cloth and utensils necessary for the repast. These he arranged with
great neatness, and awaited in patience the moment of participation in
the feast.

The hour of five had struck before Savarin and Frederio entered the
salon; and at their sight De Breze dashed to the staircase and called out
to the concierge to serve the dinner.

Frederic, though unconscious of the Thyestean nature of the banquet,
still looked round for the dog; and, not perceiving him, began to call
out, "Fox! Fox! where hast thou hidden thyself?"

"Tranquillise yourself," said De Breze. "Do not suppose that I have not
. . . ."

NOTE BY THE AUTHOR'S SON.--[See also Prefatory Note]--The hand that wrote
thus far has left unwritten the last scene of the tragedy of poor Fox.
In the deep where Prospero has dropped his wand are now irrevocably
buried the humour and the pathos of this cynophagous banquet. One detail
of it, however, which the author imparted to his son, may here be faintly
indicated. Let the sympathising reader recognise all that is dramatic in
the conflict between hunger and affection; let him recall to mind the
lachrymose loving-kindness of his own post-prandial emotions after
blissfully breaking some fast, less mercilessly prolonged, we will hope,
than that of these besieged banqueters, and then, though unaided by the
fancy which conceived so quaint a situation, he may perhaps imagine what
tearful tenderness would fill the eyes of the kind-hearted Frederic, as
they contemplate the well-picked bones of his sacrificed favourite on the
plate before him; which he pushes away, sighing, "Ah, poor Fox! how he
would have enjoyed those bones!"