"THE WITHIN INTENDS FOR EUROPE ON THE MORROW."
Jacques felt his conscience smite him—he could not let his friend depart without bidding him adieu. He dismounted, tied his horse, and laughing to himself, ascended to the chamber of the knight.
A sad sight awaited him.
Seated upon a travelling trunk, with a visage which had become elongated to a really distressing degree, Sir Asinus was sighing, and casting a last lingering look behind.
His apartment was in great disorder—presenting indeed that negligent appearance which rooms are accustomed to present, when their occupants are about to depart. The books were all stowed away in boxes—the pictures taken down—the bed unmade—the sofa littered with papers, and the violin, and flute—the general air of the desolate room, that of a man who has parted with his last hope and wishes to exist no longer.
But the appearance of Sir Asinus was worse than that of his apartment.
"Good morning, my dear Jacques," said the knight, sighing; "you visit me at a sad moment."
Jacques smiled.
"I am just on the wing."
"As I see."