by a gentler sound, as his hollow tramp over the second drawbridge was succeeded by a gentler sound, as he overcame the stagnant ditches one by one, and passed out where the flowing waters were and where the moonlight, so the dark shades and the hollow sounds and the unwholesomely locked currents of his soul were vanquished and set free.  See to it, Vaubans of your own hearts, who gird them in with triple walls and ditches, and with bolt and chain and bar and lifted bridge,—­raze those fortifications, and lay them level with the all-absorbing dust, before the night cometh when no hand can work!

All went prosperously, and he got into an empty carriage in the train, where he could lay Bebelle on the seat over against him, as on a couch, and cover her from head to foot with his mantle.  He had just drawn himself up from perfecting this arrangement, and had just leaned back in his own seat contemplating it with great satisfaction, when he became aware of a curious appearance at the open carriage window,—­a ghostly little tin box floating up in the moonlight, and hovering there.

He leaned forward, and put out his head.  Down among the rails and wheels and ashes, Monsieur Mutuel, red ribbon and all!

“Excuse me, Monsieur The Englishman,” said Monsieur Mutuel, holding up his box at arm’s length, the carriage being so high and he so low; “but I shall reverence the little box for ever, if your so generous hand will take a pinch from it at parting.”

Mr. The Englishman reached out of the window before complying, and—­without asking the old fellow what business it was of his—­shook hands and said, “Adieu!  God bless you!”

“And, Mr. The Englishman, God bless you!” cried Madame Bouclet, who was also there among the rails and wheels and ashes.  “And God will bless you in the happiness of the protected child now with you.  And God will bless you in your own child at home.  And God will bless you in your own remembrances.  And this from me!”

He had barely time to catch a bouquet from her hand, when the train was flying through the night.  Round the paper that enfolded it was bravely written (doubtless by the nephew who held the pen of an Angel), “Homage to the friend of the friendless.”

“Not bad people, Bebelle!” said Mr. The Englishman, softly drawing the mantle a little from her sleeping face, that he might kiss it, “though they are so—­”

Too “sentimental” himself at the moment to be able to get out that word, he added nothing but a sob, and travelled for some miles, through the moonlight, with his hand before his eyes.

CHAPTER III—­HIS BROWN-PAPER PARCEL

My works are well known.  I am a young man in the Art line.  You have seen my works many a time, though it’s fifty thousand to one if you have seen me.  You say you don’t want to see me?  You say your interest is in my works, and not in me?  Don’t be too sure about that.  Stop a bit.