He found Sir John sitting before an English breakfast, a thing rarely seen in those days, drinking large cups of tea and eating bloody chops. As soon as the Englishman saw Roland he gave a cry of joy and ran to meet him. Roland himself had acquired a deep affection for that exceptional nature, where the noblest qualities of the heart seemed striving to hide themselves beneath national eccentricities. Sir John was pale and thin, but in other respects he was well. His wound had completely healed, and except for a slight oppression, which was diminishing daily and would soon disappear altogether, he had almost recovered his former health. He now welcomed Roland with a tenderness scarcely to be expected from that reserved nature, declaring that the joy he felt in seeing him again was all he wanted for his complete recovery. He begged Roland to share the meal, telling him to order his own breakfast, a la Française. Roland accepted. Like all soldiers who had fought the hard wars of the Revolution, when bread was often lacking, Roland cared little for what he ate; he had acquired the habit of eating whatever was put before him as a precaution against the days when there might be nothing at all. Sir John’s attention in asking him to make a French breakfast was scarcely noticed by him at all. But what Roland did notice was Sir John’s preoccupation of mind. It was evident that Sir John had something on his lips which he hesitated to utter. Roland thought he had better help him. So, when breakfast was nearly over, Roland, with his usual frankness, which almost bordered upon brutality at times, leaned his elbows on the table, settled his chin in his hands, and said: “Well, my dear Sir John, you have something to say to your friend Roland that you don’t dare put into words.” Sir John started, and, from pale as he was, turned crimson. “Confound it!” continued Roland, “it must be hard to get out; but, Sir John, if you have many things to ask me, I know but few that I have the right to refuse you. So, go on; I am listening.” And Roland closed his eyes as if to concentrate all his attention on what Sir John was about to say. But the matter was evidently, from Sir John’s point of view, so extremely difficult to make known, that at the end of a dozen seconds, finding that Sir John was still silent, Roland opened his eyes. The Englishman was pale again; but this time he was paler than before. Roland held out his hand to him. “Why,” he said, “I see you want to make some compliment about the way you were treated at the Château des Noires-Fontaines.” “Precisely, my friend; for the happiness or misery of my life will date from my sojourn at the château.” Roland looked fixedly at Sir John. “The deuce!” he exclaimed, “can I be so fortunate--” Then he stopped, remembering that what he was about to say was most unconventional from the social point of view. “Oh!” exclaimed Sir John, “my dear Roland, finish what you were saying.” “You wish it?”