By this time the three were mounted. Dick at once recognized the robust but surly-looking young man on the right as the arrogant talker of the beefsteak house, and the rather slight but good-looking and well-mannered youth on the left as one of the other's companions there. The lady between the two was partly concealed from Dick's view by the English officer, until with a crack of the driver's whip the stage-coach pulled out, when, by looking back, he had a full sight of her. The sight caused his lips to part and himself to throw all his consciousness into his eyes alone. Catherine de St. Valier, daughter of a younger branch of the noble French Canadian family of that name, was then in her seventeenth year, tall and well developed for her age, in carriage erect without stiffness, her face oval in shape with chin full but not too sharp or too strong, nose straight and delicate, dainty ears, forehead about whose sides hair of dark brown fell in curves but left the middle uncovered, brows finely arched and high above the eyes, which were of a piercing black and never too wide open, full red lips, complexion pale but clear, with a very faint touch of red in each cheek, her countenance dignified and made doubly interesting by a slight frown ever present save when she smiled, which was rarely and then naturally and with no gush of overpowering sweetness. The slightly thrown-back attitude of her head was no affectation, but was a family characteristic, possessed also by her brother. "What is it, lad?" whispered MacAlister, catching Dick's arm. "Sure, ye'll be leaving that head of yours behind ye in the road if ye bean't carefu'!" "Sure," Dick murmured, as he drew his head in, "I think I've left this heart of mine back yonder under the sign of the George." Tom gave a low whistle. "Weel, weel," he then said, "it 'ull soon catch up, for this Flying Machine, as they call it, is no match for them Virginia pacers the Canadian folk is mounted on." This prediction was soon fulfilled. Ere the stage-coach had passed the outskirts of the city, a little above Vine Street, the three riders had cantered by at a gait that promised soon to take them far ahead. "Nay, don't be cast down," quoth Tom. "We're like to run across them on the journey, and they'll have to wait in New York for their baggage, which goes by wagon. I mind now, frae the gentlemen's talk, they'll go up the Hudson by sloop till Albany, then by horse again to Montreal, and then by the St. Lawrence to Quebec. What a pity they don't be bound for Boston,--eh, lad! But whist, Dickie! The sea do be full of good fish, and it's mony a sonsie face ye'll be drawing deep breaths about, now ye're over the hills and far away,--and ganging furder every turn of the coach-wheels." CHAPTER IV. OF A BROKEN SABBATH AND BROKEN HEADS.