"By the head of Saint Patrick, but that was an escape!"

"Yes, indeed, the she-devil with six children, and 80 pounds a year; it's a wicked world this, O'Donahue. Well, I kept clear of such cunning articles, and only looked after youth and innocence in the city. At last I discovered the only daughter of a German sugar-baker in the Minories, a young thing about seventeen, but very little for her age. She went to a dancing-school, and I contrived, by bribing the maid, to carry on the affair most successfully, and she agreed to run away with me: everything was ready, the postchaise was at the corner of the street, she came with her bundle in her hand. I thrust it into the chaise, and was just tossing her in after it, when she cried out that she had forgotten something, and must go back for it; and away she went, slipping through my fingers. Well, I waited most impatiently for her appearance, and at last saw her coming; and what d'ye think she'd gone back for? By the powers, for her doll, which she held in her hand! And just as she came to the chaise, who should come round the corner but her father, who had walked from Mincing Lane. He caught my mincing Miss by the arm, with her doll and her bundle, and bundled her home, leaving me and the postchaise, looking like two fools. I never could see her again, or her confounded doll either."

"You have been out of luck, McShane."

"I'm not sure of that, as the affair has ended. Now comes another adventure, in which I turned the tables, anyhow. I fell in with a very pretty girl, the daughter of a lawyer in Chancery Lane, who was said to have, and (I paid a shilling at Doctors' Commons, and read the will) it was true enough, an independent fortune from her grandmother. She was always laughing full of mischief and practical jokes. She pretended to be pleased, the hussey, with my addresses, and at last she consented, as I thought, to run away with me. I imagined that I had clinched the business at last, when one dark night I handed her into a chaise, wrapped up in a cloak, and crying. However, I got her in, and away we went as if the devil was behind us. I coaxed her and soothed her, and promised to make her happy; but she still kept her handkerchief up to her eyes, and would not permit me a chaste salute—even pushed me away when I would put my arm round her waist; all which I ascribed to the extra shame and modesty which a woman feels when she is doing wrong. At last, when about fifteen miles from town, there was a burst of laughter, and 'I think we have gone far enough, Major McShane.' By all the saints in the calendar, it was her scamp of a brother that had taken her place. 'My young gentleman,' said I, 'I think you have not only gone far enough, but, as I shall prove to you, perhaps a little too far,' for I was in no fool of a passion. So I set to, beat him to a mummy, broke his nose, blackened both his eyes, and knocked half his teeth down his throat; and when he was half dead, I opened the chaise door as it whirled along, and kicked him out to take his chance of the wheels, or any other wheels which the wheel of fortune might turn up for him. So he went home and told his sister what a capital joke it was, I've no doubt. I'll be bound the young gentleman has never run away with an Irishman since that: however, I never heard any more about him, or his lovely sister."

"Now, then, for the wind up, McShane."

"Courting's very expensive, especially when you order postchaises for nothing at all, and I was very nearly at the end of my rhino; so I said to myself, 'McShane, you must retrench.' And I did so; instead of dining at the coffee-house, I determined to go to an eating-house, and walked into one in Holborn, where I sat down to a plate of good beef and potatoes, and a large lump of plum-pudding, paid 1 shilling and 6 pence, and never was better pleased in my life; so I went there again, and became a regular customer; and the girls who waited laughed with me, and the lady who kept the house was very gracious. Now, the lady was good-looking, but she was rather too fat; there was an amiable look about her, even when she was carving beef; and by degrees we became intimate, and I found her a very worthy creature, and as simple-minded as a child, although she could look sharp after her customers. It was, and is now, a most thriving establishment—nearly two hundred people dine there every day. I don't know how it was, but I suppose I first fell in love with her beef; and then with her fair self; and finding myself well received at all times, I one day, as she was carving a beefsteak-pie which might have tempted a king for its fragrance, put the question to her, as to how she would like to marry again. She blushed, and fixed her eyes down upon the hole she had made in the pie, and then I observed that if there was a hole in my side as big as there was in the pie before her, she would see her image in my heart. This pretty simile did the business for me, and in a month we were married; and I never shall want a dinner as long as I live, either for myself or friend. I will put you on the free list, O'Donahue, if you can condescend to a cook's shop: and I can assure you that I think I have done a very wise thing, for I don't want to present any wife at Court, and I have a very comfortable home."

"You have done a wise thing, in my opinion, McShane—you have a wife who makes money, instead of one who spends it."

"And, moreover, I have found my bargain better that I anticipated, which is seldom the case in this world of treachery and deceit. She has plenty of money, and is putting by more every year."

"Which you have the control of, at your disposition, do you mean to say?"

"Why, yes, I may say that now; but, O'Donahue, that is owing to my circumspection and delicacy. At first starting, I determined that she should not think that it was only her money that I wanted; so, after we were married, I continued to find myself, which, paying nothing for board and lodging and washing, I could easily do upon my half-pay; and I have done so ever since, until just now."

"I had not been married a week before I saw that she expected I would make inquiries into the state of her finances, but I would not. At last, finding that I would not enter into the business, she did, and told me that she had 17,000 pounds Consols laid by, and that the business was worth 1,000 pounds per annum (you may fish at Cheltenham a long while, O'Donahue, before you get such a haul as that). So I told her I was very glad she was well off, and then I pretended to go fast asleep, as I never interfered with her, and never asked for money. At last she didn't like it, and offered it to me; but I told her I had enough, and did not want it; since which she has been quite annoyed at my not spending money; and when I told her this morning that there was a brother officer of mine arrived in town, to whom I had owed some money for a long while, she insisted upon my taking money to pay it, put a pile of bank-notes in my had, and was quite mortified when she found I only wanted 20 pounds. Now you see, O'Donahue, I have done this from principle. She earns the money, and therefore she shall have the control of it as long as we are good friends; and upon my honour, I really think I love her better than I ever thought I could love any woman in the world for she has the temper, the kindness, and the charity of an angel, although not precisely the figure; but one can't have everything in this world; and so now you have the whole of my story, and what do you think of it?"

"You must present me to your wife, McShane."

"That I will with pleasure. She's like her rounds of beef—it's cut and come again; but her heart is a beauty, and so is her beefsteak-pie—when you taste it."



CHAPTER ELEVEN.

IN WHICH AN INTERCHANGE AND CONFIDENCE TAKE PLACE.

"And now, O'Donahue," said McShane, "if you are not yet tired of my company, I should like to hear what you have been doing since we parted: be quite as explicit, but not quite so long-winded, as myself; for I fear that I tired you."

"I will be quite as explicit, my good fellow; but I have no such marvellous adventures to relate, and not such a fortunate wind up. I have been to Bath, to Cheltenham, to Harrogate, to Brighton, and everywhere else where people meet, and people are met with, who would not meet or be met with elsewhere. I have seen many nice girls; but the nice girls were, like myself, almost penniless; and I have seen many ill-favoured, who had money: the first I could only afford to look at— the latter I have had some dealings with. I have been refused by one or two, and I might have married seven or eight; but, somehow or other, when it came near the point, the vision of a certain angel, now in heaven, has risen before me, and I have not had the heart or the heartlessness to proceed. Indeed, I may safely say that I have seen but one person since we parted who ever made the least impression on me, or whom I could fancy in any degree to replace her whom I have lost, and she, I fear, is lost also; so we may as well say no more about it. I have determined to marry for money, as you well know; but it appears to me as if there was something which invariably prevents the step being taken; and, upon my honour, fortune seems so inclined to balk me in my wishes, that I begin to snap my fingers at her, and am becoming quite indifferent. I suffer now under the evil of poverty; but it is impossible to say what other evils may be in store if I were to change my condition, as the ladies say. Come what will, in one thing I am determined—that if I marry a girl for money, I will treat her well, and not let her find it out; and as that may add to the difficulty of a man's position when he is not in love with his wife, why, all I can say is, Captain O'Donahue doesn't go cheap—that's decided."

"You're right, my jewel; there's not such a broth of a boy to be picked up every day in the week. Widows might bid for you, for without flattery, I think you a moral of a man, and an honour to Old Ireland. But O'Donahue, begging your pardon, if it's not a secret, who may have been this lady who appears to have bothered your brains not a little, since she could you forget somebody else?"

"I met her at the Lakes of Cumberland, and being acquainted with some of the party, was invited to join them. I was ten days in her company at Windermere, Ambleside, Derwentwater, and other places. She was a foreigner, and titled."

"Murder and Irish! you don't say so?"

"Yes; and moreover, as I was informed by those who were with her, has large property in Poland. She was, in fact, everything that I could desire—handsome, witty, speaking English and several other languages, and about two or three and twenty years old."

"And her name, if it's no offence to ask it?"

"Princess Czartorinski."

"And a princess in the bargain? And did you really pretend to make love to a princess?"

"Am not I an Irishman, McShane? and is a princess anything but a woman, after all? By the powers! I'd make love to, and run away with, the Pope himself; if he were made of the same materials as Pope Joan is said to have been."

"Then, upon my faith, O'Donahue, I believe you—so now go on."

"I not only made love to her, but in making love to her, I got most terribly singed myself; and I felt, before I quitted her, that if I had ten thousand a-year, and she was as poor as my dear Judith was, that she should have taken her place—that's the truth. I thought that I never could love again, and that my heart was as flinty as a pawnbroker's; but I found out my mistake when it was too late."

