In the meantime Henri de Talmont, who had hitherto taken no part in the scene, walked boldly up to the prisoner. He held in his hand a fine white cambric handkerchief, which he wound carefully about the wounded arm. “As you love your Czar,” he said gently, “so we Royalists in France loved our King.” The words, of course, fell meaningless upon the ear of Michael; but the tones in which they were uttered, and the action which accompanied them, were abundantly intelligible. The eyes of the Russian serf and the French gentleman met with a look of comprehension and sympathy. “Shall we let him go?” Seppel asked at length. “What say you, mes enfants?” There was now not one dissentient voice, and Seppel turned to the interpreter. “Tell him, Pole, that we Frenchmen know how to respect a brave enemy. He is free.” Michael heard, bowed his head gravely in acknowledgment, took up the sacred picture with his remaining hand, and walked slowly out. He scarcely noticed the ringing cheer which the excitable Frenchmen sent after him. Their applause was nothing to him: it could not bring back the young life of his betrothed, flowing forth so quickly through the wound their guns had made last night. Enough if he might but be in time to see her once again, and to comfort her dying moments with the treasure he had risked so much to procure. When he was gone, Seppel stretched his limbs once more before the stove, and said half to himself with a meditative air, “After all, I begin to doubt whether we shall succeed so easily in conquering these Russians.” CHAPTER XIII. SERF AND BOYAR. “Vengeance, deep brooding o’er the slain, Had locked the source of softer woe; And burning pride and high disdain Forbade the rising tear to flow.” It was evening. Ivan Pojarsky sat alone in the saloon of the Wertsch family mansion. The costly furniture with which it was strewn had that indescribable air of neglect and forlornness which household goods assume when death, or sorrow deep as death, broods over their owners. There was disorder too: chairs had been dragged carelessly about, and their rich and delicate coverings soiled and crumpled; while a beautiful climbing plant, laden with rare flowers, lay unheeded on the floor beside the broken shaft that had been its support. A costly buhl table near Ivan’s chair had the remains of his last meal upon it.