“You are right, Sir,” said I, after a short pause; “there is the letter; never shall it be said of Morton Devereux that he hazarded his honour to secure his safety. But the tie between us is broken now and forever!” So saying, I flung down the debated epistle, and strode away. I re-entered the great hall. I saw by one of the windows a sheet of paper; I picked it up, and perceived that it was the envelope in which the letter had been enclosed. It contained only these lines, addressed me in French:-- A friend of the late Marshal Devereux encloses to his son a letter, the contents of which it is essential for His safety that he should know. C. D. B. “Umph!” said I, “a very satisfactory intimation, considering that the son of the late Marshal Devereux is so very well assured that he shall not know one line of the contents of the said letter. But let me see after this messenger!” and I immediately hastened to institute inquiry respecting him. I found that he was already gone; on leaving the hall he had remounted his horse and taken his departure. One servant, however, had seen him, as he passed the front court, address a few words to my valet, Desmarais, who happened to be loitering there. I summoned Desmarais and questioned him. “The dirty fellow,” said the Frenchman, pointing to his spattered stockings with a lachrymose air, “splashed me, by a prance of his horse, from head to foot, and while I was screaming for very anguish, he stopped and said, ‘Tell the Count Devereux that I was unable to tarry, but that the letter requires no answer.’” I consoled Desmarais for his misfortune, and hastened to my uncle with a determination to reveal to him all that had occurred. Sir William was in his dressing-room, and his gentleman was very busy in adorning his wig. I entreated him to dismiss the _coiffeur_, and then, without much preliminary detail, acquainted him with all that had passed between the Abbe and myself. The knight seemed startled when I came to the story of the sword. “‘Gad, Sir Count, what have you been doing?” said he; “know you not that this may be a very ticklish matter? The King of France is a very great man, to be sure,--a very great man,--and a very fine gentleman; but you will please to remember that we are at war with his Majesty, and I cannot guess how far the accepting such presents may be held treasonable.” And Sir William shook his head with a mournful significance. “Ah,” cried he, at last (when I had concluded my whole story), with a complacent look, “I have not lived at court, and studied human nature, for nothing: and I will wager my best full-bottom to a night-cap that the crafty old fox is as much a Jacobite as he is a rogue! The letter would have proved it, Sir; it would have proved it!” “But what shall be done now?” said I; “will you suffer him to remain any longer in the house?”