"And did she return you the compliment?"

"That I was not indifferent to her, I may without vanity believe. I had a five minutes alone with her just before we parted, and I took that opportunity of saying how much pain it was to part with her, and for once I told the truth, for I was almost choking when I said it. I'm convinced that there was sincerity in my face, and that she saw that it was there; so she replied, 'If what you say is true, we shall meet at Saint Petersburg next winter; good-bye, I shall expect you.'"

"Well, that was as much as to say, come, at all events."

"It was; I stammered out my determination so to do, if possible; but I felt at the time that my finances rendered it impossible—so there was an end of that affair. By my hopes of salvation, I'd not only go to Saint Petersburg, but round the whole world, and to the north pole afterwards, if I had the means only to see her once more."

"You're in a bad way, O'Donahue; your heart's gone and your money too. Upon my soul, I pity you; but it's always the case in this world. When I was a boy, the best and ripest fruit was always on the top of the wall, and out of my reach. Shall I call to-morrow, and then, if you please, I'll introduce you to Mrs McShane?"

"I will be happy to see you and your good wife, McShane; health and happiness to you. Stop, while I ring for my little factotum to let you out."

"By the bye, a sharp boy that, O'Donahue, with an eye as bright as a hawk. Where did you pick him up?"

"In Saint James's Park."

"Well, that's an odd place to hire a servant in."

"Do you recollect Rushbrook in my company?"

"To be sure I do—your best soldier, and a famous caterer he was at all times."

"It is his son."

"And, now I think of it, he's very like him, only somewhat better-looking."

O'Donahue then acquainted McShane with the circumstances attending his meeting with Joey, and they separated.

The next day, about the same time, McShane came to see his friend, and found O'Donahue dressed, and ready to go out with him.

"Now, O'Donahue, you mustn't be in such a hurry to see Mrs McShane, for I have something to tell you which will make her look more pretty in your eyes than she otherwise might have done upon first introduction. Take your chair again, and don't be putting on your gloves yet, while you listen to a little conversation which took place between us last night, just before we dropped into the arms of Murfy. I'll pass over all the questions she asked about you, and all the compliments I paid you behind your back: because, if I didn't, it would make you blush, Irishman as you are; but this she did say,—that it was great kindness on your part to lend me that money, and that she loved you for it; upon which I replied, I was sorry you were not easy in your mind, and so very unhappy: upon which she, in course, like every woman, asked me why; and then I told her merely that it was a love-affair, and a long story, as if I wished to go to sleep. This made her more curious, so, to oblige her, I stayed awake, and told her just what you told me, and how the winter was coming on and you not able to keep your appointment. And what d'ye think the good soul said? 'Now,' says she, 'McShane, if you love me, and have any gratitude to your friend for his former kindness, you will to-morrow take him money enough, and more than enough, to do as he wishes, and if he gains his wife he can repay you; if not, the money is not an object.' 'That's very kind of you, dearest,' said I; 'but then will you consent to another thing? for this may prove a difficult affair, and he may want me with him; and would you have any objection to that, dearest?' for you see, O'Donahue, I took it into my head that I might be of the greatest use to you: and, moreover, I should like the trip, just by way of a little change. 'Couldn't he do without you?' replied she, gravely. 'I'm afraid not; and although I thought I was in barracks for life, and never to leave you again, yet still for his sake, poor fellow, who has been such a generous fellow to me—' 'An' how long would you be away?' said she. 'Why, it might be two months at the most,' replied I; 'but who can tell it to a day?' 'Well,' said she, 'I don't like that part of the concern at all; but still, if it is necessary, as you say, things shouldn't be done by halves,' and then she sighed, poor soul. 'Then I won't go,' says I. 'Yes,' says she, after a pause; 'I think it's your duty, and therefore you must.' 'I'll do just what you wish, my soul,' replied I; 'but let's talk more about it to-morrow.' This morning she brought up the subject, and said that she had made up her mind, and that it should be as we had said last night; and she went to the drawer and took out three hundred pounds in gold and notes, and said that if it was not enough, we had only to write for more. Now ain't she a jewel, O'Donahue? and here's the money."

"McShane, she is a jewel, not because she has given me money, but because her heart's in the right place, and always will be. But I really do not like taking you away with me."

"Perhaps you don't think I'd be of any use?"

"Yes; I do not doubt but that you will be, although at present I do not know how."

"But I do, for I've thought upon it, and I shall take it very unkind if you don't let me go with you. I want a little divarsion; for you see, O'Donahue, one must settle down to domestic happiness by degrees."

"Be it so, then; all I fear is, I shall occasion pain to your excellent wife."

"She has plenty to do, and that drives care away; besides, only consider the pleasure you'll occasion to her when I come back."

"I forgot that. Now, if you please, I'll call and pay my respects, and also return my grateful thanks."

"Then, come along."

Captain O'Donahue found Mrs McShane very busily employed supplying her customers. She was, as McShane had said, a very good-looking woman, although somewhat corpulent: and there was an amiability, frankness, and kindness of disposition so expressed in her countenance, that it was impossible not to feel interested with her. They dined together. O'Donahue completely established himself in her good graces, and it was agreed that on that day week the gentlemen should embark for Hamburg, and proceed on to Petersburg, Joey to go with them as their little valet.



CHAPTER TWELVE.

AN EXPEDITION, AS OF YORE, ACROSS THE WATERS FOR A WIFE.

The first step taken by O'Donahue was to obtain a passport for himself and suit; and here there was a controversy, McShane having made up his mind that he would sink the officer, and travel as O'Donahue's servant, in which capacity he declared that he would not only be more useful, but also swell his friend's dignity. After a long combat on the part of O'Donahue, this was consented to, and the passport was filled up accordingly.

"But, by Saint Patrick! I ought to get some letters of introduction," said O'Donahue; "and how is that to be managed—at all events to the English ambassador? Let me see—I'll go to the Horse Guards."

O'Donahue went accordingly, and, as was always the case there, was admitted immediately to an audience with the Commander of the Forces. O'Donahue put his case forward, stating that he was about to proceed on a secret mission to Russia, and requested his Royal Highness to give him a few letters of introduction. His Royal Highness very properly observed, that if sent on a secret mission, he would, of course, obtain all the necessary introductions from the proper quarters, and then inquired of O'Donahue what his rank was, where he had served, etcetera. To the latter questions O'Donahue gave a very satisfactory reply, and convinced the Duke that he was an officer of merit. Then came the question as to his secret mission, which his Royal Highness had never heard of. "May it please your Royal Highness, there's a little mistake about this same secret mission; it's not on account of government that I'm going, but on my own secret service;" and O'Donahue, finding himself fairly in for it, confessed that he was after a lady of high rank, and that if he did not obtain letters of introduction, he should not probably find the means of entering the society in which she was to be found, and that as an officer who had served faithfully, he trusted that he should not be refused.

His Royal Highness laughed at his disclosure, and, as there was no objection to giving O'Donahue a letter or two, with his usual good-nature he ordered them to be written, and having given them to him, wished him every success. O'Donahue bowed to the ground, and quitted the Horse Guards, delighted with the success of his impudent attempt.

Being thus provided, the party set off in a vessel bound to Hamburg, where they arrived without any accident, although very sea-sick; from Hamburg they proceeded to Lubeck, and re-embarked at Travemunde in a brig, which was bound for Riga; the wind was fair, and their passage was short. On their arrival they put up at an hotel, and finding themselves in a country where English was not understood, O'Donahue proceeded to the house of the English consul, informing him that he was going on a secret mission to Petersburg, and showing, as evidences of his respectability and the truth of his assertions, the letters given him by his Royal Highness. These were quite sufficient for the consul, who immediately offered his services. Not being able to procure at Riga a courier who could speak French or English, the consul took a great deal of trouble to assist them in their long journey to Petersburg. He made out a list of the posts, the number of versts, and the money that was to be paid; he changed some of O'Donahue's gold into Russian paper-money, and gave all the necessary instructions. The great difficulty was to find any carriage to carry them to the capital, but at last they found an old cabriolet on four wheels which might answer, and, bidding adieu to the consul, they obtained horses, and set off.

"Now, McShane, you must take care of the money, and pay the driver," said O'Donahue, pulling out several pieces of thick paper, some coloured red, some blue, and others of a dirty white.

"Is this money?" said McShane, with astonishment.

"Yes, that's roubles."

"Roubles, are they? I wonder what they'd call them in Ireland; they look like soup-tickets."

"Never mind. And now, McShane, there are two words which the consul has told me to make use of: one is Scoro, and when you say that, it means 'Go fast,' and you hold up a small bit of money at the same time."

"Scoro! well, that's a word I sha'n't forget."

"But, then, there's another, which is Scorae."

"And what may be the English of that?"

"Why, that means 'Go faster,' and with that you hold up a larger piece of money."

"Why, then, it's no use remembering Scoro at all, for Scorae will do much better; so we need not burden ourselves with the first at all. Suppose we try the effect of that last word upon our bear-skin friend who is driving!"

McShane held up a rouble, and called out to the driver—"Scorae!" The fellow turned his head, smiled, and lashed his horses until they were at the full speed, and then looked back at them for approval.

"By the powers, that's no fool of a word! it will take us all the way to Saint Petersburg as fast as we wish."

"We do not sleep on the road, but travel night and day," said O'Donahue, "for there is no place worth sleeping at."

