I remembered the malevolent expression that lighted the eyes of the wicked Count de Bitche; and that I had seen him near my horse with his dagger drawn; I remembered also, the wild snort and plunge, given at that moment by the animal, a movement which, by startling me, so nearly caused me to lose my self-possession and life together; and my heart filled with anger and compassion, at the cruelty of this barbarous Imperialist; for the noble horse was destroyed by a mutilation, beyond the skill of farriery to cure; and as I wiped, with my handkerchief, the moisture caused by agony in the fine eyes of my beautiful Spanish barb, I felt a tear start to my own; for I knew that now poor Dagobert must die. I thought of my pistols to end his misery-- 'No, no, Dagobert--another must do this sad office for you. My old nag, you and I have been too often under fire together--we have too often shared the same meal, the same biscuit, and the same bed of straw, for you to die by my hand. Another shall do this, and place the greenest sods above you too.' And thinking thus, I led him slowly, halting and with difficulty, along the road, which he marked with blood, towards the little inn that lay in the valley of the Meuse, intending to have him shot and buried there by the aubergiste, to whom I would give my saddle and holsters for his trouble. Thus I lost a charger, the gift of Clara d'Amboise, and worth at least six hundred crowns of the sun. On the morrow I meant to conduct Nicola to Nanci; and there, in my own name and character, to enclose to the Duke of Lorraine, a solemn challenge to the cruel and infamous Count de Bitche. Full of these fiery thoughts, and pausing at every two or three paces, for my poor horse moaned in its agony, I proceeded slowly along the narrow path between the hedgerows, and under chestnut-trees in full foliage, towards the auberge; and as I went, the darkness grew deeper, for the sun had long since set. The stars studded the sky; and between its wooded banks, the Meuse gleamed like a silver current, as the round white summer moon rose above the hills. At the door of the wayside inn (a grotesque-looking house of carved wood, with its upper windows opening from a steep roof, which was buried under a load of woodbine, honeysuckle, hops, and ivy) I was met by the old aubergiste, with fear and wonder expressed in every feature of his otherwise rather stolid visage. 'Oh Monsieur l'Abbé! Monsieur l'Abbé!' he exclaimed; 'and so you are not killed after all!' 'Killed--no.' 'Nor even wounded?' 'No; but why do you ask?' 'Because--but where is mademoiselle, your sister--that dear, pious daughter of Vincent de Paule?' 'Asleep, in her chamber, I presume; but what mean you by all these questions?' I demanded, while a vague emotion of alarm agitated me.