They are dreadful moments in life when men of high and daring courage see the trust they have long reposed in bold and vigorous measures rejected, and in its stead wily and crafty counsels adopted and followed. This was such a moment; and the old warriors, tried in many a battle-field, scarcely dared to meet each other's eyes, from very shame and sorrow. It was just then that the sharp, quick trot of horses was heard from without, and the jingling sound of bells announced a post-carriage. Scarcely had it stopped, when an aide-de-camp entered, and whispered a few words to the Field-Marshal. “No, no,” said the old man, peevishly; “we are marching on to dishonor fast enough. We want no priestly aid to hasten our steps.” The young officer appeared to hesitate, and still lingered in the chamber. “It is your friend, the Abbé, has arrived,” said the General, addressing the Commissioner; “and I have said we can dispense with his arguments. He can add little to what you have so ably spoken; and if we are to depose our arms, let it be at the bidding of our Emperor, and not at the beck of a priest.” “But D'Esmonde must have come from the south,” interposed the civilian; “he may have some tidings worth hearing.” “Let him come in, then,” said the Field-Marshal, abruptly; and the officer retired. D'Esmonde had scarcely passed the threshold when his quick, keen glance around the room revealed to him the nature of their gloomy counsels. A dogged look of submission sat on every face, and the wily priest read in their fallen countenances all the bitterness of defeat. The stern coldness of the reception that met him never abashed the Abbé in the least; and he made his compliments to the principal personages of the council with a _suave_ dignity the very opposite to their uncourteous manner. Even when he had completed the little circle of his attentions, and stood in expectation of a request to be seated, his air was calm and unembarrassed, although not a word, or even a gesture, gave the invitation. All felt that this should come from the Field-Marshal himself, and none dared to usurp the prerogative of his rank. Too deeply lost in his own brooding thoughts to attend to anything else, the old General sat still, with his head bent down over the hilt of his sabre. “His Holiness commissions me to greet you, Herr Feld-Marshal,” said the Abbé, in a low, soft voice, “and to say that those ancient medals you once spoke of shall be speedily transmitted to your palace at Milan.” “My palace at Milan, sir!” exclaimed the old man, fiercely. “When shall I see that city again? Ask that gentleman yonder, who has just arrived from Vienna, what the cabinet counsels are; he will tell you the glorious tidings that the army will read to-morrow in a general order!”