was ushered into the Hall of the chateau, and the fires soon crackled
and blazed to cheer herself and her train; and every spit and stewpan
was put in requisition to prepare ample refreshments for the wayfarers.

"She had a right to our hospitalities," continued the little Marquis,
drawing himself up with a slight degree of stateliness, "for she was
related to our family. I'll tell you how it was: Her father, Henry de
Bourbon, Prince of Condé--"

"But did the Duchess pass the night in the chateau?" said my uncle
rather abruptly, terrified at the idea of getting involved in one of
the Marquis's genealogical discussions.

"Oh, as to the Duchess, she was put into the apartment you occupied
last night; which, at that time, was a kind of state apartment. Her
followers were quartered in the chambers opening upon the neighboring
corridor, and her favorite page slept in an adjoining closet. Up and
down the corridor walked the great chasseur, who had announced her
arrival, and who acted as a kind of sentinel or guard. He was a dark,
stern, powerful-looking fellow, and as the light of a lamp in the
corridor fell upon his deeply-marked face and sinewy form, he seemed
capable of defending the castle with his single arm.

"It was a rough, rude night; about this time of the
year.--_Apropos_--now I think of it, last night was the anniversary of
her visit. I may well remember the precise date, for it was a night not
to be forgotten by our house. There is a singular tradition concerning
it in our family." Here the Marquis hesitated, and a cloud seemed to
gather about his bushy eyebrows. "There is a tradition--that a strange
occurrence took place that night--a strange, mysterious, inexplicable