Little did Monsieur Plessis imagine that, as they shot past the Etoile, Bertram Gramont and Augustine Vadier were both, from the cabin windows, regarding all the motions of those on board the Ca-Ira. No sooner had the chasse-mare, with her party, proceeded a mile from the Etoile, than a fast rowing-boat, pulled by four oars, left the privateer, and with Augustine Vadier, his head bandaged, but his one eye keen and vengeful, seated in the stern-sheets, pulled quickly after the Ca-Ira, merely keeping her in sight. Mabel felt her spirits rise as they receded from the view of Havre, shut out by the head of the noble river, on whose placid surface the chasse-mare glided with scarcely a perceptible motion. “I feel,” said our fair heroine to Julia, as they sat together under the awning, gazing at the beautiful scenery on both sides of the wide river, “I feel such a lightness of heart now that we have lost sight of Havre. Do you know, I detest the sight of walled towns, frowning forts, with stern sentinels pacing gloomily backwards and forwards, seemingly engaged in nothing, and still ready to pounce upon any unwary intruder. It appears as if the inhabitants of those towns were prisoners, and shut out from all intercourse with those without; then the tiresome examination of papers and passports, as if every soul going in or out was suspected of something, annoys me.” Julia smiled, saying, “Custom, ma chere; but have you no walls to your towns in England?” “No, thank goodness! if I except the picturesque ivy-covered ruins of barbarous times, that you may yet get a glimpse of in some of our very old cities. In dear old England you may come and go into our cities and towns, and no one inquires whence you come or whither you go. The houses and cottages, gardens and fields, seem mingled together in happy liberty of situation, neither kept in by prescribed limits, or ruled by arbitrary restrictions.” “Well,” observed Julia, with a half-sigh, “I love France, with all its faults—faults of its rulers. Providence has bestowed upon it a fine climate, and beautiful scenery, not inferior to any other country, in my poor opinion—only marred by the ambition and sad acts of its sons.” “I trust, dear Julia,” returned Mabel, affectionately, “you do not too much regret the land we are about to leave.” “Oh, no, my sweet Mabel,” interrupted Julia, “it is a consolation that I carry my heart with me.” There was a slight increase of colour in her cheek as she said the words, for Mabel’s expressive eyes were fixed upon hers; “fortunately I am heart-whole,” she added, with a gay laugh; “for if I left a lover behind me it would be a sad thing.”