There was one other present whom I could very well have spared--the Count de Bourgneuf--the stern young colonel, who eyed me steadily with a glance of a very mingled cast--at least, I thought so, for he was the husband of Jacqueline de Broglie. The Duke, her father, a venerable and stately soldier, who wore the uniform of a maréchal of France, but of a fashion somewhat old, and who had his hair profusely powdered, received me with a polite salute. The room in which we met was a vaulted chamber of the old castle. In a corner thereof stood a _cornette_, a standard peculiar to the French Light Cavalry, and from its pole there still hung the white silk scarf which was usually tied to these cornettes when the dragoons went into action, to render them conspicuous, so that they might be rallied round it; and this scarf had doubtless been there since the duke's own regiment had fled at a gallop from Minden. In a corner were embroidered the initials "J. de B." Had Jacqueline's fair fingers worked that scarf and standard? In another corner stood a pair of kettledrums and a few muskets. A table, whereon lay some maps of Germany by Herman Moll, several French newspapers--particularly the _Mercure_--the _Gazette de Bruxelles_; bundles of dispatches and writing materials stood near the arched Gothic fireplace. A few antique chairs were round it, and on these were seated two or three field-officers of the Regiment de Bretagne, Monjoy, the engineer, and the Comte de Bourgneuf, all in full uniform, powdered and aiguiletted, with their swords, sashes, and orders on. All these details I saw at a glance, and again my eyes rested on the benign face of the old Duc de Broglie, in whom, however, I failed to trace any resemblance to his daughter. At the door of the room stood a sentinel of the Volontaires de Clermont, with his musket "ordered" and bayonet fixed--the same fellow who had so violently possessed himself of my emerald ring. "Monsieur le prisonnier is an officer?" said the Duke, bowing again. "I have the honour," said I, while Bourgneuf eyed me superciliously through his eyeglass. "In the British service, as I see by your uniform." "The _Ecossais Gris_." "Bien!" said the Duke, smiling; "I remember some of them. Your rank?" "Cornet." "Ah--it is unfortunate to be taken thus, with a rank so junior; an old fellow like me might wish for a rest; but you--ah monsieur! you may be long a prisoner if this war continues." My heart sank at this remark, but I said, "I am not without hope of effecting an exchange." "You were taken prisoner at the bridge of the Lahn?" "Yes, monseigneur." "Your people blew it up, M. Monjoy says. How was it that they did so without permitting you to repass it?" "I know not, monseigneur," said I, for I would not own in that place that a British officer would act so basely as Shirley had done. The Duke repeated his question, but I simply bowed with the same answer. "What forces are there?" he inquired.