"Well, sir, I reckon he be madder than a March hare. Nigh to bust hisself, and hot as pepper. Would ha’ slashed me, man o’ peace as I be, if ’tweren’t for half a dozen Dutch coofs wi’ pitchforks and other articles o’ warfare drawn up below, wi’ the young lady at their head. Ay, she be a warrior bold, sure enough: I never seed such a piece of female manliness all my life long. ’Twas with a flashen eye and a pink rose on each pretty cheek her stood and ordered ’em out. Ay, an uncommon upstanden piece o’ womankind her be, to be sure." Harry was glad that Madame de Vaudrey’s ignorance of English could not fathom this plain-spoken tribute to her daughter’s charms. "They are really gone, then?" he said. "Why, yes, both on ’em; the long beetle chap as well. He be a next-door neighbour, it seems, and a mighty unpleasant neighbour he must be.—Thank ’ee kindly, mum," he added, as Madame de Vaudrey offered him a glass of wine, "but if ’ee don’t mind, I’d rather wet my whistle with a mug of beer in the kitchen." The lady smiled when this was interpreted. "You English are like the Hollanders in that," she said. "Certainly. Jean, take the brave man to the kitchen and treat him well." Sherebiah pulled his forelock and departed with alacrity. "We must shortly be going on our way, Madame," said Harry. "I have a convoy of provisions for the garrison at Breda, and my wagoners are even now growing impatient, I doubt not." "But, Monsieur, I cannot hear of it. You cannot reach Breda to-night; and suppose those odious men return? You must be tired. Do me the favour to stay here for the night; and we can find a bed for your man also." "But the wagons?" "Let them go on to the village; it is but half a league away. They can remain at the inn there. Monsieur, I insist; and besides, I have to write a letter of thanks to my friend Mynheer Grootz." Harry had no reason for refusing an invitation so cordial. Madame de Vaudrey beamed when he accepted, and, begging to be excused, went off to make arrangements with her servants. Left to himself, Harry looked round the room. It was richly furnished; the tables, cabinets, and chairs were of French make, in highly polished rose-wood; chairs and sofas were covered with crimson velvet, and two cabinets were filled with beautiful porcelain and Dutch china. The pictures upon the walls were all French, except one—a portrait, evidently by a Dutch hand and of a comparatively recent date. It represented a man’s head, with dark complexion and wistful melancholy eyes. Harry was attracted to it by a slight resemblance to his father; not in the features, which were quite unlike, but in the curious sadness of the expression. His thoughts were carried back to his old home at Winton St. Mary, and the quiet life with his father there; a mist came before his eyes, and he fell into a reverie, standing thus before the picture.