“We will wait until to-morrow,” they agreed among themselves, “and general or no general, he is a dead man if he lifts a finger to betray us.” Señor Hilo de Ladron, for his part, came to the conclusion, after this failure, that the French camp was no place for him, and communicated his views to his faithful Damon. “I’d like to have split his head open, he hadn’t so much as a cap on to save it,” he said to Wolfang, “and then we might have done as we pleased with the rest. But, hang it, you’re such a liar, the men only half believed the story from the first, and letting him talk upset their resolution altogether. It’s his turn now, and we must get out of this hornet’s nest before daylight.” “Where to go?” the captain asked. “If you are born to be drowned, you can stay behind, you wont be safe otherwise,” Hilo answered indifferently. “I’m for the mountains at first, and who knows but I may find it to my interest in the end to visit the marquis with the count for sponsor.” “Oh, if you keep such good company,” the captain returned, with a grotesque bow and grin showing his comprehension of Hilo’s plans, “I’m your excellency’s humble servant!” And in an hour’s time these fast friends had slipped through the line of sentries, scaled the breast-work, and sat down to wait for light a mile or two from camp. The impossibility of hearing ordinary discourse at that distance will cause the finale of this story to be very different from what it might have been under more favorable circumstances. For a herald, or courier, or valet, had just then arrived from the camp of the marquis, at the intrenchments, bringing a letter to the Commandant de Chaste, who presently sent through the village to find Don Hilo, as we all know now, without success. [_To be continued._ * * * * * CHARLOTTE CORDAY. BY MRS. ELIZABETH J. EAMES. “Among the victims put to death by Marat was a young man of noble and imposing mien, renowned for virtue and bravery, and said to be the betrothed of the martyred Charlotte Corday.” This clearly chiseled face— So full of tender beauty and meek thought— This head of classic grace, These delicate limbs, in sculptured pureness wrought, These fingers, fairy small, could _these_ belong to thee— Once merriest girl in France, the proud, the fond, the free? Methinks thy slender form Seems with a proud, commanding air to rise; And wondrous power to charm Dwells in the midnight of those thoughtful eyes: While on thy curved lip, and lofty marble brow Sitteth the high resolve, that suits thy purpose now!