'Monsieur!'
'Pardon me, and oh madame! do not pierce my heart with reproaches. Do not unheard condemn me to a life of sorrow and regret. I have acted to-night but in obedience to this written order, sent by the Marquis of Gordon from the trenches before Seltz, and delivered by Viscount Dundrennan, a gentleman of the Garde du Corps Ecossais.'
'Well—we are your prisoners—my husband and I,' said she, taking by the hand the child, who shrank close to her side as if for protection.
'So this is the Duke d'Alsace?' said I, regarding the poor urchin with a glance of a very mingled nature.
'My husband, and as such to be respected,' said Marie Louise, blushing to her white temples, and by hauteur vainly endeavouring to veil the shame of this absurd avowal, which was made before so many persons.
'You are indeed prisoners,' said I, sadly; 'prisoners whom I dare not release.'
'Very well, M. Blane, enough of this! lead us to our apartments for to-night—farewell!'
'Adieu, madame,' said I, bowing low, and while my heart seemed crushed or withered up within me, I gazed after her figure as it disappeared into the tower, where Lieutenant Ruthven escorted her and the female attendant to well-secured apartments, and placed sentinels at the doors and in the passages. The other prisoners, who proved to be Duke Charles's masters of the horse and household, with a councillor of the chamber of accounts at Nanci, and two valets, we secured elsewhere in one chamber, where, as they bear no other part in this narrative, we shall politely bid them adieu.
'Come, Blane,' said Dundrennan, proffering to me a huge cup of wine; 'be a man for the honour of Galloway. Drain off this—then away to bed and sleep. To-morrow you will awake more placid and composed.'
'Sleep!' I reiterated; 'she has a husband, Dundrennan.'