this news makes me young again! it
gladdens my old heart like the shout of victory upon a stricken field.
Is this your offence? I freely pardon it."

"You know not all, baron. You knew that I was a poor and obscure
soldier of fortune."

"The man who has distinguished himself as you have done this day,
might claim the hand of an emperor's daughter."

"Baron, between me and Heloise there lies a black shadow--a memory--a
horror, which forbids our meeting. The very name I bear does not
belong to me."

"And how may you be named, young man, if not De Grandville?"

"Henri de Montmorenci," replied the young soldier.

"De Montmorenci!" cried the baron. "That is a noble and historic name.
The house of Montmorenci has been well represented in the field."

"_And on the scaffold_!" added Henri, with deep emotion.

"The scaffold!" exclaimed the baron. "Yes, yes; I remember now a
dreadful tragedy. But _he_ suffered unjustly."

"No matter," answered Henri. "The ignominious punishment remains a
stain upon our escutcheon. Men will point to me as the son of a
condemned and executed traitor. Could I forget for a moment the
tragedy which has rendered my poor mother an animated image of death,
the finger of the world would recall my wandering thoughts to the
horrors of the fact. The scaffold, with all its bloody paraphernalia,
would rise up before me."

"Henri, you are too sensitive," said the baron. "The best and bravest
of France (alas for our history!) have closed their lives upon the
scaffold. I believe your father innocent. If it were otherwise, you
have redeemed the honor of your race. You deserve my daughter's
hand--take her and be happy."

"Make her the companion of my agony! Never."

"Come with me," said the baron; "her smiles shall dispel these gloomy
fantasies."

"No, no! urge me not," said the young guardsman. "Let me return to my
p