"At last, Dolores chanced to ride out to a station where she had heard there were some Northern soldiers lying wounded; and there she came upon her own son, the dear consolation of her wretched life, lying starving on a handful of straw, and the place surrounded by Northern soldiers, who had just come to rescue their comrades. "The unfortunate woman was just in time to see her brave boy die, and then, indeed, she thought that her cup of misery was full--but no, Heaven is prodigal of its punishments to such as she. "While mourning over her boy, the renegade commissary rode up with his staff, intending to remove the invalids to Richmond, and was instantly attacked by the Federals; Dolores filled with mad grief, drew her old-time husband into the shed and bade him look upon his son, and the next moment beheld him struck down by a ball at her feet. "She thought him dead, poor wretch, and lifted his head to her lap, and told him that she loved him with a love that could never die, and swore that she would water the graves of her husband and her son with her own heart-blood. "When the skirmish was over the Northerners moved on with the wounded man as their prisoner, and this woman rode beside him, leaving her dear son dead in the shanty. "At midnight, when the party stopped to rest, it was found that Schmolnitz was not dead, and he soon recovered enough to speak. "Dolores bent over him, his head in her lap, and hoped that he would recognize her; but he did not, in the gloom, until she spoke, entreating him for the sake of her love years ago to take her back to him. "Most brutally he repudiated her, assuring her that she could not be his wife, and that he would never own her as such. "Then, indeed, she sounded the shallow waters of his soul, and desired revenge. "She would have stabbed him to the heart even then, if she had not been prevented, but she swore beside the heartless wretch that she should have vengeance; then she and her attendants rode back to Richmond. "Months passed, all trace of the man was lost to her; but patiently she searched for him until she found a clew. "After many adventures, she found him in this city, and what think you were the titles which this little tailor had assumed? "Dear count, will you not make a guess? "Friends, I believe our honored count is indisposed--how pale he has become! Little wonder, for he sympathizes with every word I say. "Do not, good Count de Calembours, forsake us until my story is completed. "You must go? Then I shall hasten. "Friends, the miserable little tailor, this renegade, dastard and spy, had entered the highest circles in New York under the title which this man wears--the Count de Calembours!" She swooped forward, she seized the arm of the retreating chevalier, and wheeled him round until he faced the company. He was frightfully pale, his eyes flickered ominously, he glared helplessly at his tormentor, the beautiful bride-elect.