Grey morning came and the great-coated guard got under arms. The chevalier was unchained from the tree and marched to a secluded spot, where his grave, which the pioneers of the 51st had dug overnight, yawned in the damp mould among the bright green grass, he walked calmly round it and looked down with all the curiosity of an amateur or mere spectator. He then stood erect opposite the provost-marshal's guard, with a scornful smile and with folded arms. "I thank you, M. le Prevot," said he, smiling gaily; "all is as it should be--'tis just my length; five feet ten inches." The guard, or firing party, which was composed of twenty men of the 61st, were confounded, and, perhaps, disgusted by his unparalleled coolness. He declined to have his eyes bound up. "Make ready!" said the provost-marshal, and his guard cocked their arms at the _recover_, according to the position of those days. "_Pardonnes moi_," said the unmoved chevalier; "I have a little request to make of you, M. le Prevot." "What is it, sir?" "Don't bury that devil of a friar near me." "You mean your victim?" "_Peste!_ so you name an avaricious monk, who wanted fifty thousand francs all to himself." "Your chaplain." "Yes--so don't bury him near me, I say." "Why, chevalier?" "He might trouble me in the night, for he has been a worse fellow in life than I, and is not likely to sleep so sound in that dark hole as poor Jules de Coeurdefer; so now with your permission, I shall end this scene myself. Once more, _soldats, appretez-vous armes_!" The muskets were levelled at him, and steadily he looked at the twenty iron tubes before him. "_Joue!_" he added rapidly, "FEU!" The report of twenty muskets rang sharply on the still morning air, and pierced by eleven bullets the chevalier fell dead. His body, shattered and covered by the blood that spouted from his wounds, was lowered, while warm, into the grave by the pioneers of the 51st; but before they covered it up, an officer stepped forward and took the cloak from his own shoulders to wrap up his miserable remains. He who performed this last act of kindness to the earthly tenement of the wild and reckless spirit that had fled, was Allan Robertson of "Ours," the _soi-disant_ Mousquetaire Gris. VII. THE LETTRE DE CACHET. In the ancient church of St. Germain de Prez, at Paris, is a stone which bears the following inscription in English:-- M.S. ADAM WHITE, OF WHITEHAUGH, MAJOR IN THE ROYAL REGIMENT OF SCOTTISH HIGH- LANDERS, 1789. R.I.P. On that stone, or rather on its inscription, the following legend, compiled from the traditions of the regiment, was written.