Suddenly a cry escaped me, when, half-stifled in snow, I sank to the armpits--yea, to the very neck, struggling and floundering like a drowning man. In fact, I had tumbled into the dry ditch of the schloss, which was nearly filled with drifted snow, and across which I scrambled with great difficulty towards the light. Thrice I nearly surrendered altogether, before, panting, breathless, and chilled to the heart's core, I reached a kind of terrace, approached the window, and peeped in. Between tapestry hangings and white curtains of Mechlin lace, there could be seen a cosy little room, lined with dark brown wainscot, the varnished panels of which shone in the light of a cheerful fire. Drapery also of Mechlin lace overhung an elegant bed, a handsome mirror, and toilet-table, on which were placed four tall candles in solid stands of mahogany and silver. There were one or two ebony Dutch cabinets, on which stood rare Japan canisters, quaint Chinese figures, an ormolu clock, and various pretty _bijouterie_, and there reigned within a sense of warmth, perfume, and comfort, that reached even to my chilly post without the casement. But now, through the large pattern of the Mechlin lace hangings, I could discern two female figures near the fireplace; they were each kneeling at a carved oak _prie-dieu_, saying their prayers and warming themselves at the same time, thus combining their comfort with their piety. By her dress, and the contour of her head and shoulders, one appeared to be a lady; the other an attendant. Benumbed to agony, I felt dreamy, bewildered, and knew not what to do; sleep seemed to be stealing over my senses. What if all I saw was an illusion, and these two fair ones were but Lurlies, like those who haunted the Lurliberg? What if the whole affair proved a dream, from which I should waken, if I ever woke at all, to find myself amid the snow-clad ruins of some old haunted schloss beside the Lahn?--for such is the plot of many a German story. But when they rose from prayer I was quickly undeceived, and a cry almost escaped me on recognising Jacqueline de Broglie and her pretty attendant, the waggish Angelique! Some minutes elapsed before I could sufficiently master my emotions to enable me to observe them particularly. Both seemed almost as unchanged as when we were together in the old château, especially Madame Tricot, the pretty piquante and black-eyed Bretonne. (Ah, she had soon tired of her M. Jacquot, who perhaps had given himself too many airs on becoming coachman to the coadjutor Bishop of Paris.) And she was here now with her former mistress (and mine too) in Germany, the land of the Seven Years' War.