As he said this, René placed a note in my hand, put spurs to his horse, and, from the chapel door, rode down the wooded valley. The note was written on perfumed Dutch paper, tied crosswise by white ribbons, and fastened by a little red seal, bearing the winglets under a coronet. I cut the ribbons with my dagger, and trembled as I read the note, by the dim flickering light of the altar. It bore the signature of Marie Louise, and was written by herself, assuring me of her unalterable regard, and that death itself were more welcome to her than this projected union with Pappenheim: it contained little; but began by desiring me to forget her, and, like a dear paradox, ended by begging me to remember the pleasant days we had passed together, and though separated, to think kindly of her, as she would never cease to think of me but with sorrow and love. This little billet occasioned in me the usual burst of transport such evidences of affection generally develop in lovers, all of which the reader knows very well; and I was carefully refolding, after reading it for the tenth time, when a sound caught my ear. I listened. It was a distant clock striking the hour of four. I looked up, and saw that already the altar lamps were sinking and about to expire, and that grey dawn was beginning to shine through the painted windows of the old chapel. 'Now,' thought I, 'let me to my saddle, and with whip and spur make this new nag of mine believe that he has Satan himself on his back!' CHAPTER LIII. THE TOWER OF PHALSBOURG. When I rode from the chapel of St. Nicolas in the Wood the morning was cool and delicious. The forests were clothed with luxuriant green foliage, that rustled pleasantly in the rising wind. The Meurthe flowed majestically through the broad and fertile valley between banks that teemed with fertility, or were covered by groves of wild apricot, plum, and orange trees. Distant a mile or so rose Nanci, its old ramparts and plastered houses standing in relief against the cold sky, clear and white in the pale light of morning, for the sun was yet below the horizon, and the lingering stars that still twinkled amid the deep blue vault were reflected in the depths of the river that bathed the palace walls, while the sharp pinnacles of the cathedral spire cut the sky-line as they towered above every other feature of the city.' 'Adieu, Marie Louise,' said I, kissing my hand to the distant palace, as its casements began to gleam like plates of burnished gold; and as I crossed a wooded ridge, where the road suddenly dipped down towards the town and fortress of Château Salines, so famous for its saline springs, where salt has been manufactured since the days of Thierri of Alsace.