knows who they were. The Thirteen once realized all the wildest
ideas conjured up by tales of the occult powers of a Manfred, a
Faust, or a Melmoth; and to-day the band is broken up or, at any rate,
dispersed. Its members have quietly returned beneath the yoke of the
Civil Code; much as Morgan, the Achilles of piracy, gave up buccaneering
to be a peaceable planter; and, untroubled by qualms of conscience, sat
himself down by the fireside to dispose of blood-stained booty acquired
by the red light of blazing towns.

After Napoleon's death, the band was dissolved by a chance event which
the author is bound for the present to pass over in silence, and its
mysterious existence, as curious, it may be, as the darkest novel by
Mrs. Radcliffe, came to an end.

It was only lately that the present writer, detecting, as he fancied,
a faint desire for celebrity in one of the anonymous heroes to whom
the whole band once owed an occult allegiance, received the somewhat
singular permission to make public certain of the adventures which
befell that band, provided that, while telling the story in his own
fashion, he observed certain limits.

The aforesaid leader was still an apparently young man with fair hair
and blue eyes, and a soft, thin voice which might seem to indicate a
feminine temperament. His face was pale, his ways mysterious. He chatted
pleasantly, and told me that he was only just turned of forty. He might
have belonged to any one of the upper classes. The name which he gave
was probably assumed, and no one answering to his description was known
in society. Who is he, do you ask? No one knows.

Perhaps when he made his extraordinary disclosures to the present
writer, he wished to see them in some sort reproduced; to enjoy the
effect of the sensation on the multitude; to feel as Macpherson might
have felt when the name of Ossian, his creation, passed into all
languages. And, in truth, that Scottish advocate knew one of the
keenest, or, at any rate, one of the rarest sensations in human
experience. What was this but the incognito of genius? To write an
_Itineraire de Paris a Jerusalem_ is to take one's share in the glory
of a century, but to give a Homer to one's country--this surely is a
usurpation of the rights of God.

The writer is too well acquainted with the laws of narration to be
unaware of the nature of the pledge given by this brief preface; but,
at the same time, he knows enough of the history of the Thirtee