CHAPTER XI.
A NIGHT OF SORROW.
"Louis! Louis!" He turned with a start at the sound of my voice, joy and bewilderment--and no wonder--in his countenance.

He had not supposed us to be within a hundred leagues of him.

And lo! here we were, knee to knee, hand meeting hand in a long grasp, while his eyes, to which tears sprang unbidden, dwelt on my face as though they could read in it the features of his sweetheart.

Some one had furnished him with a hat, and enabled him to put his dress in order, and wash his wound, which was very slight, and these changes had improved his appearance; so that the shadow of grief and despondency passing for a moment from him in the joy of seeing me, he looked once more his former self: as he had looked in the old days at Caylus on his return from hawking, or from some boyish escapade among the hills.

Only, alas! he wore no sword.
"And now tell me all," he cried, after his first exclamation of wonder had found vent.