stood, that I wish to throw doubts on the veracity of those travellers who have described similar adventures. Was it not at a solitary roadside inn in England that a waggoner stopped to refresh himself and his horses; and was it not the landlord and a friend of his who followed the said waggoner for three or four hundred yards after he resumed his journey, knocked him on the head, and afterwards put it under the broad wheel of his own waggon? Was it not the landlord of a similar house of accommodation in France—who died quietly in his bed some four or five years ago—who used to drug the liquor of such unfortunate travellers as stopped for the night at his house, and bury them in an adjacent field before they had time to wake? And was it not within the last few months that in making a railway cutting they found the skeletons of his victims—the poor old woman who hawked needles and thread, beside the colporteur, whose books lay mouldering along with him in his unconsecrated grave; the miserly Savoyard beside the hard-working and still more miserly Auvergnat, both returning from Paris to establish themselves with their hard-earned savings as small landed proprietors among their relatives in their own country? It is worthy of mention, as illustrative of the foresight of this Boniface, that he is said to have been so remarkably kind and charitable to the two last-mentioned classes of individuals when they were tramping up to Paris, that they always made a vow they would stop and drink a bottle or two of wine at his house on their return; and, considering how many skeletons were found in this field, and how thoroughly he must have been used to this method of disposing of his guests, it is not impossible that he died regretting the crop of Savoyards and Auvergnats he had sown, and which he would not have an opportunity of reaping. Finally, was it not the landlord of an inn in an Italian city who, also within the last twelvemonths, was suspected by his guest to have sinister designs upon him, and consequently, finding it would be impossible to leave the house without resorting to force—a course of proceeding not to be thought of by an unarmed man in opposition to two armed ruffians—pretended to go quietly to bed, but only lay, with his clothes on, beneath the sheet, until he saw his host steal softly to his bedside, when he sprang out, snatched the knife from the hand of his would-be assassin, and, by a lucky thrust, laid him dead across the bed before he had time to utter a single exclamation? Is it not further recorded in the “Opinione,” the “Independente,” and sundry other Italian newspapers, how the said guest stood, afraid to move, not doubting that there were others only waiting for the signal to rush in and bear off his corpse, until he heard the rattle of some earth against his bedroom window. That he opened the window, and heard one request him softly to put the cosor in the sheet and lower it down. That he thereupon tied the body up in the sheet as compactly as was possible, and tumbled it out of window into the arms of the individual in the garden, and then crept quietly out of the street door to a post of the municipal guard close by, and made them acquainted with what had happened; and that the guard having made their way into the garden, found the landlord’s son in the act of filling up a hole, who replied to their inquiry, “What are you doing?” “Burying a dead ass;” but was horrorstruck, on being made to take out the body and unfasten the sheet, at finding that what he had termed a dead ass was the body of his own father.
I might go on quoting numerous other indisputable occurrences of a like kind at inns, but that would be to wander too far from the subject which I set out with the intention of narrating; and I have said sufficient to prove that inns have been the scene of even more horrible crimes than most of those already described. Besides, I have instances enough recorded in my note-book to form a distinct article.
It was about noon when I took possession of the room appropriated to my sole use for the remainder of that day and night, and it was just two hours past midnight when I sealed and addressed the envelope ready for the post. Not caring about sleep just then, I poured myself out a cup of coffee, lighted a cigar, and leant out of window to smoke it with the satisfaction of a man who feels that he has done his duty.
I had hardly time to distinguish all the beauties of the scene which the moonlight rendered visible, before my attention was attracted to the sound of horses’ feet and the rattle of wheels, which faded almost away, probably from being stifled by the trees which lined the road for a little distance, then again burst out afresh, and I knew by the sound that cavalry were approaching. In a very short time they had halted in front of the inn, and the captain called out to me—
“Now then, my good fellow, just step down and let my men have some hay and water for their horses, and be quick about it.”
“Monsieur seems to have mistaken me for the landlord. He had better direct his men to knock at the door.”
Mille pardons, Monsieur. I should not have expected to find a traveller at this out-of-the-way place.”
“Probably not; and as the fact of its being an out-of-the-way place renders it likely that you will not get the refreshment you would prefer, perhaps you will do me the honour to come up to my room and take a cup of coffee with me, as soon as the door is open.”
“Monsieur is an Englishman, I perceive. I shall be very happy to accept his invitation.”
As I had no desire to be mistaken for a Frenchman, my vanity was not at all hurt by this intimation that my accent was not Parisian. The captain gave some directions to his men, and then called to the landlord to show him up to my room. He was a resolute-looking man, with a somewhat domineering manner, not unusual among French officers in general, and cavalry officers in particular, but was an agreeable, manly fellow notwithstanding. I gave him a cup of coffee, and handed him my cigar-case, and after thanking me, he remarked:
“It is by no means an usual circumstance for us to be on the march at this hour, but a very unpleasant duty has devolved upon me—that of conducting an escort of two wretches who are to