“Well, blow me, if this ain’t a nice country to live in. Coming to look at our papers!” muttered Bill, “I wish we had the two lubbers on board the little Onyx—my eyes! wouldn’t I paper them; howsomever, I will take this basket to my room, I suppose I’m not expected to fast because those beggars are coming.” Bill very quietly made his way to his room, shut the door, bolted it, and then began to examine the contents of the basket. In the meantime, our hero was by no means easy in his mind respecting Bill’s rencontre with Monsieur Gramont; for on reflection it convinced him of two things—first, that the Frenchman doubted Bill’s being deaf and dumb; and secondly, he must have suspected him to be an Englishman. This train of reflection made him exceedingly uncomfortable; he had now not only his own safety to attend to, but the safety of one dearer to him than life. He was roused from his uncomfortable thoughts by seeing the great chestnut tree before him, a tree considered almost sacred by the peasantry, from its great age, and several remarkable historical events connected with it; but as those events belong to the traditionary history of Normandy, we will not interrupt the thread of our story by reciting them. On looking under the spreading branches, he perceived a young man in a sailor’s dress leaning against the huge trunk, but who immediately advanced towards him. Our hero looked at him with some surprise, for although vested in the attire of the French common sailor, there was an air of easy grace, and a gentlemanly bearing, that was noticeable at first sight. As the stranger halted close beside the lieutenant, there was a visible flush on his cheek as he said— “It will not do to waste words—Sir Oscar de Bracy.” The lieutenant started and gazed somewhat curiously into the features of the stranger, which appeared almost familiar to him, and being addressed in English, his surprise was the greater. “No doubt you are astonished,” continued the false Lebeau, “but I had better inform you who I am at once—I am Julian Arden.” “Heavens! is this possible?” exclaimed the astonished listener, grasping the speaker’s hand. “You Julian Arden, the lost and deeply-lamented brother of Mabel!” “Such in truth is the case,” returned Julian, warmly pressing the hand that held his. “I have no doubt of it,” interrupted the amazed lieutenant, “your features so resemble your sister’s; but, in the name of fate, how knew you me, or that I was here? There is joyful news in store for you—your mother and sister both live.” “Yes, yes,” returned the young man, “I know all that, and more than you imagine; perhaps, I have news also for you.” “Still, Julian,” said Lieutenant Thornton, addressing him as he would a brother, “you cannot surely know that Mabel is here, in the old château.”