"I have not the honour," he began courteously as I bowed to him, and dealt me a shrewd look. "Assuredly not, monsieur," I replied. "My name is Christopher Rudd, and I was once comrade to your nephew, whose fate has given such deep trouble to his friends." "Ah yes, my poor nephew! Methinks I recall your name, monsieur, if you are the same that fought with Raoul in the late contention, now so happily concluded. Be seated, monsieur; I am charmed to meet one that was his friend. You will honour me by taking a cup of wine?" He rang for a servant, and bade him bring wine and cakes, and also to request the company of Monsieur Armand. Before the man returned there entered into the room a solemn-visaged youth, clad in black with white ruffles at his wrists. "My son, monsieur," said the Count. "He is but lately returned from Paris, where he has studied medicine and philosophy, not that I purpose that he should be either a physician or a philosopher, but because I deem it well that he, being my heir, but ill-fitted by reason of a delicate constitution for the pursuit of arms, should have some tincture of humane letters and of the beneficent art of healing. Situated as we are, somewhat remote from towns, it is fitting that one who will in due time be lord of many poor folks should be able to minister to them in their afflictions." "A right worthy and commendable desire," I said, looking at the youth, whose solemnity of countenance somewhat tickled me. The Count proceeded to expound the usefulness of philosophy, not interrupting his discourse when the servant returned with wine and delicacies which, being sharp-set after my ride, I devoured with relish. My host was so courteously bent on entertaining me that for a good while I found no opportunity of broaching the purpose of my visit, and more than once I thought of Stubbs waiting without, and certainly as hungry as myself. But perceiving at length in the Count’s physiognomy a look that said clearly, despite his courtesy, that he thought it time my visit came to an end, I profited by a slight lull in his discourse to say— "And my friend Raoul, monsieur—has nothing been heard of him?" "Nothing, monsieur," he said with a sigh. "I fear we cannot hope to see him again, and the pain of his loss is embittered by our ignorance of his fate, whether he lies at the bottom of the sea, or perchance in some nameless grave." "I rejoice, then," said I, "that I can assuage that bitterness, even though the knowledge has a bitterness of its own. Your nephew, monsieur, is at this moment, unless death has released him, suffering the tortures of a galley-slave in Spain." A cry from the solemn youth caused me to look at him, and I own I was glad to see a spark of life in his dead face. "What a monstrous thing!" he cried. "Was he taken prisoner in Flanders, monsieur?"