"I shall be happy to be of any service to your Ladyship," began Finland, with his blandest smile, while raising to his well-moustachioed lip a little thimbleful of the new-fashioned beverage, which he cordially detested, but took for form's sake. "We are in great doubts whether Lysimachus was justified in running his falchion through poor Oleander, for merely desiring the charioteer of the beautiful princesses to drive faster. You will remember the passage. We all think it very cruel, and that no lover is entitled to be so outrageous." Douglas knew the pages of his muster-roll better than those of the romance in question, but he answered promptly: "I think Master Oleander was an impudent rascal, and well deserving a few inches of cold iron, or a sound truncheoning at the hands of the provost-marshal. I remember doing something of that kind myself about the time that old Mareschal de Crecqui was blocked up and taken in Treves." "Ay, Douglas, that was when we were with the column of the Moselle," said the Earl, who now approached and leaned on the back of the Countess's chair. "It was shortly after the brave Turenne had been killed by that unlucky cannonball that deprived France of her best chevalier. We were in full retreat across the river. Some ladies of the army were with us in a handsome calêche, as gay a one as ever rolled along the Parisian Boulevards. There was a devil of a press at the barrier gate of Montroyale, and an officer of the Regiment de Picardie was urging the horses of the vehicle to full speed by goading them with his half-pike, regardless of the cries of the ladies, when Finland, by one blow of his baton, unhorsed him, and some say he never marched more." "O! Mr. Douglas!" said the Countess, holding up her hands. "There was an old feud between us and the chevaliers de Picardie," continued the Earl; "but the worst of this malheur was, that the poor officer was the husband of one of the demoiselles in question; and as she was extremely handsome, and Finland, by becoming her very devoted serviteur, endeavoured, during the remainder of the campaign, to make every amends for the loss he had occasioned her; the gallants of the army said----" "Marry, come up! My Lord, dost take my boudoir for a tavern or a sutler's tent? Fie! Laird of Finland, you are worse than the Lysimachus of the romance. But what think you, Walter, of that hero becoming enamoured of the fair prisoner committed to his care, the Princess Parisatis? It would seem that in ancient times, as well as modern, that beauty must be a dangerous trust for a young soldier." The Earl laughed till he shook the perfume from his wig; Walter smiled, and stole one glance at Lilian. She, too, was smiling, and playing with her fan; but her long lashes were cast down, and her cheek was burning with blushes.