I thought of my unavenged quarrel with the house of Nithsdale; of my slaughtered father, as he lay all 'boltered' in his blood by Lochar Moss; of our ravaged lands and ruined homes, all sunk in smoke and flame, as I had last seen the tower of Blanerne when I, a fugitive, looked back from the green hills of Galloway, and saw the weapons of the Maxwell troopers glitter on my track, as I forded the foaming waters of Urr. Then I thought of the horrors of the Bastille, and dashed my head upon my bed, as I longed—madly longed for liberty!
Louis XIII. I abhorred, but could not petition either him or the Countess d'Amboise, for paper and ink were denied me. How had our petty intrigue—if intrigue it could be called—been discovered?
I remembered the loss of the miniature at Versailles, and the malevolent smile of the jealous De Brissac, and planned a hundred impossible schemes of escape and revenge; and so, amid all these bitter, burning, and impatient thoughts, the second weary week of my captivity wore slowly and monotonously away.
CHAPTER XXXI.
'NUMBER 32.'
Perceiving that I was becoming very dull and miserable, Martin Omelette brought me an old book, which he said had been left by my predecessor. It was a manuscript, and was entitled La Vie de Monseigneur St. Fiacre.
'St. Fiacre again!' said I.
'Yes, monsieur,' said he, 'and I hope it may serve to amuse you as much as it amused and consoled the poor chevalier, who for six-and-forty years——'
'Leave me, in the devil's name!' I groaned.
'Yes, monsieur,' said Martin, bowing, for he never forgot his politeness, and withdrew.