The high road was filled with soldiers and militia, the coach was forced to stop in many places to let the troops go by. At length, when they had taken another road towards the mountains, the journey could be continued without interruption. The doctor was very uneasy, and looked round on all sides, muttered to himself, and was alternately moved, and vexed. At last, when the country became rather solitary he ordered the carriage to stop, descended and assisted the wounded Conrad, as he had called him in the town, himself, from the coach box. "My poor, old friend!" exclaimed he embracing him with the greatest emotion: "How fares it with you? do you feel fatigued? come now inside here with me, and pardon all that I have been forced to do for your safety." "I am tolerably well, my kind, faithful friend," answered the Lord of Beauvais: "but render me one more loving service, that we may once more visit the ruins of my dwelling." Vila gave directions to the coachman, and they both ascended into the carriage. "But why will you make your heart still heavier?" commenced the doctor. "Come rather directly with me, that I may conduct you to the little rural asylum, in order to conceal you there until better times. For it is not to be thought of, that they will now be able to carry you over the frontiers in safety." "Oh my poor country!" sighed the Counsellor of Parliament: "men of probity must now seek hiding-places like criminals. I will only go once more to the great hall: an iron closet has perhaps been spared by the robbers and the flames, in it lies the portrait of my wife, which in the hurry, I forgot to pack up. It would be very painful to me to lose this dear remembrance." The sun had already set, and they were now approaching their native, well-known place. From the blackened walls, dense, smoky clouds were still rising, although the fire appeared extinguished. The carriage stopped, the travellers descended from it; a lantern was lighted, and the Counsellor could not avoid wondering at the difficulty he experienced in finding his way through the formerly so well-known mansion. Fallen beams reduced to cinders lay extinguished, and obstructed the entrance to the hall, ashes and rubbish filled the vast space, it was impossible to recognise any thing, the walls alone still indicated the former seat of happiness and peace. The lantern threw a pale wavering glimmer over the sad destruction, and while the father tremblingly felt about by its light for the closet, he thought he heard a voice in another apartment. As he listened more attentively, all was still; yet after a short interval, a deep, painful sigh was heard again, and then as if from a heavily oppressed bosom resounded these words: "Yes, my sinful fire has laid this dwelling in ashes, my wicked impetuosity has murdered the happiness of this beloved house."