To him she seemed more lovely than before. He could readily understand that mother, who at the risk of life had been unwilling that this charming creature should profane her youth and beauty by serving as a mourner in a celebration of which Marat was the deity. He recalled that cold damp cell which he had lately visited, and shuddered at the thought that this delicate white ermine before his eyes had been imprisoned there, without sun or air, for six weeks. He looked at the throat, too long perhaps, but swan-like in its suppleness and graceful in its exaggeration, and he remembered that melancholy remark of the poor Princesse de Lamballe, as she felt her slender neck: “It will not give the executioner much trouble!” The thoughts which succeeded each other in Sir John’s mind gave to his face an expression so different from its customary aspect, that Madame de Montrevel could not refrain from asking what troubled him. He then told her of his visit to the prison, and Roland’s pious pilgrimage to the dungeon where his mother and sister had been incarcerated. Just as Sir John had concluded his tale, a view-halloo sounded without, and Roland entered, his hunting-horn in his hands. “My dear friend,” he cried, “thanks to my mother, we shall have a splendid hunt to-morrow.” “Thanks to me?” queried Madame de Montrevel. “How so?” added Sir John. “I left you to see about my dogs, didn’t I?” “You said so, at any rate.” “I had two excellent beasts, Barbichon and Ravaude, male and female.” “Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “are they dead?” “Well, yes; but just guess what this excellent mother of mine has done?” and, tilting Madame de Montrevel’s head, he kissed her on both cheeks. “She wouldn’t let them drown a single puppy because they were the dogs of my dogs; so the result is, that to-day the pups, grand-pups, and great-grand-pups of Barbichon and Ravaude are as numerous as the descendant of Ishmael. Instead of a pair of dogs, I have a whole pack, twenty-five beasts, all as black as moles with white paws, fire in their eyes and hearts, and a regiment of cornet-tails that would do you good to see.” And Roland sounded another halloo that brought his young brother to the scene. “Oh!” shouted the boy as he entered, “you are going hunting to-morrow, brother Roland. I’m going, too, I’m going, too!” “Good!” said Roland, “but do you know what we are going to hunt?” “No. All I know is that I’m going, too.” “We’re going to hunt a boar.” “Oh, joy!” cried the boy, clapping his little hands. “Are you crazy?” asked Madame de Montrevel, turning pale. “Why so, madame mother, if you please?” “Because boar hunts are very dangerous.” “Not so dangerous as hunting men. My brother got back safe from that, and so will I from the other.” “Roland,” cried Madame de Montrevel, while Amélie, lost in thought, took no part in the discussion, “Roland, make Edouard listen to reason. Tell him that he hasn’t got common-sense.”