'Dying!' reiterated the petulant king; 'what business has he to think of dying just now, after luring us into this German war; and just at the time when we need his assistance most? But good, my lord, go--and let us see you no more at Versailles until you have other tidings to give than those of the defeat of our armies and death of our allies.' As the Earl turned haughtily away, I heard him mutter, 'There never was a Scottish king dared speak to a Scottish earl, as this pampered Bourbon has this day spoken to me!' And without according the least salute to Louis, he strode away, and next day left his service. I now approached. 'Another courier--Oho! 'tis a cuirassier of our valiant Scottish Guard; a good omen by St. Louis! Your despatch;--thanks, monsieur. He tore it open, and there was again profound stillness as the king scanned it. He made himself master of its contents at a glance, and then read it aloud that all might hear, while I remained on one knee at his side, with the standard of Lorraine in my hands. 'Pardieu! this is good--this is brave! Well done, my valiant Hepburn--thou shalt be a Marechal of France!' exclaimed the King, as his eyes flashed with sudden energy and pride. 'Alsace is ours!' 'Vive le Camp-Marechal Hepburn--Alsace is ours!' repeated the courtiers, and there was a vehement clapping of hands. 'The Prince of Vaudemont routed before Bitche, and his standard taken by M. Blane, of our Garde du Corps Ecossais; a thousand troop-horses captured, and fifty of the enemy slain in the valley of Ingweiler by this same M. Blane; La Mothe stormed, the bailiff of Bassignie killed, and the troops of Hepburn pushing onward to the German frontier--to the Rhine which shall be ours! Let the bells be rung and the cannon fired! But who are you, monsieur?' asked Louis, turning to me. 'Arthur Blane, of the Scottish Guard, sir.' 'Good, my friend, kings have bad memories; but you will soon find that mine is an exception.' My heart danced with joy as he gave me his hand to kiss, and held up the standard in view of his attendants, whose applause again burst forth with a rapture truly French. 'Tonnerre de Ciel!' said Louis, glancing again at the despatch; 'our loss in men is considerable.' 'Heed it not, sire,' replied the gay Duke de Bouillon; 'the boys born this week in our good and virtuous city of Paris will replace the loss in battle.' 'And so M. le Chevalier Hepburn is in full march to attack Count Gallas?' 'Yes, sire.' 'Mohammed condescended to go to the mountain; so, as M. le Comte will not come to meet the troops of France, we must march them to fight M. le Comte. Bon!' exclaimed Louis, rubbing his hands. He was about to address me again, as I stood the cynosure of a thousand eyes, when suddenly a carriage, escorted by twelve mounted musketeers, wheeled up the ancient avenue of elms; and Louis muttered, while nervously folding the despatch,--