All at once the queen paused, and stepped back with a faint shriek. The shadow of a man fell across her path—the man himself stood in her way. The moon had just traveled through an amethystine cloud, and came out clear as crystal, illuminating that strange face, the bright blue eyes, the ivory forehead, and that long, white beard, which waved down the man’s bosom. “Lady,” he said, “you look kind and good; tell me how I can gain access to the daughter of Maria Theresa.” The voice was low and broken, but sweet with humility. There was nothing to fear from a man who spoke like that. “You speak of the queen?” said Marie Antoinette, with gentle dignity. “Yes, I speak of the queen; that fair, brave woman, whose mother, a saint in heaven, was once my friend.” “You have seen my mother?” cried Marie Antoinette, surprised out of all prudence. “Your mother? Oh! that I do not know. It was Maria Theresa, the good Empress of Austria, of whom I was speaking; and it is her child, the young queen of France, I wish to see.” “The young Queen of France! Alas! she is no longer young,” said Marie Antoinette, with a pathetic recollection of the silver threads that were creeping into her hair. The man shook his head, and lifted one hand to it with an air of bewilderment. “You mistake, lady; I saw her twice, and she was young and fair, like the lilies—so fair, so beautifully fair!” “Was that in Austria, old man?” “Yes, it was in Austria. She stood by the side of her mother, a grand, princely woman, dauntless as a lion—but I saw her tremble. It is awful to see such terror in the eyes of a brave woman; but it was there, and I had done it. Ah, me! there is a power beyond that of monarch’s—a fearful power. They wrested it from me—they wrested it from me; and I am only a poor, weak old man.” “Who are you? I cannot make out by the tones of your voice to what nation you belong; they carry the accent of no country with them that I can discern.” “That is because I have been born again; buried, you know, and risen from the grave.” Marie Antoinette looked anxiously about her. This was the talk of a madman. How had he come there? By what device could she escape him? “You cannot understand me,” persisted the man, plaintively. “You are afraid of a poor, helpless old man, who has but one wish in the world.” “And what is that?” inquired the queen, reassured by his meek earnestness. “To see Marie Antoinette, to take the serpent from her hand, and the curse from her destiny.” Again the queen recoiled; these words seemed to her the wild talk of a madman. “Can you tell me how to reach her, lady?” “That is impossible. The queen admits no strangers to her presence.” “Ah, me! and I am a stranger to every one now. They all seem afraid of the creature they have dragged up from his grave.” “Who are you?”