"I trust, Maurice, you will not be long a prisoner. ’Twas a sad blank in my life, my captivity. Faith! _mon camarade_, I almost shiver at remembrance of the castle of Edinburgh. You will remember me to Louis Chateaufleur and the rest of your regiment; and do so particularly to my own, should you ever fall in with them on service." He spoke now with more difficulty, and at longer intervals. "Glory to France, and long life to the great Emperor! I trust he will think Major D’Estouville has done his duty. Almarez I defended to the last; and, Maurice, had you not cut the pontoon, we might have effected our retreat. The emperor would have saved four hundred soldiers of his noble old Guard." "And your life, Victor." "A mere bagatelle! I lay it down in his service." "_Vive l’Empereur!_" cried some of his soldiers, who lay within hearing on their pallets of straw. The shout was taken up by many, and echoed through distant parts of the chapel. D’Estouville’s eye flashed brightly; he waved his hand as he would have brandished his sword, and, exhausted with speaking, and the emotions which the gallant battle-cry aroused within him, he again sank backwards, and by the spasms which crossed his pallid features, they saw too surely that the moment of death was nigh. Again rousing himself from his lethargy, he beckoned to Ronald, who knelt down beside him. "I would speak to you of Diane de Montmichel," he whispered, in tremulous and broken accents. "Her husband, Monsieur le Baron—de Clappourknuis—the letter I gave you at Truxillo; ah! _mon ami_, do you not understand me?" "Indeed I do not, D’Estouville." "The hand of the grim king of terrors is upon me; the sands of life are ebbing fast, and my voice will fail me soon. Monsieur le Baron—" "Is released from the castle of Albuquerque, and has passed over to the French lines. Think not of these, D’Estouville." "I—I would give you a message to Diane." "Alas! how can I ever deliver it?" "Find means, _croix Dieu!_" muttered he piteously. "Kneel closer to me. I depend on your honour, Monsieur Stuart. Diane—Diane—" "What of her? Say—say, ere it be too late!" But there was no reply. What the Frenchman would have said, expired on his lips, and he fell back speechless on the hard knapsack which formed his pillow. He never spoke again; but in a few minutes died, and without a struggle. *CHAPTER XIV.* *DE MESMAI.* "Ah, me! how mournful, wan, and slow, With arms reversed, the soldiers come; Dirge-sounding trumpets full of woe, And, sad to hear, the muffled drum!" _John Mayne._