and cheek,
while his yellow locks are silvered and crisped with care. Who can
mistake that full, expansive forehead, that aquiline nose, that cold,
stern blue eye, and that heavy, obstinate, Austrian underlip, for other
than those of the mighty Emperor Charles V? And can this suffering
invalid, flying from foes who are almost on the heels of his attendants,
jolted over craggy passes in midnight darkness, buffeted by the tempest,
and withered by the sneer of adverse fortune--_can_ this be the Emperor
of Germany, King of Spain, Lord of the Netherlands, of Naples, of
Lombardy, and the proud chief of the golden Western World? Yes, Charles,
thou art reading a stern lesson by that fitful torch-light; but thy
strong will is yet unbent, and thy stern nature yet unsoftened.

And who is the swift "avenger of blood" who is following close as a
sleuth-hound on thy track? It is Maurice of Saxony--a match for thee in
boldness of daring, and in strength of will. But Charles wins the
midnight race; and yet, instead of bowing before Him whose
"long-suffering would lead to repentance," he ascribes his escape to the
"star of Austria," ever in the ascendant, and mutters his favourite
saying, "Myself, and the lucky moment."

One more scene: it is the year 1809. Bonaparte has decreed in the secret
council chamber, where his own will is his sole adviser, that the Tyrol
shall be cleared of its troublesome nest of warrior-hunters. Ten
thousand French and Bavarian soldiers have penetrated as far as the
Upper Innthal, and are boldly pushing on towards Prutz.

But the mountain-walls of this profound valley are closing gloomily
together, as if they would forbid even the indignant river to force its
wild way betwixt them. _Is_ there a path through the frowning gorge
other than that rocky way which is fiercely held by the current? Yes,
there is a narrow road, painfully grooved by the hand of man out of the
mountain side, now running along like a gallery, now dropping down to
the brink of the stream. But the glittering array winds on. There is the
heavy tread of the foot-soldiers, the trampling of horse, the dull
rumble of the guns, the waving and flapping of the colours, and the
angry remonstrance of the Inn. But all else is still as a midnight
sleep, except, indeed, when the eagles of the crag, startled from their
eyries, raise their shrill cry as they spread their living wings above
the gilded eagles of France.

Suddenly a voice is heard far up