appearance of being received early in the action. He would n't tell us his name, or anything about his friends, for he wished to have written to them; the only words he ever uttered were a faint attempt at 'Hurrah for the Emperor!'” “And this a Hungarian?” said D'Esmonde, in surprise. “He might have been a Pole, or a Wallach, for anything I know; but he was a hussar, and as gallant a fellow as ever I saw.” “What was the uniform, my Lord?” asked the Abbé. “Light blue, with a green chako,--they call them the regiment of Prince Paul of Wurtemberg.” “Tell me his probable age, my Lord; and something of his appearance generally,” said D'Esmonde, with increasing earnestness. “His age I should guess to be two or three and twenty,--not more, certainly, and possibly even less than that In height he is taller than I, but slighter. As to face, even with all his scars and bruises, he looked a handsome fellow, and had a clear blue eye that might have become an Englishman.” “You did not hear him speak?” asked the priest, with heightening curiosity. “Except the few words I have mentioned, he never uttered a syllable. We learned that he had broken his arrest from one of his comrades; but the fellow, seeing our anxiety to hear more, immediately grew reserved, and would tell us nothing. I merely allude to the circumstance to show that the disaffection we trust to amongst the Hungarians is not universal; and even when they falter in their allegiance to the State, by some strange contradiction they preserve their loyalty to the 'Kaiser.'” “I wish I could learn more about your prisoner, my Lord,” said the Abbé, thoughtfully. “The story has interested me deeply.” “Midchekoff can, perhaps, tell you something, then, for he saw him later than I did. He accompanied the Duke of Genoa in an inspection of the prisoners just before we left the camp.” “And you said that he had a fair and Saxon-looking face?” said the Abbé. “Faith, I 've told you all that I know of him,” said Norwood, impatiently. “He was a brave soldier, and with ten thousand like him on our side I 'd feel far more at my ease for the result of this campaign than with the aid of those splendid squadrons they call the 'Speranza d' Italia'.” “And the Crociati, my Lord, what are _they_ like?” said Morlache, smiling. “A horde of robbers; a set of cowardly rascals who have only courage for cruelty; the outpourings of jails and offcasts of convents; degraded friars and escaped galley-slaves.” “My Lord, my Lord!” interrupted Morlache, suppressing his laughter with difficulty, and enjoying to the full this torrent of indignant anger. “You are surely not describing faithfully the soldiers of the Pope,--the warriors whose banners have been blessed by the Holy Father?” “Ask their General, Ferrari, whom they have three times attempted to murder. Ask _him_ their character,” said Norwood, passionately, “if D'Esmonde himself will not tell you.”