"And the 'ating, O'Donahue?"

"We must get that by signs, for we have no other means."

On that point they soon found they had no difficulty; and thus they proceeded, without speaking a word of the language, day and night, until they arrived at the capital.

At the entrance their passports were demanded, and the officer at the guard-house came out and told them that a Cossack would accompany them. A Cossack, with a spear as long as a fir-tree, and a beard not quite so long, then took them in charge, and trotted before the carriage, the driver following him at a slow pace.

"An't we prisoners?" inquired McShane.

"I don't know, but it looks very like it," replied O'Donahue.

This, however, was not the case. The carriage drove to a splendid street called the Neffsky Perspective, and as soon as it stopped at the entrance of an hotel, the Cossack, after speaking to the landlord, who came out, took his departure.

A journey of four hundred miles, day and night, is no joke: our travellers fell fast asleep in their spacious apartment, and it was not till the next day that they found themselves clean and comfortable, Joey being dressed in a rich livery, as a sort of page, and McShane doing duty as valet when others were present, and when sitting alone with O'Donahue, taking his fair share of the bottle.

Two days after their arrival, the landlord procured for O'Donahue a courier who could speak both English and French as well as Russian, and almost every other language. It was resolved by O'Donahue and McShane, in council, to dress him up in a splendid uniform; and a carriage having been hired for the month, O'Donahue felt that he was in a position to present his credentials to the English ambassador and the other parties for whom he had received letters of introduction.



CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

IN WHICH THERE IS SOME INFORMATION RELATIVE TO THE CITY OF ST. PETERSBURG.

For 300 roubles a month, O'Donahue had procured a drosky, very handsomely fitted up; the shaft horse was a splendid trotter, and the other, a beautiful-shaped animal, capered about curving his neck, until his nose almost touched his knee, and prancing, so as to be the admiration of the passers-by. His coachman, whose name was Athenasis, had the largest beard in Saint Petersburg; Joey was the smallest tiger; Dimitri, one of the tallest and handsomest yagers. Altogether, Captain O'Donahue had laid out his money well; and on a fine, sunny day he set off to present his letters to the English ambassador and other parties. Although the letters were very short, it was quite sufficient that they were written by so distinguished and so universally beloved a person as his Royal Highness. The ambassador, Lord Saint H, immediately desired O'Donahue to consider his house open to him, requesting the pleasure of his company to dinner on the following day, and offered to present him to the Emperor at the first levee. O'Donahue took his leave, delighted with his success, and then drove to the hotel of the Princess Woronzoff, Count Nesselrode, and Prince Gallitzin, where he found himself equally well received. After his visits were all paid, O'Donahue sported his handsome equipage on the English and Russian quays, and up and down the Neffsky Perspective for an hour or two, and then returned to the hotel.

"I am very sorry," said O'Donahue, after he had narrated to McShane all that had taken place, "that I permitted you to put yourself down on the passport as valet in the foolish way you have. You would have enjoyed yourself as much as I probably shall, and have been in your proper position in society."

"Then I'm not sorry at all, O'Donahue, and I'll tell you why. I should have enjoyed myself, I do not doubt—but I should have enjoyed myself too much; and, after dining with ambassadors, and princes, and counts, and all that thing—should I ever have gone back comfortable and contented to Mrs McShane, and the cook's shop? No, no—I'm not exactly reconciled, as it is; and if I were to be drinking champagne, and 'ating French kickshaws with the Russian nobility for three or four months, dancing perhaps with princesses, and whispering in the ears of duchesses, wouldn't my nose turn up with contempt at the beefsteak pie, and poor Mrs McShane, with all her kind smiles, look twice as corpulent as ever? No, no, I'm better here, and I'm a wise man, although I say it myself."

"Well, perhaps you are, McShane; but still I do not like that I should be spending your money in this way without your having your share of it at least."

"My share of it—now, O'Donahue, suppose I had come over here on my own account, where should I have been? I could not have mustered up the amiable impudence you did, to persuade the commander-in-chief to give me letters to the ambassador: nor could I have got up such a turn-out, nor have fitted the turn-out so well as you do. I should have been as stupid as an owl, just doing what I have done the whole of the blessed morning for want of your company—looking after one of the floating bridges across the river, and spitting into the stream, just to add my mite to the Baltic Sea."

"I'm sorry you were not better amused."

"I was amused; for I was thinking of the good-humoured face of Mrs McShane, which was much better than being in high company, and forgetting her entirely. Let me alone for amusing myself after my own fashion, O'Donahue, and that's all I wish. I suppose you have heard nothing in your travels about your Powlish princess?"

"Of course not; it will require some tact to bring in her name—I must do it as if by mere accident."

"Shall I ask the courier if she is an acquaintance of his?"

"An acquaintance, McShane?"

"I don't mean on visiting terms; but if he knows anything about the family, or where they live?"

"No, McShane, I think you had better not; we do not know much of him at present. I shall dine at the ambassador's tomorrow, and there will be a large party."

During the day invitations for evening parties were brought in from the Prince Gallitzin and Princess Woronzoff.

"The plot thickens fast, as the saying is," observed McShane; "you'll be certain to meet your fair lady at some of these places."

"That is what I trust to do," replied O'Donahue; "if not, as soon as I'm intimate, I shall make inquiries about her; but we must first see how the land lies."

O'Donahue dined at the ambassador's, and went to the other parties, but did not meet with the object of his search. Being a good musician, he was much in request in so musical a society as that of Saint Petersburg. The emperor was still at his country palace, and O'Donahue had been more than a fortnight at the capital without there being an opportunity for the ambassador to present him at court.

Dimitri, the person whom O'Donahue engaged as courier, was a very clever, intelligent fellow; and as he found that O'Donahue had all the liberality of an Irishman, and was in every respect a most indulgent master, he soon had his interest at heart. Perhaps the more peculiar intimacy between O'Donahue and McShane, as a valet, assisted Dimitri in forming a good opinion of the former, as the hauteur and distance generally preserved by the English towards their domestics are very displeasing to the Continental servants, who, if permitted to be familiar, will not only serve you more faithfully, but be satisfied with more moderate wages. Dimitri spoke English and French pretty well, German and Russian of course perfectly. He was a Russian by birth, had been brought up at the Foundling Hospital, at Moscow, and therefore was not a serf. He soon became intimate with McShane: and as soon as the latter discovered that there was no intention on the part of Dimitri to be dishonest, he was satisfied, and treated him with cordiality.

"Tell your master this," said Dimitri, "never to give his opinion on political matters before any one while in Petersburg, or he will be reported to the government, and will be looked upon with suspicion. All the servants and couriers here, indeed every third person you meet, is an agent of police."

"Then it's not at all unlikely that you are one yourself," replied McShane.

"I am so," replied Dimitri, coolly, "and all the better for your master. I shall be ordered to make my report in a few days, and I shall not fail to do so."

"And what will they ask you?" said McShane.

"They will ask me first who and what your master is? Whether I have discovered from you, if he is of family and importance in his own country? whether he has expressed any political opinions? and whether I have discovered the real business which brought him here?"

"And what will you reply to all this?" answered McShane.

"Why, I hardly know. I wish I knew what he wishes me to say, for he is a gentleman whom I am very fond of, and that's the truth; perhaps you can tell me?"

"Why, yes, I know a good deal about him, that's certain. As for his family, there's not a better in Ireland or England, for he's royal if he had his right."

"What!" exclaimed Dimitri.

"As sure as I'm sitting in this old arm-chair, didn't he bring letters from the brother of the present king? does that go for nothing in this country of yours? or do you value men by the length of their beards?"

"Men are valued here not by their titles, but by their rank as officers. A general is a greater man than a prince," replied Dimitri.

"With all my heart, for then I'm somebody," replied McShane.

"You?" replied the courier.

"I mean my master," returned McShane, correcting himself; "for he's an officer, and a good one, too."

"Yes, that may be; but you said yourself," replied the courier, laughing. "My good friend, a valet to any one in Petersburg is no better than one of the mujiks who work in the streets. Well, I know that our master is an officer, and of high rank; as for his political opinions, I have never heard him express any, except his admiration of the city, and of course of the emperor."

"Most decidedly; and of the empress also," replied McShane.

"That is not at all necessary," continued Dimitri, laughing. "In fact, he has no business to admire the empress."

"But he admires the government and the laws," said McShane; "and you may add, my good fellow—the army and the navy—by the powers, he's all admiration, all over!—you may take my word for it."

"Well, I will do so; but then there is one other question to reply to, which is, why did he come here? what is his business?"

"To look about him, to be sure; to spend his money like a gentleman; to give his letters of introduction; and to amuse himself," replied McShane. "But this is dry talking, so, Dimitri, order a bottle of champagne, and then we'll wet our whistle before we go on."

"Champagne! will your master stand that?" inquired Dimitri.

"Stand it? to be sure, and he'd be very angry if he thought I did not make myself comfortable. Tell them to put it down in the bill for me; if they doubt the propriety, let them ask my master."

Dimitri went and ordered the champagne. As soon as they had a glass, Dimitri observed, "Your master is a fine liberal fellow, and I would serve him to the last day of my life; but you see that the reasons you give for your master being here are the same as are given by everybody else, whether they come as spies or secret emissaries, or to foment insurrection; that answer, therefore, is considered as no answer at all by the police (although very often a true one), and they will try to find out whether it is so or not."

