"Not as the leaves die when the summer is over; for she was torn from me by the hands of the accursed Iroquois--my beloved Mary! After the lapse of one and twenty years, baron, her image, so noble, so gentle, and so womanly, fills up my past, as once it filled my future. I was taken prisoner, as you know, and joining the French army in sheer disgust of the British, whose conduct, under Webb, maddened me, I have attained in India the rank I now bear, and which I never could have won in the armies of the House of Hanover." "Stay--_peste!_ a sudden light breaks in upon me!" exclaimed the baron, smiting his forehead; "ah, _mon Dieu! mon Dieu!_ if it should be!" "What?" "Excuse me, messieurs, for one moment; a thought has struck me!" said the impulsive Frenchman, and rushing into the house, he returned in a few moments, bearing in his hands an antique oak casquet, in which he kept his commissions, his diplomas, orders of knighthood, and other objects of value; and, drawing therefrom the brooch which had been found upon the dress of Therese when a child, he placed it in the hands of the count. As Roderick MacGillivray, now M. le Comte d'Arcot, Governor of Pondicherry, Maréchal du Camp, and Colonel of the Regiment du Roi, a man grown old by war and thought and time, saw the ancient and well-known heirloom of his house--the marriage-brooch of the brides of Glenarrow--the same mystic symbol which, in youth, he had bestowed upon his wife, a sudden tremor came over him, and a flush and then a pallor crossed his wrinkled face. "_Lochmoy!_" he muttered in his native language, which he had so long unused; "_touch not the cat without the glove_. Oh my God! whence came this trinket, Beauchatel?" "I found it fastened to the dress of a newly-born babe in the forest near Lake George--a babe that lay on the breast of its dead mother, in the wigwam of an Iroquois, and on her finger was this ring, inscribed--" "Roderaick Ruodh MacGillibhreac--my own name, and my gift it was to Mary, the grand-daughter of the murdered MacIan of Glencoe," exclaimed MacGillivray, in an agonized voice, as his eyes filled with tears; "and you buried her--" "By my own hands, at the foot of a tree, which I marked with a cross--" "God bless thee, my brave and honest Beauchatel!" exclaimed Roderick. "And there she lies in peace." "But the babe, baron--the little babe?" "Therese--she stands before you." The veteran Comte d'Arcot opened his arms, and the pale and agitated girl found herself pressed to the breast of her newly-discovered father. * * * * Our readers may guess the sequel.