Poor fellow! he must have been confused by the blinding snow, and unable to make his way against that terrible wind, turned aside and sat down under this tree, to wait until its violence should be spent; but he had not flesh enough on his bones to keep them warm, and must have been quickly frozen through and through.

He has starved himself more than ever lately, in hopes of producing a sensation at Paris, and he was thinner than any greyhound before.

Poor Matamore! thou art out of the way of all trouble now; no more blows, and kicks, and curses for thee, my friend, whether on or off the stage, and thou wilt be laughed at no more forever." "What shall we do about his body ?" interrupted the more practical tyrant.

"We cannot leave it here for dogs, and wolves, and birds of prey to devour--though indeed I almost doubt whether they would touch it, there is so little flesh upon his bones." "No, certainly, we cannot leave him here," Blazius replied; "he was a good and loyal comrade; he deserves better of us than that; we will not abandon him, poor Matamore! He is not heavy; you take his head and I will take his feet, and we will carry him to the chariot.

To-morrow morning we will bury him as decently as we can in some quiet, retired spot, where he will not be likely to be disturbed.