"What young lady?" said Percival stiffly. He knew perfectly well, and Hammond knew that he knew. "Miss Lisle." "No, I hadn't heard. Who is he?" "The happy man? Lord Scarbrook's eldest son." "Who told you?" "You are incredulous, but I fear I can't soften the blow. The man who told me heard Lisle talking about it." "There's no blow to soften," said Percival, "I assure you I don't feel it." "Ah," said Hammond, "there was once a man who didn't know that his head had been cut off till he sneezed--wasn't there? Take great care of yourself, Percival." And nodding a second farewell Godfrey left him, and Percival went on his way through that curiously shrunken world. And, after all, the blow was premature. Mr. Lisle had only talked of a probability which he earnestly hoped would be realized. But Percival did not doubt it. He tried to analyze his feelings as he walked away. He had known but little of Judith Lisle, but when first he saw her face he felt that the vague dream which till then had approached, only to elude him, in clouds, in fire, in poems, in flowers, in music, had taken human shape and looked at him out of her gray eyes. Percival had no certain assurance that she _was_ his ideal, but from that time forward he pictured his ideal in her guise. He did not dream of winning her. Mr. Lisle had boasted to him one evening, as they sat over their wine, of all that he meant to do for his daughter, and of the great match he hoped she would make. Percival had a feeling of peculiar loyalty to Mr. Lisle as the friend whom his dead father had trusted most of all. He could not think of Judith, for he could never be a fit husband for her in Mr. Lisle's eyes. Had he been heir to Brackenhill--But he was not. So he acquiesced, patiently enough. He did not attempt to do anything. What was there to do? By the time that he had struggled through the crowd and got his foot on the first round of that ladder which _may_ lead to fortune, Judith would probably be married. He did not even know certainly that she was the woman he wanted to win. Why should he force the lazy stream of his existence into a rough and stony channel that he might have a chance--infinitesimally small--of winning her. Yet there were moments of exaltation when it seemed to him as if his acquiescence were tame and mean--as if his life would miss its crown unless he could attain to his ideal. At such moments he felt the stings of shame and ambition. Yet what could he do? The mood passed, and left him drifting onward as before. But now all thought of Judith Lisle was over. Even if she were in truth his ideal woman, it was certain that she was no longer within his reach. That haunting possibility was gone. All that it had ever done for him was to make him dissatisfied with himself from time to time, and yet he found himself regretting it. [TO BE CONTINUED.] CAPTURED BY COSSACKS. EXTRACTS FROM LETTERS OF A FRENCH OFFICER IN 1813.[B] [Illustration: COSSACKS AND FRENCH PRISONERS.]