“Ah!” said he, “and so my Achilles is not consoling himself exclusively with the Haemonian lyre, but has taken to that far more dangerous instrument the pen. The pen, my child, is the curse of youth. When we are young we use it for our undoing, and for the facture of regrets for after years--even if it be no more than the reading of our wives' letters that I'm told are a bitter revelation to the married man. And so--and so, Monsieur Croque-mort keeps up a correspondence with the lady. H'm!” He looked so curiously and inquiringly at me that I felt compelled to make an explanation. “It is quite true, Father Hamilton,” said I. “After all, you gave me so little clerkly work that I was bound to employ my pen somehow, and how better than with my countrywoman?” “'Tis none of my affair--perhaps,” he said, laying down the letter. “And yet I have a curiosity. Have we here the essential Mercury?” and he indicated Bernard who seemed to me to have a greater confusion than the discovery gave a cause for. “Bernard has been good enough,” said I. “You discover two Scots, Father Hamilton, in a somewhat sentimental situation. The lady did me the honour to be interested in my little travels, and I did my best to keep her informed.” He turned away as he had been shot, hiding his face, but I saw from his neck that he had grown as white as parchment. “What in the world have I done?” thinks I, and concluded that he was angry for my taking the liberty to use the dismissed servant as a go-between. In a moment or two he turned about again, eying me closely, and at last he put his hand upon my shoulder as a schoolmaster might do upon a boy's. “My good Paul,” said he, “how old are you?” “Twenty-one come Martinmas,” I said. “Expiscate! elucidate! 'Come Martinmas,'” says he, “and what does that mean? But no matter--twenty-one says my barbarian; sure 'tis a right young age, a very baby of an age, an age in frocks if one that has it has lived the best of his life with sheep and bullocks.” “Sir,” I said, indignant, “I was in very honest company among the same sheep and bullocks.” “Hush!” said he, and put up his hand, eying me with compassion and kindness. “If thou only knew it, lad, thou art due me a civil attention at the very least. Sure there is no harm in my mentioning that thou art mighty ingenuous for thy years. 'Tis the quality I would be the last to find fault with, but sometimes it has its inconveniences. And Bernard”--he turned to the Swiss who was still greatly disturbed--“Bernard is a somewhat older gentleman. Perhaps he will say--our good Bernard--if he was the person I have to thank for taking the sting out of the wasp, for extracting the bullet from my pistol? Ah! I see he is the veritable person. Adorable Bernard, let that stand to his credit!” Then Bernard fell trembling like a saugh tree, and protested he did but what he was told.