something like remorse in Roland's breast. Then he rejoined the young
officer and returned the three letters which had been intrusted
to him.

He found Roland leaning pensively on a table. Without saying
a word the Englishman laid the three letters before him. The
young man cast his eyes over the addresses, took the one destined
for his mother, unsealed it and read it over. As he read, great
tears rolled down his cheeks. Sir John gazed wonderingly at this
new phase of Roland's character. He had thought everything possible
to this many-sided nature except those tears which fell silently
from his eyes.

Shaking his head and paying not the least attention to Sir John's
presence, Roland murmured:

"Poor mother! she would have wept. Perhaps it is better so. Mothers
were not made to weep for their children!"

He tore up the letters he had written to his mother, his sister,
and General Bonaparte, mechanically burning the fragments with
the utmost care. Then ringing for the chambermaid, he asked:

"When must my letters be in the post?"

"Half-past six," replied she. "You have only a few minutes more."

"Just wait then."

And taking a pen he wrote: