take my supper up here in the dining-hall. The logs are laid
and we can light the fire. You will call me if there is any alarm.
What can you give me for supper--you?"

"Alas, monsieur, there was a time when I might have answered, 'What you
wish!' but now it is all that we can do to find a bottle of new claret
and a cold pullet."

"That will do very well. Let a guard go about with him, sergeant, and
let him feel the end of a bayonet if he plays us any tricks."

Captain Baumgarten was an old campaigner. In the Eastern provinces, and
before that in Bohemia, he had learned the art of quartering himself
upon the enemy. While the butler brought his supper he occupied himself
in making his preparations for a comfortable night. He lit the
candelabrum of ten candles upon the centre table. The fire was already
burning up, crackling merrily, and sending spurts of blue, pungent smoke
into the room. The captain walked to the window and looked out.
The moon had gone in again, and it was raining heavily. He could hear
the deep sough of the wind, and see the dark loom of the trees, all
swaying in the one direction. It was a sight which gave a zest to his
comfortable quarters, and to the cold fowl and the bottle of wine which
the butler had brought up for him. He was tired and hungry after his
long tramp, so he threw his sword, his helmet, and his revolver-belt
down upon a chair, and fell to eagerly upon his supper. Then, with his
glass of wine before him and his cigar between his lips, he tilted his
chair back and looked about him.

He sat within a small circle of brilliant light which gleamed upon his
silver shoulder-straps, and threw out his terra-cotta face, his heavy
eyebrows, and his yellow moustache. But outside that circle things were
vague and shadowy in the old dining-hall. Two sides were oak-panelled
and two were hung with faded tapestry, across which huntsmen and dogs
and stags were still dimly streaming. Above the fireplace were rows of
heraldic shields with the blazonings of the family and of its alliances,
the fatal saltire cross breaking out on each of them.

Four paintings of old seigneurs of Chateau Noir faced the fireplace, all
men with hawk noses and bold, high features, so like each other that
only the dress could distinguish the Crusader from the Cavalier of the
Fronde. Captain Baumgarten, heavy with his repast, lay back in his
chair looking up at them through the clouds of his tobacco smoke, an