"Possibly, then, you may have met with the English favourite of the Czar
of whom I hear in my retreat that men have lately spoken somewhat
largely?" The Hermit paused again. We were now in a long, low passage,
almost in darkness. I scarcely saw him, yet I heard a convulsed
movement in his throat before he uttered the remainder of the sentence.
"He is called the Count Devereux."

"Father," said I, calmly, "I have both seen and known the man."

"Ha!" said the Hermit, and he leaned for a moment against the wall;
"known him--and--how--how--I mean, where is he at this present time?"

"That, Father, is a difficult question respecting one who has led so
active a life. He was ambassador at the court of ------ just before I
left it."

We had now passed the passage and gained a room of tolerable size; an
iron lamp burned within, and afforded a sufficient but somewhat dim
light. The Hermit, as I concluded my reply, sank down on a long stone
bench, beside a table of the same substance, and leaning his face on his
hand, so that the long, large sleeve he wore perfectly concealed his
features, said, "Pardon me; my breath is short, and my frame weak; I am
quite exhausted, but will speak to you more anon."

I uttered a short answer, and drew a small wooden stool within a few
feet of the Hermit's seat. After a brief silence he rose, placed wine,
bread, and preserved fruits before me and bade me eat. I seemed to
comply with his request, and the apparent diversion of my attention from
himself somewhat relieved the embarrassment under which he evidently