But Madame do Salins put her hand on his arm, saying, “He has saved us, Father. Do not—do not check such decision and presence of mind. Remember he is to be a man, and such qualities will be needful to him.” I was very proud of her praise: got the horses easily into a quiet, ordinary pace, and drove directly into the village which we had seen from above, and where, as I had expected, the post-house was to be found. The horses stopped of their own accord at the door, and we soon had two or three people round us. Thanks to Father Bonneville’s peculiar skill in acquiring languages, the people who seemed good and kindly disposed, were soon made acquainted with as much of our story as was necessary to tell. They entered into our cause warmly; but the post-master—or rather the post-mistress’s son—a little in awe of the French army, some thirty or forty miles distant, strongly advised that we should proceed without delay, lest our French postillion should come up, and embarrass the authorities by demanding our apprehension. The advice was very palatable to us all; the French horses were unharnessed in a few minutes; four fresh ones—somewhat fat and slow, indeed—were attached to the carriage; and Father Bonneville conscientiously deposited with the post-master the “_pour boire_,” or drink-money, for our abandoned postillion, with a couple of livres additional for the long walk he had to take. It mattered little now whether we went fast or slow; for we were in a hospitable country, and amongst friendly people, and ere nightfall we were many miles beyond pursuit. [_To be continued._ * * * * * MADELINE. A LEGEND OF THE MOHAWK.[3] BY MRS. MARY O. HORSFORD. Where the waters of the Mohawk Through a quiet valley glide, From the brown church to her dwelling She that morning passed a bride; In the mild light of October Beautiful the forest stood, As the Temple on Mount Zion When God filled its solitude. Very quietly the red leaves On the languid zephyr’s breath, Fluttered to the mossy hillocks Where their sisters slept in death: And the white mist of the autumn Hung o’er mountain-top and dale, Soft and filmy as the foldings Of the passing bridal veil. From the field of Saratoga, At the last night’s eventide, Rode the groom—a gallant soldier Flushed with victory and pride; Seeking as a priceless guerdon From the dark-eyed Madeline Leave to lead her to the altar When the morrow’s sun should shine.