The next morning was indeed a brilliant one--the earth refreshed by rain, the verdure more brilliant, the mountain streams grown fuller; all the landscape seemed to shine forth in its gladdest features. I was up and stirring soon after sunrise; and with all my prejudices against such a means of ‘lengthening one’s days,’ I sat at my window, actually entranced with the beauty of the scene. Beyond the river there rose a heath-clad mountain, along which misty masses of vapour swept hurriedly, disclosing as they passed some tiny patch of cultivation struggling for life amid granite rocks and abrupt precipices. As the sun grew stronger, the grey tints became brown and the brown grew purple, while certain dark lines that tracked their way from summit to base began to shine like silver, and showed the course of many a mountain torrent tumbling and splashing towards that little lake that lay calm as a mirror below. Immediately beneath my window was the garden of the château-- a succession of terraces descending to the very river. The quaint yew hedges carved into many a strange device, the balustrades half hidden by flowering shrubs and creepers, the marble statues peeping out here and there, trim and orderly as they looked, were a pleasant feature of the picture, and heightened the effect of the desolate grandeur of the distant view. The very swans that sailed about on the oval pond told of habitation and life, just as the broad expanded wing that soared above the mountain peak spoke of the wild region where the eagle was king. My musings were suddenly brought to a close by a voice on the terrace beneath. It was that of a man who was evidently, from his pace, enjoying his morning’s promenade under the piazza of the château, while he hummed a tune to pass away the time:-- ‘“Why, soldiers, why Should we be melancholy, boys? Why, soldiers, why? Whose business----” Holloa, there, François, ain’t they stirring yet? Why, it’s past six o’clock!’ The person addressed was a serving-man, who in the formidable attire of an English groom--in which he was about as much at home as a coronation champion feels in plate armour--was crossing the garden towards the stables. ‘No, sir; the count won’t start before eight.’ ‘And when do we breakfast?’ ‘At seven, sir.’ ‘The devil! another hour-- “Why, soldiers, why Should we be-----” I say, François, what horse do they mean for Mademoiselle Laura to-day?’ ‘The mare she rode on Wednesday, sir. Mademoiselle liked her very much.’ ‘And what have they ordered for the stranger that came the night before last--the gentleman who was robbed----’ ‘I know, I know, sir; the roan, with the cut on her knee.’ ‘Why, she’s a mad one! she’s a runaway!’ ‘So she is, sir; but then monsieur is an Englishman, and the count says he ‘ll soon tame the roan filly.’ ‘“Why, soldiers, why-----“’