apprentice to his lawyer, and sooner than submit to the rule of this
man--the evil genius of our family--I had taken flight. The companion of
my wanderings was Darby M'Keown, the piper, the cleverest and cunningest
of the agents of rebellion. Then I had met De Meudon, who had turned my
thoughts and ambitions into another channel.

My companion grew steadily worse.

"Take my pocket-book," he whispered; "there is a letter you'll give my
sister Marie. There are some five or six thousand francs--they are
yours; you must be a pupil at the Polytechnique at Paris. If it should
be your fortune to speak with General Bonaparte, say to him that when
Charles de Meudon was dying--in exile--with but one friend left--he held
his portrait to his lips, and, with his last breath, he kissed it."

A shivering ran through his limbs--a sigh--and all was still. He was
dead.

"Halloa, there!" said a voice. The door opened, and a sergeant entered.
"I have a warrant to arrest Captain de Meudon, a French officer who is
concealed here. Where is he?"

I pointed to the bed.

"I arrest you in the king's name!" said the sergeant, approaching.
"What----" He started back in horror. "He is dead!"

Then entered one I had seen before--Major Barton, the most pitiless of
the government's agents in suppressing insurrection.