The blind man spoke bitterly,--the desertion of his dog had touched him
to the core. Lucille wiped her eyes. "And does Monsieur travel then
alone?" said she; and looking at his face more attentively than she had
yet ventured to do, she saw that he was scarcely above two-and-twenty.
"His father, and his _mother_," she added, with an emphasis on the last
word, "are they not with him?"

"I am an orphan!" answered the stranger; "and I have neither brother nor
sister."

The desolate condition of the blind man quite melted Lucille; never had
she been so strongly affected. She felt a strange flutter at the heart,
a secret and earnest sympathy, that attracted her at once towards him.
She wished that Heaven had suffered her to be his sister!

The contrast between the youth and the form of the stranger, and the
affliction which took hope from the one and activity from the other,
increased the compassion he excited. His features were remarkably
regular, and had a certain nobleness in their outline; and his frame was
gracefully and firmly knit, though he moved cautiously and with no
cheerful step.

They had now passed into a narrow street leading towards the hotel, when
they heard behind them the clatter of hoofs; and Lucille, looking hastily
back, saw that a troop of the Belgian horse was passing through the town.

She drew her charge close by the wall, and trembling with fear for him,
she stationed herself by his side. The troop passed at a full trot
through the street; and at the sound of their clanging arms, and the
ringing hoofs of their heavy chargers, Lucille might have seen, had she