I had been glancing anxiously from time to time at the porch of the Benedictine church, in expectation of seeing my devotee appear; and I had soon tired of the harebrained young Marquis, whose light conversation savoured so much of Paris and the old style of the French camp. It bored and disgusted me after the pleasant days I had spent in the pure and virtuous society of Nicola; but now his warning interested me. 'I am to avoid Nanci, you say--why, Marquis?' 'It is full of the enemy.' 'This is indeed unfortunate for me.' 'Rather, as it lies in your front. While my valiant papa, the Marechal-Duke, was occupying himself near Strasburg, Charles IV., with his son, the Prince of Vaudemont, and that young fire-eater, Wolfgang Count Pappenheim, with four thousand chosen troops, crossed the Rhine by a bridge of boats, and reaching the old capital of Lorraine by a forced march, are now actually holding high festival in the ancient palace of the duchy.' 'Parbleu! I must be careful--being under orders, or promise rather, to see a lady to the gates of Nanci.' 'A lady?' 'Yes.' 'From whence?' 'Paris.' 'Peste! is she pretty?' 'I cannot say--she is an ecclesiastic.' 'Nom d'un Pape! and do you think to make me believe that you have travelled all the way from Paris with a pretty woman, without seeing so much as her face? Very likely, M. le Garde Ecossais!' At that moment, Nicola in her sombre garb appeared at the huge Gothic porch of St. Bennet, where she looked around her irresolutely. 'Oho, M. l'Abbé,' said the reckless Marquis, 'there is your little penitent awaiting you. Pleasant this! by my faith, I shall doff the corslet, and don the cassock too--but a safe journey to you--au revoir!' 'Adieu!' I raised my hat, and, followed by his two attendants, the Marquis galloped gaily down the road which led towards the forest wherein Nicola and I had passed the night. On joining her, she greeted me with what was almost a caress; and whether it was the effect of her devotion I know not, but now she seemed placid, content, and even cheerful--yet my heart was still wrung. 'To-morrow we will be at Nanci; and on the morrow after we will be parted, Nicola, parted to meet no more,' said I, lifting her into her saddle. 'My dear, dear Arthur,' said she, bending her face close to mine; 'your accent and expression tear my heart with sorrow--you doubt me--oh! what shall I say, to convince, and to reassure you?' 'Why should all this be, Nicola; listen to me. Here are a church and a priest,' (Father Colville was at that moment waving to us an adieu from the porch,) 'why cannot we marry? Here is a ring too--it was my mother's, Nicola. 'Tis but a few words--"with this ring, I thee wed--this gold and silver I give thee--and with all my worldly goods, I thee endow," and then heaven alone could separate us.'