"What other cause can a gentleman like him have for coming here? He is not going to dirty his hands with speculation, information, or any other botheration," replied McShane, tossing off his glass.

"I don't say so; but his having letters from the king's brother will be considered suspicious."

"The devil it will. Now in our country that would only create a suspicion that he was a real gentleman—that's all."

"You don't understand this country," replied Dimitri.

"No, it beats my comprehension entirely, and that's a fact; so fill up your glass. I hope it's not treason; but if it is, I can't help saying it. My good friend Dimitri—"

"Stop," said Dimitri, rising and shutting the door, "now, what is it?"

"Why, just this; I haven't seen one good-looking woman since I've been in this good-looking town of yours; now, that's the truth."

"There's more truth than treason in that," replied the courier; "but still there are some beautiful women among the higher classes."

"It's to be hoped so; for they've left no beauty for the lower, at all events."

"We have very beautiful women in Poland," said the courier.

"Why don't you bring a few here, then?"

"There are a great many Polish ladies in Petersburg at this moment."

"Then go down and order another bottle," said McShane, "and we'll drink their healths."

The second bottle was finished, and McShane, who had been drinking before, became less cautious.

"You said," observed he, "that you have many Polish ladies in Petersburg; did you ever hear of a Princess Czartowinky?—I think that's the name."

"Czartorinski, you mean," replied Dimitri; "to be sure I did; I served in the family some years ago, when the old prince was alive. But where did you see her?"

"In England, to be sure."

"Well, that's probable, for she has just returned from travelling with her uncle."

"Is she now in Petersburg, my good fellow?"

"I believe she is—but why do wish to know?"

"Merely asked—that's all."

"Now, Macshanovich,"—for such was the familiar way in which Dimitri addressed his supposed brother-servant—"I suspect this Princess Czartorinski is some way connected with your master's coming here. Tell me the truth—is such the case? I'm sure it is."

"Then you know more than I do," replied McShane, correcting himself, "for I'm not exactly in my master's secrets; all that I do know is, that my master met her in England, and I thought her very handsome."

"And so did he?"

"That's as may be; between ourselves, I've an idea he was a little smitten in that quarter; but that's only my own opinion, nothing more."

"Has he ever spoken about her since you were here?" said Dimitri.

"Just once, as I handed his waistcoat to him; he said—'I wonder if all the ladies are as handsome as that Polish princess that we met in Cumberland?'"

"If I thought he wished it, or cared for her, I would make inquiry, and soon find out all about her; but otherwise, it's no use taking the trouble," replied the courier.

"Well, then, will you give me your hand, and promise to serve faithfully, if I tell you all I know about the matter?"

"By the blessed Saint Nicholas, I do!" replied Dimitri; "you may trust me."

"Well, then, it's my opinion that my master's over head and ears in love with her, and has come here for no other purpose."

"Well, I'm glad you told me that; it will satisfy the police."

"The police; why murder and Irish! you're not going to inform the police, you villain?"

"Not with whom he is in love, most certainly, but that he has come here on that account; it will satisfy them, for they have no fear of a man that's in love, and he will not be watched. Depend upon it, I cannot do a better thing to serve our master."

"Well, then, perhaps you are right. I don't like this champagne—get a bottle of Burgundy, Dimitri. Don't look so hard—it's all right. The captain dines out every day, and has ordered me to drink for the honour of the house."

"He's a capital master," replied Dimitri, who had begun to feel the effects of the former bottles.

As soon as the third bottle was tapped, McShane continued—

"Now, Dimitri, I've given my opinion, and I can tell you, if my master has, as I suspect, come here about this young lady, and succeeds in obtaining her, it will be a blessed thing for you and me; for he's as generous as the day, and has plenty of money. Do you know who she is?"

"To be sure I do; she is an only daughter of the late Prince Czartorinski, and now a sort of ward under the protection of the Emperor. She inherits all the estates, except one which was left to found an hospital at Warsaw, and is a rich heiress. It is supposed the emperor will bestow her upon one of his generals. She is at the palace, and a maid of honour to the empress."

"Whew!" whistled McShane; "won't there be a difficulty."

"I should think so," replied the courier, gravely.

"He must run away with her," said McShane, after a pause.

"How will he get to see her?"

"He will not see her, so as to speak with her, in the palace; that is not the custom here; but he might meet her elsewhere."

"To be sure, at a party or a ball," said McShane.

"No, that would not do; ladies and gentlemen keep very apart here in general company. He might say a word or two when dancing, but that is all."

"But how is he to meet her, when, in this cursed place of yours, if men and women keep at arm's length?"

"That must depend upon her. Tell me, does she love him?"

"Well, now, that's a home question: she never told him she did, and she never told me, that's certain; but still I've an idea that she does."

"Then all I can say, Macshanovich, is, that your master had better be very careful what he is about. Of course, he knows not that you have told me anything; but as soon as he thinks proper to trust me, I then will do my utmost in his service."

"You speak like a very rational, sensible, intelligent courier," replied McShane, "and so now let us finish the bottle. Here's good luck to Captain O'Donahue, alive or dead: and now—please the fleas—I'll be asleep in less than ten minutes."



CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

GOING TO COURT, AND COURTING.

When McShane awoke the next morning he tried to recall what had passed between him and Dimitri, and did not feel quite convinced that he had not trusted him too much. "I think," said he, "it was all upon an if. Yes, sure; if O'Donahue was in love, and if she was. Yes, I'm sure that it was all upon ifs. However, I must go and tell O'Donahue what has taken place."

McShane did so; and O'Donahue, after a little thought, replied, "Well, I don't know: perhaps it's all for the best; for you see I must have trusted somebody, and the difficulty would have been to know whom to trust, for everybody belongs to the police here, I believe: I think, myself, the fellow is honest; at all events, I can make it worth his while to be so."

"He would not have told me he belonged to the police if he wished to trap us," replied McShane.

"That's very true, and on the whole I think we could not do better. But we are going on too fast; who knows whether she meant anything by what she said to me when we parted; or, if she did then, whether she may not have altered her mind since?"

"Such things have been—that's a fact, O'Donahue."

"And will be, as long as the world lasts. However, to-morrow I am to be presented—perhaps I may see her. I'm glad that I know that I may chance to meet her, as I shall now be on my guard."

"And what shall I say to Dimitri?"

"Say that you mentioned her name, and where she was, and that I had only replied, that I should like to see her again."

"Exactly; that will leave it an open question, as the saying is," replied McShane.

The next day O'Donahue, in his uniform, drove to the ambassador's hotel, to accompany him to the Annishkoff palace, where he was to be presented to the emperor. O'Donahue was most graciously received, the emperor walking up to him, as he stood in the circle, and inquiring after the health of his Royal Highness the Commander-in-Chief, what service he had been employed upon, etcetera. He then told O'Donahue that the Empress would be most glad to make his acquaintance, and hoped that he would make a long stay at Saint Petersburg.

It was with a quickened pulse that O'Donahue followed the ambassador into the empress's apartments. He had not waited there more than five minutes, in conversation with the ambassador when the doors opened, and the empress, attended by her chamberlain, and followed by her ladies in waiting and maids of honour, entered the room. O'Donahue had made up his mind not to take his eyes off the empress until the presentation was over. As soon as he had kissed hands, and answered the few questions which were graciously put to him, he retired to make room for others, and then, for the first time, did he venture to cast his eyes on the group of ladies attending the empress. The first that met his view were unknown, but, behind all the rest, he at length perceived the Princess Czartorinski, talking and laughing with another lady. After a short time she turned round, and their eyes met. The princess recognised him with a start, and then turned away and put her hand up to her breast, as if the shock had taken away her breath. Once more she turned her face to O'Donahue, and this time he was fully satisfied by her looks that he was welcome. Ten minutes after, the ambassador summoned O'Donahue, and they quitted the palace.

"I have seen her, McShane," said O'Donahue; "she is more beautiful, and I am more in love than ever. And now, what am I to do?"

"That's just the difficulty," replied McShane. "Shall I talk with Dimitri, or shall I hold my tongue, or shall I think about it while you go to dinner at the ambassador's?"

"I cannot dine out to-day, McShane. I will write an excuse."

"Well, now, I do believe you're in for it in good earnest. My love never spoiled my appetite; on the contrary, it was my appetite that made me fall in love."

"I wish she had not been a princess," said O'Donahue, throwing himself on the sofa.

"That's nothing at all here," replied McShane. "A princess is to be had. Now, if she had been a general it would have been all up with you. Military rank is everything here, as Dimitri says."

"She's an angel," replied O'Donahue, with a sigh.

"That's rank in heaven, but goes for nothing in Petersburg," replied McShane. "Dimitri tells me they've civil generals here, which I conceive are improvements on our staff, for devil a civil general I've had the pleasure of serving under."

"What shall I do," said O'Donahue, getting up and preparing to write his note to the ambassador.

"Eat your dinner, drink a bottle of champagne, and then I'll come and talk it over with you, that's all you can do at present. Give me the note, and I'll send Dimitri off with it at once, and order up your dinner."

McShane's advice not being very bad, it was followed. O'Donahue had finished his dinner, and was sitting by the fire with McShane, when there was a knock at the door. McShane was summoned, and soon returned, saying, "There's a little fellow that wants to speak with you, and won't give his message. He's a queer little body, and not so bad-looking either, with a bolster on the top of his head, and himself not higher than a pillow; a pigeon could sit upon his shoulder and peck up peas out of his shoes; he struts like a grenadier, and, by the powers! a grenadier's cap would serve as an extinguisher for him. Shall I show him in?"

