stable, while others preceding him with flambeaux conducted Francis to their master, who awaited his arrival in a room magnificently lighted up.
Poor Francis was seized with an universal tremour when he beheld the martial air and athletic form of the lord of the castle, who came up to him and shook him by the hand with so much force that he could scarcely refrain from crying out, and in a thundering voice enough to stun him, told him “he was welcome.” Francis shook like an aspen-leaf in every part of his body.
“What ails you, my young comrade?” cried the chevalier Bronkhorst, in his voice of thunder: “What makes you thus tremble, and renders you as pale as if death had actually seized you by the throat?”
Francis recovered himself; and knowing that his shoulders would pay the reckoning, his fears gave place to a species of audacity.
“My lord,” answered he with confidence, “you see that I am so soaked with rain that one might suppose I had swam through the Wezer; order me therefore some dry clothes instead of those I have on, and let us then drink a cup of hot wine, that I may, if possible, prevent the fever which otherwise may probably seize me. It will comfort my heart.”
“Admirable!” replied the chevalier; “ask for
