"Ah! but that is all one to me; it is ever the blood and not the name
that counts, my friend. Now I am French by many a generation, Gascon
by birth, and bearing commission in the Guard of the Emperor; yet
sooth, 't is the single accursed drop of Irish blood within my veins
that brings me across the great seas and maroons me in this howling
wilderness. But sit down, Monsieur. There will be both food and wine
served presently, and I would speak with you more at ease."

As he spoke he flung himself upon a low settee, carelessly motioning me
toward another.

"On my word," he said, eying me closely as I crossed over to the bench,
"but you are a big fellow for your years, and 't is strength, not
flabby flesh, or I know not how to judge. You would make a fine figure
of a soldier, John Wayland. Napoleon perchance might offer you a
marshal's baton, just to see you in the uniform. _Parbleu_! I have
seen stranger things happen."

"You are now connected with the French army?" I questioned, wondering
what could have brought him to this remote spot.

"Ay, a Captain of the Guard, yet an exile, banished from the court on
account of my sins. _Sacre_! but there are others, Monsieur. I have
but one fault, my friend,--grave enough, I admit, yet but one, upon my
honor, and even that is largely caused by that drop of Irish blood. I
love the ladies over-well, I sometimes fear; and once I dared to look
too high for favor."

"And have you stopped here long?"