"Certainly," replied O'Donahue.

The reader may not be aware that there is no part of the globe where there are so many dwarfs as at Saint Petersburg; there is scarcely an hotel belonging to a noble family without one or two, if not more; they are very kindly treated, and are, both in appearance and temper, very superior to the dwarfs occasionally met with elsewhere. One of this diminutive race now entered the room, dressed in a Turkish costume; he was remarkably well made and handsome in person; he spoke sufficient French to inquire if he addressed himself to Captain O'Donahue; and on being replied to in the affirmative, he gave him a small billet, and then seated himself on the sofa with all the freedom of a petted menial. O'Donahue tore open the note; it was very short:—

"As I know you cannot communicate with me, I write to say that I was delighted at your having kept your promise. You shall hear from me again as soon as I know where I can meet you; in the meantime, be cautious. The bearer is to be trusted; he belongs to me.

"C." O'Donahue pressed the paper to his lips, and then sat down to reply. We shall not trouble the reader with what he said; it is quite sufficient that the lady was content with the communication, and also at the report from her little messenger of the Captain's behaviour when he had read her billet.

Two or three days afterwards, O'Donahue received a note from a German widow lady, a Countess Erhausen, particularly requesting he would call upon her in the afternoon, at three o'clock. As he had not as yet had the pleasure of being introduced to the countess, although he had often heard her spoken of in the first society, O'Donahue did not fail in his appointment, as he considered that it was possible that the Princess Czartorinski might be connected with it; nor was he deceived, for on his entering the saloon, he found the princess sitting on the sofa with Madame Erhausen, a young and pretty woman, not more than twenty-five years of age. The princess rose, and greeted Captain O'Donahue, and then introduced the countess as her first cousin. A few minutes after his introduction, the countess retired, leaving them alone. O'Donahue did not lose this opportunity of pouring out the real feelings of his heart.

"You have come a long way to see me, Captain O'Donahue, and I ought to be grateful," replied the princess: "indeed, I have much pleasure in renewing our acquaintance."

O'Donahue, however, did not appear satisfied with this mere admission: he became eloquent in his own cause, pointed out the cruelty of having brought him over to see her again if he was not to be rewarded, and after about an hour's pleading he was sitting on the sofa by her side, with her fair hand in his, and his arm round her slender waist. They parted, but through the instrumentality of the little dwarf, they often met again at the same rendezvous. Occasionally they met in society, but before others they were obliged to appear constrained and formal; there was little pleasure in such meetings, and when O'Donahue could not see the princess his chief pleasure was to call upon Madame Erhausen and talk about her.

"You are aware, Captain O'Donahue," said the countess one day, "that there will be a great difficulty to overcome in this affair. The princess is a sort of ward of the emperor's, and it is said that he has already, in his own mind, disposed of her hand."

"I am aware of that," replied O'Donahue; "and I know no other means than running away with her."

"That would never do," replied the countess; "you could not leave Petersburg without passports; nor could she leave the palace for more than an hour or two without being missed. You would soon be discovered, and then you would lose her for ever."

"Then what can I do, my dear madame? Shall I throw myself upon the indulgence of the emperor?"

"No, that would not answer either; she is too rich a prize to be permitted to go into foreign hands. I'll tell you what you must first do."

"I'm all attention."

"You must make love to me," replied the countess. "Nay, understand me. I mean that you must appear to make love to me, and the report of our marriage must be spread. The emperor will not interfere in such a case; you must do so to avoid suspicion. You have been here very often, and your equipage has been constantly seen at the door. If it is supposed you do not come on my account, it will be inquired why you do come; and there is no keeping a secret at Petersburg. After it is supposed that it is a settled affair between us, we then may consider what next ought to be done. My regard for my cousin alone induces me to consent to this; indeed, it is the only way she could avoid future misery."

"But is the emperor so despotic on these points?"

"An emperor is not to be trifled with; a ward of the emperor is considered sacred—at least, so far, that if a Russian were to wed one without permission, he probably would be sent to Siberia. With an Englishman it is different, perhaps; and, once married, you would be safe, as you could claim the protection of your ambassador. The great point is, to let it be supposed that you are about to marry some one else; and then, suspicion not being awakened, you may gain your wish."

"But tell me, madame,—that I may be safe from the emperor's displeasure is true—but would the princess, after he discovered it? Could he not take her away from me, and send her to Siberia for disobedience?"

"I hope, by the means I propose, to get you both clear of the emperor— at least, till his displeasure is softened down. Me he cannot hurt; he can only order me out of his dominions. As for the princess, I should think that, if once married to you, she would be safe, for you could claim the protection of the ambassador for her, as your wife, as well as for yourself. Do you comprehend me now?"

"I do, madame; and may blessings follow you for your kindness. I shall in future act but by your directions?"

"That is exactly what I wished you to say; and so now, Captain O'Donahue, farewell."



CHAPTER FIFTEEN.

A RUNAWAY AND A HARD PURSUIT.

"Well, now," said McShane, after he had been informed by O'Donahue of what had passed between him and the countess,—"this is all very pretty, and looks very well; but tell me, are we to trust that fellow Dimitri? Can we do without him? I should say not when it comes to the finale; and is it not dangerous to keep him out of our confidence, being such a sharp, keen-witted fellow? Nay, more, as he has stated his wish to serve you in any way, it is only treating him fairly. He knows the little dwarf who has been here so often; indeed, they were fellow-servants in the Czartorinski family, for he told me so. I would trust him."

"I think so, too; but we must not tell him all."

"No, that we certainly need not, for he will find it out without telling."

"Well, McShane, do as you please; but on second thoughts, I will speak to the countess to-morrow."

O'Donahue did so, the countess called upon the princess at the palace, and the next morning O'Donahue received a note stating that Dimitri was to be trusted. O'Donahue then sent for the courier, and told him that he was about to put confidence in him on a promise of his fidelity.

"I understand you, sir, and all you intend to do; there is no occasion to say anything more to me, until you want my assistance. I will not, in the meantime, neglect your interest, for I hope to remain with you, and that is the only reward I ask for any services I may perform. I have only one remark to make now, which is, that it will be necessary, a few days before you leave Petersburg, to let me know, that I may advertise it."

"Advertise it!"

"Yes, sir, you must advertise your departure, that you may not run away in debt. Such is the custom; and without three notices being put in the Gazette, the police will not give you your passport."

"I am glad that you mentioned it. Of course you are aware that I am paying attention to the Countess Erhausen, and shall leave Petersburg with her, I trust, as my wife?"

"I understand sir, and shall take care that your intimacy there shall be known to everybody."

So saying, Dimitri left the room.

The winter now set in with unusual severity. The river was one mass of ice, the floating bridges had been removed, the Montagnes-Russes became the amusement of the day, and the sledges were galloping about in every direction. For more than a month O'Donahue continued his pretended addresses to the fair cousin of the princess, and during that time he did not once see the real object of his attachment: indeed, the dwarf never made his appearance, and all communication, except an occasional note from her to the countess, was, from prudence, given up. The widow was rich, and had often been pressed to renew her bonds, but had preferred her liberty. O'Donahue, therefore, was looked upon as a fortunate man, and congratulated upon his success. Nor did the widow deny the projected union, except in a manner so as to induce people to believe in the certainty of its being arranged. O'Donahue's equipage was always at her door, and it was expected that the marriage would immediately take place, when O'Donahue attended a levee given by the emperor on the Feast of Saint Nicholas. The emperor, who had been very civil to O'Donahue, as he walked past him, said, "Well, Captain O'Donahue, so I understand that you intend to run away with one of our fairest and prettiest ladies—one of the greatest ornaments of my court?"

"I trust that I have your Majesty's permission so to do," replied O'Donahue, bowing low.

"Oh, certainly you have; and, moreover, our best wishes for your happiness."

"I humbly thank your Majesty," replied O'Donahue; "still I trust your Majesty does not think that I wish to transplant her to my own country altogether, and that I shall be permitted to reside, for the major part of the year, in your Majesty's dominions."

"Nothing will give me greater pleasure; and it will be a satisfaction to feel that I shall gain instead of losing by the intended marriage."

"By the powers! but I will remind him of this, some day or another," thought O'Donahue. "Haven't I his permission to the marriage, and to remain in the country?"

Everything was now ripe for the execution of the plot. The countess gave out that she was going to her country-seat, about ten miles from Saint Petersburg; and it was naturally supposed that she was desirous that the marriage should be private, and that she intended to retire there to have the ceremony performed; and O'Donahue advertised his departure in the Gazette.

