"I have a better opinion of Mr. Alison than you have," returned Walter. "He may hate me to death, but I do not think him capable of the crime you have hinted at. Tell him"--here a peculiar, almost ghastly smile passed over the melancholy face of the young officer--"tell him he need not take my life, his wish may be fulfilled without it. I must go, Mr. Atkins--give my regards to Miss Forest, and--farewell?" Hastily leaving the room he went to his own chamber. CHAPTER XXIII. The Vengeance of Passion. Alison had met Atkins at the foot of the stairs leading to their apartments, but he had not mounted them. He directed his steps to the room of the French steward of the castle, which had been pointed out to him by one of the soldiers. The steward, an old man, with sharp, intelligent face, and dark, flashing eyes, sat at a table on which a lamp was burning, and examined his books. He looked up morosely as the door opened, but the embittered resentment which his features wore and with which he met everyone belonging to the hated soldiers quartered in the house, softened somewhat as he recognized the visitor. He knew that the travellers were Americans, forced to seek a night's rest in the castle from the impossibility of finding entertainment in the village. Although guests of the enemy, they did not belong to the hated nation, and the grim reserve which Alison had this afternoon shown in the circle of the officers, and which the Frenchman had found opportunity to observe, gave him a decided advantage. The steward rose, and approached his visitor politely, but still with a sort of chilling reserve. "In what way can I serve you, Monsieur?" Henry circumspectly closed the door, and hastily scanned the apartment. "I wish to speak with you on a matter of importance," he said. "Are we safe from intrusion?" "Perfectly so!" returned the Frenchman. "The room, as you see, has only this one door." Alison drew near the table, and his voice sank to a whisper. "You know, I suppose, that we are forbidden to pursue our journey. My companions have consented to remain here for the night, but I must in any event go on to the mountains." "That is impossible, Monsieur," said the Frenchman politely but coldly. "The Prussians hold guard over every avenue; no person can reach the mountain-road without their permission." Alison gazed at the Frenchman sharply and searchingly. "And would you not know how to get there in spite of the guards, if you wished to send tidings to the French sharpshooters in the mountains!" "I tell you, Monsieur, that all the avenues are guarded."