_Flor._ And a very natural conclusion it was, when a female remained silent, who had so excellent an opportunity of exercising her tongue. _Mon._ Well, Sir, presently _my_ turn came to approach her, when somehow my heart swelled quite painfully, to see the gracious image of our Maker degraded, and one's own fellow creature treated like the brutes of the field, so, that when I touched her, my tears started unawares and fell upon her trembling hand. Would you believe it, sir? the poor desolate statue felt the trickling drops, and reason was rekindled by the warmth of pity. Suddenly her eyes, so lately dull and vacant, flashed with recovered brightness. She cast herself at my feet--clasped my knees--and cried out, in tones that might have moved a heart of rock--"Angel of compassion! save me from disgrace?" All present started as if a miracle were worked. "Will you preserve me?" cried the suppliant. I was a widowed and a childless woman; in an instant I raised the forlorn one to my arms, as a companion, as an adopted daughter. Her keepers were ignorant men, but not cruel; their hearts were softened by the scene, and they yielded their claims to my entreaties. I led the unfortune to my dwelling; from that moment, she has shared my mat and partaken of my morsel. I love her with the affection of a real parent, and were I now to lose her, I think my heart would break upon the grave that robbed it of its darling. _Flor._ By heavens, I reverence your feelings! in truth 'tis a melancholy story. _Mon._ Yes, sir; and melancholy stories make people dry, so let me recommend another cup of wine. _Flor._ Madam, I can't refuse the challenge-- (_aside_) the old lady certainly designs to send me under the table. But pray, madam, have you never discovered the cause of that distress, from which you first relieved this suffering woman? _Mon._ Never. On the subject of her early adventures she remains inflexibly silent. I have often tried to win the secret from her, but though she is mild and rational enough upon all other themes, yet, let but a hint remind her of her former wretchedness, her wits directly start into disorder, and for whole hours, nay, sometimes days together, she remains a lunatic. I do not even know her name, but call her Silence, because her voice is heard so very rarely. I think her dejection has increased since we quitted Languedoc, for about two months since, a kinsman of mine died, and bequeathed me this cottage with some land here in Alsace; 'tis a lone house, and the thick woods about I fear remind my poor Silence too much of her former way of life, sometimes she wanders in them half the night. _Flo._ Are you not fearful of her safety? these woods are full of danger; within this half hour, I myself have encountered three ruffians lurking for their prey.