“Why, you little audacious! don’t you know, then, that this wine is never, _never_ exported; that it is tantamount to high treason, even if it be not high sacrilege, to send it out of Italy! Why this is the Pope’s own particular drink! How dared you? Where did you get it from? You perceive that I am asking you questions, Mademoiselle!” The girl laughed merrily, exclaiming— “Try it, Monsieur! try it! Try it, Madame.” “Not until you have told me where you got it! You perceive that I have no politeness; I persist in my questions, Mademoiselle.” “My father brought it from the Levant, when he came home from his last voyage, Monsieur,” said Barbara, laughing. “And of course every custom-house officer between there and here has drawn the cork, and inhaled the perfume?” “_Oh of course!_ and tasted the contents and smacked his lips over it—_of course they have!_” exclaimed Barbara, laughing gayly, and clapping her hands in glee. The luxurious little luncheon was discussed, and by the time they had finished, Louis brought the carriage around. Monsieur Henri handed his sister-in-law into the back seat, and placed himself beside her. Louis took the front seat, gathered up the reins, and prepared to drive on. Monsieur and Madame then took leave of their young hostess, and the carriage started. The road to Eastville lay through a thick pine woods, and the ride would have been a very pleasant one but for Madame’s anxious thoughts, that kept her silent, and threw a little gloom over the whole party. We know what Madame L’Orient’s intentions were in coming to the main land this day; namely, to obtain a writ of lunacy against her kind-hearted old host, and a power of guardianship over his person and property. But was ever a woman so unfortunate as herself? she asked. For no sooner had she brought this old man away from the island than his insanity seemed to have dropped from him, as a garment, and he spoke and acted as rationally as any one,—with no air à la Grand Monarque, no talk of crowns and sceptres, thrones and kingdoms; but with the gay and genial manners of an old French “good fellow.” What was the meaning of it? Was that delightsome island, an enchanted spot, that infected its owner with the proud madness of an imaginary monarchy? And was he at once, on quitting its shores, delivered from the spell. It really seemed so. On emerging from the pine woods, after an hour’s drive, they arrived at the little hamlet of Eastville, then a small cluster of houses, built around the court-house on the cross roads. They drove first to the village stores, that Madame might do her ostensible errand of shopping. And when this was over, and the little packages of linen, muslin, thread and needles, made up and put into the carriage, Madame and Monsieur re-entered, took their seats and drove to the court-house, where the court was in session and the judiciary officers all at their posts. Monsieur De L’Ile’s business there was simply to pay his taxes.