There were letters from the count and Therese, his daughter. They had news for me, and would I not ride over as soon as I had returned? My mother--dearest and best of mothers--had written me, and her tenderness cut me like a sword for the way I had neglected her. Well, it is ever so with a young man whose heart has found a new queen. I took the missive with wet eyes to our good farmer-general of the North. He read it, and spoke with feeling of his own mother gone to her long rest. "Bell," said he, "you are worn out. After mess in the morning mount your horses, you and the corporal, and go and visit them. Report here for duty on October 16." Then, as ever after a kindness, he renewed his quid of tobacco, turning quickly to the littered desk at headquarters. We mounted our own horses a fine, frosty morning. The white earth glimmered in the first touch of sunlight. All the fairy lanterns of the frost king, hanging in the stubble and the dead grass, glowed a brief time, flickered faintly, and went out. Then the brown sward lay bare, save in the shadows of rock or hill or forest that were still white. A great glory had fallen over the far-reaching woods. Looking down a long valley, we could see towers of evergreen, terraces of red and brown, golden steeple-tops, gilded domes minareted with lavender and purple and draped with scarlet banners. It seemed as if the trees were shriving after all the green riot of summer, and making ready for sackcloth and ashes. Some stood trembling, and as if drenched in their own blood. Now and then a head was bare and bent, and naked arms were lifted high, as if to implore mercy. "Fine air," said I, breathing deep as we rode on slowly. "'T is sart'n," said D'ri. "Mother used t' say 'at the frost wus only the breath o' angels, an' when it melted it gin us a leetle o' the air o' heaven." Of earth or heaven, it quickened us all with a new life. The horses fretted for their heads, and went off at a gallop, needing no cluck or spur. We pulled up at the chateau well before the luncheon hour. D'ri took the horses, and I was shown to the library, where the count came shortly, to give me hearty welcome. "And what of the captives?" I inquired, our greeting over. "Alas! it is terrible; they have not returned," said he, "and I am in great trouble, for I have not written to France of their peril. Dieu! I hoped they would be soon released. They are well and now we have good news. Eh bien, we hope to see them soon. But of that Therese shall tell you. And you have had a terrible time on Lake Erie?" He had read of the battle, but wanted my view of it. I told the story of the _Lawrence_ and Perry; of what D'ri and I had hoped to do, and of what had been done to us. My account of D'ri--his droll comment, his valor, his misfortune--touched and tickled the count. He laughed, he clapped his hands, he shed tears of enthusiasm; then he rang a bell, "The M'sieur D'ri--bring him here," said he to a servant.