The Princess Czartorinski produced a letter from the countess, requesting her, as a favour, to obtain leave from the empress to pass two or three days with her in the country; and the empress, as the countess was first-cousin to the princess, did not withhold her consent; on the contrary, when the princess left the palace, she put a case of jewels in her hand, saying, "These are for the bride, with the good wishes and protection of the empress, as long as she remains in this country." One hour afterwards O'Donahue was rewarded for all his long forbearance by clasping his fair one in his arms. A priest had been provided, and was sent forward to the country chateau, and at ten in the morning all the parties were ready. The princess and her cousin set off in the carriage, followed by O'Donahue, with McShane and his suite. Everything was en regle. The passports had been made out for Germany, to which country it was reported the countess would proceed a few days after the marriage, and the princess was to return to the palace. As soon as they arrived at the chateau the ceremony was performed, and O'Donahue obtained his prize; and to guard against any mishap, it was decided that they should leave the next morning, on their way to the frontier. Dimitri had been of the greatest use, had prepared against every difficulty, and had fully proved his fidelity. The parting between the countess and her cousin was tender. "How much do I owe, dear friend!" said the princess. "What risk do you incur for me! How will you brave the anger of the emperor?"

"I care little for his anger. I am a woman, and not a subject of his; but, before you go, you must both write a letter—your husband to the emperor, reminding him of his having given his consent to the marriage, and his wish that he should remain in his dominions; and let him add his sincere wish, if permitted, to be employed in his Majesty's service. You, my dear cousin, must write to the empress, reminding her of her promise of protection, and soliciting her good offices with the emperor. I shall play my own game; but, depend upon it, it will all end in a laugh."

O'Donahue and his wife both wrote their letters, and O'Donahue also wrote one to the English ambassador, informing him of what had taken place, and requesting his kind offices. As soon as they were finished, the countess bade them farewell, saying, "I shall not send these letters until you are well out of reach, depend upon it;" and, with many thanks for her kindness, O'Donahue and his bride bade her adieu, and set off on their long journey.

The carriage procured for their journey was what is called a German batarde, which is very similar to an English chariot with coach-box, fixed upon a sleigh. Inside were O'Donahue and his young bride, McShane preferring to ride outside on the box with Joey, that he might not be in the way, as a third person invariably is, with a newly married couple. The snow was many feet deep on the ground; but the air was dry, and the sun shone bright. The bride was handed in, enveloped in a rich mantle of sable; O'Donahue followed, equally protected against the cold; while McShane and Joey fixed themselves on the box, so covered up in robes of wolf-skins, and wrappers of bear-skins for their feet, that you could see but the tips of their noses. On the front of the sleigh, below the box of the carriage, were seated the driver and the courier; four fiery young horses were pawing with impatience; the signal was given, and off they went at the rate of sixteen miles an hour.

"Where's the guns, Joey, and the pistols, and the ammunition?" inquired McShane; "we're going through a wild sort of country, I expect."

"I have put them in myself, and I can lay my hands on them immediately, sir," replied Joey; "the guns are behind us, and your pistols and the ammunition are at my feet; the captain's are in the carriage."

"That's all right, then; I like to know where to lay my hands upon my tools. Just have the goodness to look at my nose now and then, Joey; and if you see a white spot on the tip of it, you'll be pleased to tell me, and I'll do the same for you. Mrs McShane would be anything but pleased if I came home with only half a handle to my face."

The journey was continued at the same rapid pace until the close of the day, when they arrived at the post-house; there they stopped, McShane and Joey, with the assistance of the courier, preparing their supper from the stores which they brought with them. After supper they retired, O'Donahue and his wife sleeping in the carriage, which was arranged so as to form a bed if required; while McShane and Joey made it out how they could upon the cloaks and what little straw they could procure, on the floor of the post-house, where, as McShane said the next morning, they "had more bed-fellows than were agreeable, although he contrived to get a few hours' sleep in spite of the jumping vagabonds." When they rose the next morning, they found that the snow had just begun to fall fast. As soon as they had breakfasted they set out, nevertheless, and proceeded at the same pace. McShane telling Joey, who was, as well as himself, almost embedded in it before the day was half over, that it was "better than rain, at all events;" to be sure that was cold comfort, but any comfort is better than none. O'Donahue's request for McShane to come inside was disregarded; he was as tough as little Joey, at all events, and it would be a pity to interrupt the conversation. About four o'clock they had changed their horses at a small village, and were about three miles on their last stage, for that day's journey, when they passed through a pine-forest.

"There's a nice place for an ambuscade, Joey, if there were any robbers about here," observed McShane. "Murder and Irish! what's those chaps running among the trees so fast, and keeping pace with us? I say, Dimitri," continued McShane, pointing to them, "what are those?"

The courier looked in the direction pointed out, and as soon as he had done so, spoke to the driver, who, casting his eyes hastily in the direction, applied the lash to his horses, and set off with double speed.

"Wolves, sir," replied the courier, who then pulled out his pistols, and commenced loading them.

"Wolves!" said McShane, "and hungry enough, I'll warrant; but they don't hope to make a meal of us, do they? At all events we will give them a little fight for it. Come, Joey, I see that Dimitri don't like it, so we must shake off the snow, and get our ammunition ready."

This was soon done; the guns were unstrapped from the back of the coach-box, the pistols got from beneath their feet, and all were soon ready, loaded and primed.

"It's lucky there's such a mist on the windows of the carriage, that the lady can't see what we're after, or she'd be frightened, perhaps," said Joey.

The rapid pace at which the driver had put his horses had for a time left the wolves in the rear; but now they were seen following the carriage at about a quarter of a mile distant, having quitted the forest and taken to the road.

"Here they come, the devils! one, two, three—there are seven of them. I suppose this is what they call a covey in these parts. Were you ever wolf-hunting before, Joey?"

"I don't call this wolf-hunting," replied Joey; "I think the wolves are hunting us."

"It's all the same, my little poacher—it's a hunt, at all events. They are gaining on us fast; we shall soon come to an explanation."

The courier now climbed up to the coach-box to reconnoitre, and he shook his head, telling them in very plain English that he did not like it; that he had heard that the wolves were out in consequence of the extreme severity of the weather, and that he feared that these seven were only the advance of a whole pack; that they had many versts to go, for the stage was a long one, and it would be dark before they were at the end of it.

"Have you ever been chased by them before?" said Joey.

"Yes," replied the courier, "more than once; it's the horses that they are so anxious to get hold of. Three of our horses are very good, but the fourth is not very well, the driver says, and he is fearful that he will not hold out; however, we must keep them off as long as we can; we must not shoot at them till the last moment."

"Why not?" inquired McShane.

"Because the whole pack would scent the blood at miles, and redouble their efforts to come up with us. There is an empty bottle by you, sir; throw it on the road behind the carriage; that will stop them for a time."

"An empty bottle stop them! well, that's queer: it may stop a man drinking, because he can get no mote out of it. However, as you please, gentlemen; here's to drink my health, bad manners to you," said McShane, throwing the bottle over the carriage.

The courier was right: at the sight of the bottle in the road, the wolves, who are of a most suspicious nature, and think that there is a trap laid for them in everything, stopped short, and gathered round it cautiously; the carriage proceeded, and in a few minutes the animals were nearly out of sight.

"Well, that bothers me entirely," said McShane; "an empty bottle is as good to them as a charged gun."

"But look, sir, they are coming on again," said Joey, "and faster than ever. I suppose they were satisfied that there was nothing in it."

The courier mounted again to the box where Joey and McShane were standing. "I think you had a ball of twine," said he to Joey, "when you were tying down the baskets; where is it?"

"It is here under the cushion," replied Joey, searching for the twine and producing it.

"What shall we find to tie to it?" said the courier; "something not too heavy—a bottle won't do."

"What's it for?" inquired McShane.

"To trail, sir," replied the courier.

"To trail! I think they're fast enough upon our trail already; but if you want to help them, a red herring's the thing."

"No, sir, a piece of red cloth would do better," replied the courier.

"Red cloth! One would think you were fishing for mackerel," replied McShane.

"Will this piece of black cloth do, which was round the lock of the gun?" said Joey.

"Yes, I think it will," replied the courier.

The courier made fast the cloth to the end of the twine, and throwing it clear of the carriage, let the ball run out, until he had little more than the bare end in his hand, and the cloth was about forty yards behind the carriage, dragging over the snow.

"They will not pass the cloth, sir," said the courier; "they think that it's a trap."

Sure enough the wolves, which had been gaining fast on the carriage, now retreated again; and although they continued the pursuit, it was at a great distance.

"We have an hour and a half more to go before we arrive, and it will be dark, I'm afraid," said the courier; "all depends upon the horse holding out; I'm sure the pack is not far behind."

"And how many are there in a pack?" inquired McShane.

The courier shrugged up his shoulders. "Perhaps two or three hundred."

"Oh! the devil! Don't I wish I was at home with Mrs McShane."

For half an hour they continued their rapid pace, when the horse referred to showed symptoms of weakness. Still the wolves had not advanced beyond the piece of black cloth which trailed behind the carriage.

"I think that, considering that they are so hungry, they are amazing shy of the bait," said McShane. "By all the powers, they've stopped again!"

"The string has broke, sir, and they are examining the cloth," cried Joey.

"Is there much line left?" inquired the courier, with some alarm.

"No, it has broken off by rubbing against the edge of the carriage behind."

The courier spoke to the driver, who now rose from his seat and lashed his horses furiously; but although three of the horses were still fresh, the fourth could not keep up with them, and there was every prospect of his being dragged down on his knees, as more than once he stumbled and nearly fell. In the meantime the wolves had left the piece of cloth behind them, and were coming up fast with the carriage.

"We must fire on them now, sir," said the courier, going back to his seat, "or they will tear the flanks of the horses."

McShane and Joey seized their guns, the headmost wolf was now nearly ahead of the carriage; Joey fired, and the animal rolled over in the snow.

