The evening was very chilly and misty, and but few persons had been tempted to linger late by the river side; the attention, however, of those who had not yet “betaken them home,” was attracted by a steamboat full of passengers, coming from Paimbeuf, which stopped beneath the walls of the castle, and gave a signal apparently understood by a guard of soldiers, which had been loitering on the shore. The arrival of the steamer was immediately communicated to the governor of the castle, and much unwonted movement ensued. A rumor of something remarkable soon spread throughout the town, and a concourse of people came hurrying over the bridge, in order to be present at the expected landing of prisoners of importance. There was no attempt to repress this curiosity, for no rescue was evidently feared; a double line of soldiers was, however, formed, and in silence and gloom a sad procession was soon formed of no less than eighty-two individuals, men, women and children, all covered with large mantles of white wool, of a fashion unseen in this part of the world since the great Saracen warrior Abd’eraman was driven back from Touraine by Charles Martel; the strangers thus attired took their way from the sandy shore of the Loire to the precipitous ascent of the dark towers before them. These captives were the Arab chief Abd-’el-Kader, his mother, one of his brothers-in-law, his uncle, a patriarch of ninety, whose long, white beard fell to his girdle, and four of his wives. Following them came a train of attendants, all prisoners, and all sharing their master’s sorrows and mischances. The heavy gateway closed upon the new guests, and the inhabitants of Amboise, somewhat awe-struck and impressed with pity, returned mournfully to their respective domiciles, no doubt thanking Heaven that they were denizens of free and happy France, generous, valiant, honorable and victorious!—alas, how long to remain so! From that time a new amusement was provided for the pleasure-loving natives of the pretty but dreary old town, which still wears the characteristics of the past in its acutely pointed roofs, crowned with quaint belfrys, its arches spanning the streets, its antique chapel of St. Florentin, its _palais de justice_ transformed into a barrack, and its little Château du Clos-Lucet, where, tradition says, Leonardo da Vinci, the great painter, passed the last years of his long life, and where he died. Many a summer evening was henceforth spent by the citizens on the bridge, their pastime being to gaze curiously up toward the walls and windows of the castle; for, wandering along the terraces, which hang in mid air, might then be frequently seen, like a gliding spectre, the majestic form of an Arab, wrapped in a white _burnous_, with solemn steps pacing to and fro, unobservant and indifferent to the curiosity which he excited.