and tell my honest coachman, Andre, not to disturb me, and dream of an
angel. The carriage at last stops at the chateau. It is so dark that
when I alight I do not recognize the face of the footman who holds the
carriage door. But what of that?--PESTE! I am heavy with sleep. The same
obscurity also hides the old familiar indecencies of the statues on the
terrace; but there is a door, and it opens and shuts behind me smartly.
Then I find myself in a trap, in the presence of the brigand who has
quietly gagged poor Andre and conducted the carriage thither. There
is nothing for me to do, as a gallant French Marquis, but to say,
"PARBLEU!" draw my rapier, and die valorously! I am found a week or two
after outside a deserted cabaret near the barrier, with a hole through
my ruffled linen and my pockets stripped. No; on second thoughts, I
am rescued--rescued by the angel I have been dreaming of, who is the
assumed daughter of the brigand but the real daughter of an intimate
friend.

Looking from the window again, in the vain hope of distinguishing the
driver, I found my eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness. I
could see the distant horizon, defined by India-inky woods, relieving a
lighter sky. A few stars widely spaced in this picture glimmered sadly.
I noticed again the infinite depth of patient sorrow in their serene
faces; and I hope that the vandal who first applied the flippant
"twinkle" to them may not be driven melancholy-mad by their reproachful
eyes. I noticed again the mystic charm of space that imparts a sense
of individual solitude to each integer of the densest constellation,
involving the smallest star with immeasurable loneliness. Something of
this calm and solitude crept over me, and I dozed in my gloomy cavern.
When I awoke the full moon was rising. Seen from my window, it had an
indescribably unreal and theatrical effect. It was the full moon of
NORMA--that remarkable celestial phenomenon which rises so palpably to