“They wanted lodgings for their masters, but I told them we had no room.” “And have you room, Donna Pollonia?” “Yes; but I didn’t choose to say so.” “Run, Pedro, run and tell those servants that there is plenty of room. Don’t you see, señora, that this is the best chance of preserving your house from pillage?” They returned--one a Prussian lad who spoke French very ill. The Captain’s hope that these fellow-lodgers would prove gentlemen lent him a feeling of security. Little Pedro was watching the motions of the two servants like a lynx. “Signore,” said he, “those two _diavoli_ are prying about into every hole and corner.” On this Aaron was sent to dig up the watch and money and bring the wine upstairs. Soon after in came Pedro, strutting with a most consequential air. “The French Captain, signore,” said he. There followed him a fine, military-looking figure, armed cap-à-pie, and covered with martial dust. He advanced to the bedside with a quick step. “I have had the misfortune, sir, to lose a limb,” said Boothby, “and I claim your protection.” “My protection!” he replied, putting out his hand. “Command my devoted services! The name of an Englishman in distress is sufficient to call forth our tenderest attention.” The Captain was a good deal affected by the kindness of his manner. Kindness can never be thoroughly felt unless it be greatly wanted. He begged he would visit him sometimes, and he promised to bring a friend. Señora Pollonia was charmed with M. de la Platière, who, with his young friend Captain Simon, often came in for a chat. Alas! they had to go away after a few days’ stay, but de la Platière wrote his name in chalk on the door, in the hope that it might discourage any plunderers. One day Boothby was suddenly aroused by the appearance in his room of an officer whom he had seen before, but did not much like. “Eh, Capitaine, comment ça va-t-il? Ça va mieux! Ha! bon!” Then he explained that the blade of his sword was broken. “As prisoner of war,” he said, “you will have no use for a sword. Give me yours, and, if you will, keep mine. Where is yours?” “It stands,” said Boothby, “in yonder corner. Take it by all means.” “Je vous laisserai la mienne,” he said, and hurried off. Boothby wished his sword in the Frenchman’s gizzard, he was so rough and rude. One afternoon Pedro rushed in, excited, and said: “The General himself is below, sir!” “Bring him up, Pedro.” Quickly he ushered in an officer of about the age of five-and-thirty. He was splendidly dressed, of an elegant person, his face beaming with good nature and intelligence. He came up to the bed, and without waiting for the form of salutation, seated himself in a chair close to the pillow, and laying his hand on Boothby’s arm, he said, in a mild and agreeable voice: “Ne vous dérangez, mon ami! Solely I am here to see if I can possibly lighten a little the weight of your misfortune. Tell me, can I be useful to you? Have you everything you want?”