"That's a good shot, Joey; load again; here's at another."

McShane fired, and missed the animal, which rushed forward; the courier's pistol, however, brought it down, just as he was springing on the hindmost horses.

O'Donahue, astonished at the firing, now lowered down the glass, and inquired the reason. McShane replied, that the wolves were on them, and that he'd better load his pistols in case they were required.

The wolves hung back a little upon the second one falling, but still continued the chase, although at a more respectable distance. The road was now on a descent, but the sick horse could hardly hold on his legs.

"A little half-hour more and we shall be in the town," said the courier, climbing up to the coach-seat, and looking up the road they had passed; "but Saint Nicholas preserve us!" he exclaimed; and he turned round and spoke in hurried accents to the driver in the Russian language.

Again the driver lashed furiously, but in vain; the poor horse was dead-beat.

"What is the matter now?" inquired McShane.

"Do you see that black mass coming down the hill? it's the main pack of wolves; I fear we are lost; the horse cannot go on."

"Then why not cut his traces, and go on with the three others?" cried Joey.

"The boy is right," replied the man, "and there is no time to lose." The courier went down on the sleigh, spoke to the driver in Russian, and the horses were pulled up. The courier jumped out with his knife, and commenced cutting the traces of the tired horse, while the other three, who knew that the wolves were upon them, plunged furiously in their harness, that they might proceed. It was a trying moment. The five wolves now came up; the first two were brought down by the guns of McShane and Joey, and O'Donahue killed a third from the carriage windows.

One of the others advanced furiously, and sprang upon the horse which the courier was cutting free. Joey leapt down, and put his pistol to the animal's head, and blew out his brains, while McShane, who had followed our hero, with the other pistol disabled the only wolf that remained.

But this danger which they had escaped from was nothing compared to that which threatened them; the whole pack now came sweeping like a torrent down the hill, with a simultaneous yell which might well strike terror into the bravest. The horse, which had fallen down when the wolf seized him, was still not clear of the sleigh, and the other three were quite unmanageable. McShane, Joey, and the courier, at last drew him clear from the track; they jumped into their places, and away they started again like the wind, for the horses were maddened with fear. The whole pack of wolves was not one hundred yards from them when they recommenced their speed, and even then McShane considered that there was no hope. But the horse that was left on the road proved their salvation; the starved animals darted upon it, piling themselves one on the other, snarling and tearing each other in their conflict for the feast. It was soon over; in the course of three minutes the carcass had disappeared, and the major portion of the pack renewed their pursuit; but the carriage had proceeded too far ahead of them, and their speed being now uninterrupted, they gained the next village, and O'Donahue had the satisfaction of leading his terrified bride into the chamber of the post-house, where she fainted as soon as she was placed in a chair.

"I'll tell you what, Joey, I've had enough of wolves for all my life," said McShane; "and Joey, my boy, you're a good shot in the first place, and a brave little fellow in the next; here's a handful of roubles, as they call them, for you to buy lollipops with, but I don't think you'll find a shop that sells them hereabouts. Never mind, keep your sweet tooth till you get to old England again; and after I tell Mrs McShane what you have done for us this day, she will allow you to walk into a leg of beef, or round a leg of mutton, or dive into a beefsteak pie, as long as you live, whether it be one hundred years more or less. I've said it, and don't you forget it; and now, as the wolves have not made their supper upon us, let us go and see what we can sup upon ourselves."



CHAPTER SIXTEEN.

RETURN TO ENGLAND.

The remainder of the journey was completed without any further adventure, and they at last found themselves out of the Russian dominions, when they were met by the uncle of the princess, who, as a Pole, was not sorry that his niece had escaped from being wedded to a Russian. He warmly greeted O'Donahue, as his connection, and immediately exerted all the interest which he had at the court to pacify the emperor. When the affair first became known, which it soon did, by the princess not returning to court, his Majesty was anything but pleased at being outwitted; but the persuasions of the empress, the pleading of the English ambassador, who exerted himself strenuously for O'Donahue, with the efforts made in other quarters, and more than all, the letter of O'Donahue, proving that the emperor had given his consent (unwittingly, it is true), coupled with his wish to enter into his service, at last produced the desired effect, and after two months a notice of their pardon and permission to return was at last despatched by the empress. O'Donahue considered that it was best to take immediate advantage of this turn in his favour, and retrace his way to the capital. McShane, who had been quite long enough in the situation of a domestic, now announced his intention to return home; and O'Donahue, aware that he was separating him from his wife, did not, of course, throw any obstacle in the way of his departure. Our little hero, who has lately become such a cipher in our narrative, was now the subject of consideration. O'Donahue wished him to remain with him, but McShane opposed it.

"I tell you, O'Donahue, that it's no kindness to keep him here; the boy is too good to be a page at a lady's shoestring, or even a servant to so great a man as you are yourself now: besides, how will he like being buried here in a foreign country, and never go back to old England?"

"But what will he do better in England, McShane?"

"Depend upon it, major," said the princess, for she was now aware of McShane's rank, "I will treat him like a son."

"Still he will be a servant, my lady, and that's not the position— although, begging your pardon, an emperor might be proud to be your servant; yet that's not the position for little Joey."

"Prove that you will do better for him, McShane, and he is yours: but without you do, I am too partial to him to like to part with him. His conduct on the journey—"

"Yes, exactly, his conduct on the journey, when the wolves would have shared us out between them, is one great reason for my objection. He is too good for a menial, and that's the fact. You ask me what I intend to do with him; it is not so easy to answer that question, because you see, my lady, there's a certain Mrs McShane in the way, who must be consulted; but I think that when I tell her, what I consider to be as near the truth as most things which are said in this world, that if it had not been for the courage and activity of little Joey, a certain Major McShane would have been by this time eaten and digested by a pack of wolves, why, I then think, as Mrs McShane and I have no child, nor prospect of any, as I know of, that she may be well inclined to come into my way of thinking, and of adopting him as her own son; but, of course, this cannot be said without my consulting with Mrs McShane, seeing as how the money is her own, and she has a right to do as she pleases with it."

"That, indeed, alters the case," replied O'Donahue, "and I must not stand in the way of the boy's interest; still I should like to do something for him."

"You have done something for him, O'Donahue; you have prevented his starving; and if he has been of any use to you, it is but your reward— so you and he are quits. Well, then, it is agreed that I take him with me?"

"Yes," replied O'Donahue. "I cannot refuse my consent after what you have said."

Two days after this conversation the parties separated: O'Donahue, with his wife, accompanied by Dimitri, set off on their return to Saint Petersburg; while McShane, who had provided himself with a proper passport, got into the diligence, accompanied by little Joey, on his way back to England.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

THE DAY AFTER THE MURDER.

We must now return to the village of Grassford, and the cottage in which we left Rushbrook and his wife, who had been raised up from the floor, by her husband, and, having now recovered from her swoon, was crying bitterly for the loss of her son, and the dread of her husband's crime being discovered. For some time Rushbrook remained in silence, looking at the embers in the grate: Mum sometimes would look piteously in his master's face, at other times he would slowly approach the weeping woman. The intelligence of the animal told him that something was wrong. Finding himself unnoticed, he would then go to the door by which Joey had quitted, snuff at the crevice, and return to his master's side.

"I'm glad that he's off," at last muttered Rushbrook; "he's a fine boy, that."

"Yes, he is," replied Jane; "but when shall I behold him again?"

"By-and-bye, never fear, wife. We must not stay in this place, provided this affair blows over."

"If it does, indeed!"

"Come, come, Jane, we have every reason to hope it will; now, let's go to bed; it would not do, if any one should happen to have been near the spot, and to have found out what has taken place, for us to be discovered not to have been in bed all night, or even for a light to be seen at the cottage by any early riser. Come, Jane, let's to bed."

Rushbrook and his wife retired, the light was extinguished, and all was quiet, except conscience, which still tormented and kept Rushbrook turning to the right and left continually. Jane slept not: she listened to the wind; the slightest noise—the crowing of the cock—startled her, and soon footsteps were heard of those passing the windows. They could remain in bed no longer. Jane arose, dressed, and lighted the fire: Rushbrook remained sitting on the side of the bed in deep thought.

"I've been thinking, Jane," said he, at last, "it would be better to make away with Mum."

"With the dog? Why, it can't speak, poor thing. No—no—don't kill the poor dog."

"He can't speak, but the dog has sense; he may lead them to the spot."

"And if he were to do so, what then? it would prove nothing."

"No! only it would go harder against Joey."

"Against the boy! yes, it might convince them that Joey did the deed; but still, the very killing of the animal would look suspicious: tie him up, Rushbrook; that will do as well."

"Perhaps better," replied he; "tie him up in the back-kitchen, there's a good woman."

Jane did so, and then commenced preparing the breakfast; they had taken their seats, when the latch of the door was lifted up, and Furness, the schoolmaster, looked in. This he was often in the habit of doing, to call Joey out to accompany him to school.

"Good morning," said he; "now, where's my friend Joey?"

"Come in, come in, neighbour, and shut the door," said Rushbrook; "I wish to speak to you. Mayhap you'll take a cup of tea; if so, my missus will give you a good one."

"Well, as Mrs Rushbrook does make everything so good, I don't care if I do, although I have had breakfast. But where's my friend Joey? the lazy little dog; is he not up yet? Why Mrs Rushbrook, what's the matter? you look distressed."

"I am, indeed," replied Jane, putting her apron to her eyes.

"Why, Mrs Rushbrook, what is it?" inquired the pedagogue.

"Just this; we are in great trouble about Joey. When we got up this morning we found that he was not in bed, and he has never been home since."

"Well, that is queer; why, where can the young scamp be gone to?"

"We don't know; but we find that he took my gun with him, and I'm afraid—" and here Rushbrook paused, shaking his head.

"Afraid of what?"

"That he has gone poaching, and has been taken by the keepers."

"But did he ever do so before?"

"Not by night, if he did by day. I can't tell; he always has had a hankering that way."

"Well, they do whisper the same of you, neighbour. Why do you keep a gun?"

"I've carried a gun all my life," replied Rushbrook, "and I don't choose to be without one: but that's not to the purpose; the question is, what would you advise us to do?"

"Why, you see, friend Rushbrook," replied the schoolmaster, "advice in this question becomes rather difficult. If Joey has been poaching, as you imagine, and has been taken up, as you suspect, why, then, you will soon hear of it: you, of course, have had no hand in it?"

"Hand in it—hand in what?" replied Rushbrook. "Do you think we trust a child like him with a gun?"

"I should think not; and therefore it is evident that he has acted without the concurrence of his parents. That will acquit you; but still, it will not help Joey; neither do I think you will be able to recover the gun, which I anticipate will become a deodand to the lord of the manor."

"But, the child—what will become of him?" exclaimed Jane.

"What will become of him?—why, as he is of tender years, they will not transport him—at least, I should think not; they may imprison him for a few months, and order him to be privately whipped. I do not see what you can do but remain quiet. I should recommend you not to say one syllable about it until you hear more."

"But suppose we do not hear?"

"That is to suppose that he did not go out with the gun to poach, but upon some other expedition."

"What else could the boy have gone out for?" said Rushbrook, hastily.

"Very true; it is not very likely that he went out to commit murder," replied the pedagogue.

At the word "murder" Rushbrook started from his chair; but, recollecting himself, he sat down again.

"No, no, Joey commit murder!" cried he. "Ha, ha, ha—no, no, Joey is no murderer."

"I should suspect not. Well, Master Rushbrook, I will dismiss my scholars this morning, and make every inquiry for you. Byres will be able to ascertain very soon, for he knows the new keeper at the manor house."

"Byres help you, did you say? No, no, Byres never will," replied Rushbrook, solemnly.

"And why not, my friend?"

"Why," replied Rushbrook, recollecting himself, "he has not been over cordial with me lately."

"Nevertheless, depend upon it, he will if he can," replied Furness; "if not for you, he will for me. Good morning, Mrs Rushbrook, I will hasten away now; but will you not go with me?" continued Furness, appealing to Rushbrook.

"I will go another way; it's no use both going the same road."

"Very true," replied the pedagogue, who had his reasons for not wishing the company of Rushbrook, and Furness then left the house.

Mr Furness found all his boys assembled in the school-room, very busily employed thumbing their books; he ordered silence, and informed them that in consequence of Joey being missing, he was going to assist his father to look after him: and therefore they would have a holiday for that day. He then ranged them all in a row, made them turn to the right face, clap their hands simultaneously, and disperse.

Although Mr Furness had advised secrecy to the Rushbrooks, he did not follow the advice he had given; indeed, his reason for not having wished Rushbrook to be with him was, that he might have an opportunity of communicating his secret through the village, which he did by calling at every cottage, and informing the women who were left at home, that Joey Rushbrook had disappeared last night, with his father's gun, and that he was about to go in quest of him. Some nodded and smiled, others shook their heads, some were not at all surprised at it, others thought that things could not go on so for ever.

Mr Furness having collected all their various opinions, then set off to the ale-house, to find Byres the pedlar. When he arrived, he found that Byres had not come home that night, and where he was nobody knew, which was more strange, as his box was up in his bed-chamber. Mr Furness returned to the village intending to communicate this information to Rushbrook, but on calling, he found that Rushbrook had gone out in search of the boy. Furness then resolved to go up at once to the keeper's lodge, and solve the mystery. He took the high road, and met Rushbrook returning.

"Well, have you gained any tidings," inquired the pedagogue.

"None," replied Rushbrook.

"Then it's my opinion, my worthy friend, that we had better at once proceed to the keeper's cottage and make inquiry; for, strange to say, I have been to the ale-house, and my friend Byres is also missing."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Rushbrook, who had now completely recovered his self-possession. "Be it so, then; let us go to the keeper's."

They soon arrived there, and found the keeper at home, for he had returned to his dinner. Rushbrook, who had been cogitating how to proceed, was the first to speak.

"You haven't taken my poor Joey, have you, sir?" said he to the keeper.

"Not yet," replied the keeper, surlily.

"You don't mean to say that you know nothing about him?" replied Rushbrook.

"Yes, I know something about him and about you too, my chap," replied the keeper.

"But, Mr Lucas," interrupted the pedagogue, "allow me to put you in possession of the facts. It appears that this boy—a boy of great natural parts, and who has been for some time under my tuition, did last night, but at what hour is unknown to his disconsolate parents, leave the cottage, taking with him his father's gun, and has not been heard of since."

"Well, I only hope he's shot himself, that's all," replied the keeper. "So you have a gun, then, have you, my honest chap?" continued he, turning to Rushbrook.

"Which," replied Furness, "as I have informed him already, will certainly be forfeited as a deodand to the lord of the manor; but, Mr Lucas, this is not all; our mutual friend, Byres, the pedlar, is also missing, having left the Cat and Fiddle last night, and not having been heard of since."

"Indeed! that makes out a different case, and must be inquired into immediately. I think you were not the best of friends, were you?" said the keeper, looking at Rushbrook; and then he continued, "Come, Mary, give me my dinner, quick, and run up as fast as you can for Dick and Martin: tell them to come down with their retrievers only. Never fear, Mr Furness, we will soon find it out. Never fear, my chap, we'll find your son also, and your gun to boot. You may hear more than you think for."

"All I want to know," replied Rushbrook, fiercely, for his choler was raised by the sneers of the keeper, "is, where my boy may be." So saying, he quitted the cottage, leaving the schoolmaster with the keeper.

As Rushbrook returned home, he revolved in his mind what had passed, and decided that nothing could be more favourable for himself, however it might turn out for Joey. This conviction quieted his fears, and when the neighbours came in to talk with him, he was very cool and collected in his replies. In the meantime the keeper made a hasty meal, and, with his subordinates and the dogs, set off to the covers, which they beat till dark without success. The gun, however, which Joey had thrown down in the ditch, had been picked up by one of the labourers returning from his work, and taken by him to the ale-house. None could identify the gun, as Rushbrook had never permitted it to be seen. Lucas, the keeper, came in about an hour after dusk, and immediately took possession of it.

Such were the events of the first day after Joey's departure. Notwithstanding that the snow fell fast, the Cat and Fiddle was, as it may be supposed, unusually crowded on that night. Various were the surmises as to the disappearance of the pedlar and of little Joey. The keeper openly expressed his opinion that there was foul play somewhere, and it was not until near midnight that the ale-house was deserted, and the doors closed.

Rushbrook and his wife went to bed; tired with watching and excitement, they found oblivion for a few hours in a restless and unrefreshing sleep.



CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

A CORONER'S INQUEST.

Day had scarcely dawned when the keeper and his satellites were again on the search. The snow had covered the ground for three or four inches, and, as the covers had been well examined on the preceding day, they now left them and went on in the direction towards where the gun had been picked up. This brought them direct to the furze bottom, where the dogs appeared to quicken their movements, and when the keepers came up with them again, they found them lying down by the frozen and stiffened corpse of the pedlar.

"Murder, as I expected," said Lucas, as they lifted up the body, and scraped off the snow which covered it; "right through his heart, poor fellow; who would have expected this from such a little varmint? Look about, my lads, and see if we can find anything else. What is Nap scratching at?—a bag—take it up, Martin. Dick, do you go for some people to take the body to the Cat and Fiddle, while we see if we can find anything more."

In a quarter of an hour the people arrived, the body was carried away, while the keeper went off in all haste to the authorities.

Furness, the schoolmaster, as soon as he had obtained the information, hastened to Rushbrook's cottage, that he might be the first to convey the intelligence. Rushbrook, however, from the back of the cottage, had perceived the people carrying in the body, and was prepared.

"My good people, I am much distressed, but it must be told; believe me, I feel for you—your son, my pupil, has murdered the pedlar."

"Impossible!" cried Rushbrook.

"It is but too true; I cannot imagine how a boy, brought up under my tuition—nay, Mrs Rushbrook, don't cry—brought up, I may say, with such strict notions of morality, promising so fairly, blossoming so sweetly—"

"He never murdered the pedlar!" cried Jane, whose face was buried in her apron.

"Who then could have?" replied Furness.

"He never shot him intentionally, I'll swear," said Rushbrook; "if the pedlar has come to his death, it must have been by some accident. I suppose the gun went off somehow or other; yes, that must be it: and my poor boy, frightened at what had taken place, has run away."

"Well," replied the schoolmaster, "such may have been the case; and I do certainly feel as if it were impossible that a boy like Joey, brought up by me, grounded in every moral duty—I may add, religiously and piously instructed—could ever commit such a horrible crime."