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and without any supreme head, was of little importance. The Emperor was no longer with them, and the elements of resistance, which the imprudence of the march of the enemy might have rendered powerful, were paralyzed from the want of any direction. It was with difficulty that the exertions of the fourth corps of

of a division of English guards, and a brigade of cavalry, which had just arrived upon the field. Then it was that there was cause to regret the imprudent movement which had involved the brigade of carabiniers. When this fatal movement was ordered, this brigade was stationed precisely at the point where the English cavalry debouched; and to this cavalry Napoleon himself attri-cavalry at Senlis, succeeded in enabling the wrecks of buted the retreat of the guards. It is probable that this brigade would have been enabled to arrest the movement of the English cavalry, and thus have protected the retreat of the only reserve of the army.

Now, everything was finished; a retreat was inevitable. Night came on-it was impossible to re-establish order, or to arrest those who were running away. There was nothing but confusion and a fearful and irremediable rout, and such as might be expected after a battle, in which the whole army, even to the last battalion, had been engaged.

the French army to arrive before the enemy under the walls of Paris. It has been said that the news of the abdication of the Emperor, decided Wellington and Blucher to march directly on Paris; this is a mistake. The report addressed to the English government by Lord Wellington, immediately after the battle of Waterloo, contains these words: “I shall direct my course by forced marches, and by the shortest route, towards Paris.” When he wrote this on the evening of the 18th, he had received various news from Paris, but he could have had no knowledge of the abdication, which was only signed on the 22d.

The causes of the loss of the battle of Waterloo have been long discussed. There was one great cause, It was on the 29th of June that the army entered the predominant over the rest, and that was the great dis- lines of Paris, and not until the 1st of July that the proportion of the forces. When armies are nearly corps of Marshal Grouchy rejoined it. Marshal Daequal in intelligence, discipline and valor, victory will voust assumed the command. His first care was to naturally range itself with the greatest number of send a detachment of three hundred horsemen to St. troops, unless some miracle, some one of those extraordi-Germain, for the purpose of guarding that point, and nary events, on which it is always imprudent to reckon, seeing to the destruction of the bridge of Pecq, and intervene.

The picture of disorder and confusion on the fearful night that followed this battle was frightful indeed; it was a general sauve qui peut.

From this moment the Emperor completely disappears from the military operations. At Charleroi, where he had left no orders for rallying the army, they were even ignorant of the direction he had taken, Some troops of cavalry were united, who succeeded in covering the retreating movement, and corps were formed on the route of such fragments as they encountered. It was only at Avesnes that it was known that Laon was indicated as the rallying point.

We are only at the 20th of June. The second abdication of the Emperor, signed the 22d, was only known to the army on the 24th. But from the 20th the cause of Napoleon was lost, even among his own troops. The word abdication had been pronounced by the army, even before it was debated at Paris. On the 20th of June many of the most distinguished Generals of the army were assembled at Avesnes. At this meeting, in the presence of a Prince of the Emperor's family, and with his approbation, the errors of Napoleon were denounced in the most violent terms, and the necessity of depriving him of the command was as boldly asserted.

Certainly France had still other resources. An army of imposing size might, in the early days of July, have been assembled at Aisne. It might still have been expect ed that the enemy would march with prudence; it could hardly have been supposed that, inflated with the pride of victory, it would have neglected all the ordinary measures of precaution; that it would have left strong places behind it without taking the necessary steps for masking them, and have marched upon Paris without troubling itself with our army thus left on its flanks. But certain devoted friends had taken the pains to reassure the enemy upon the condition of the interior; and an assembly of disorganized troops, without orders,

watching all the passages of the Seine as far as Mantes; but in the meantime, a Prussian detachment had presented itself, and treason had opened a passage for it. The occupation of this important point, which opened to the enemy a passage over the Seine, decided its general movement in that direction. They had thus the double advantage of turning our positions at Montmartre, and of attacking Paris in the rear, if it was decided to force an entry. It obtained, besides, positions that would menace us. It sufficed, in fact, to glance at the heights of Meudon, St. Cloud, and St. Germain, to be convinced that the French army was not in a condition to dislodge the enemy. Marshal Davoust has been reproached for not having profited by this movement, to fall on the flank of the enemy in passing by St. Denis, and thus to have let slip an opportunity for crushing it. But could so decisive an action have been attempted with troops oppressed by fatigue, and absolutely demoralized? And at what moment could this sortie have been made? The march of the enemy was not known, when, thanks to a timely treason, it was executed; and the instant that it was executed it was too late to act with effect.

But the General-in-chief of the French army was, and ought to have been influenced by an anxious desire of preserving Paris from an assault. He could not have been justified in sacrificing the capital to the hope of a triumph without object, and of which, the result would probably have been unimportant.

The passage of the Seine, and the establishment of the main body of the enemy on the heights of Meudon and Châtenai, had rendered the situation of Paris and that of the French army much more critical. The army had to repass in great haste to the left bank to cover the capital, which was completely exposed on that side. It was anxious for battle, and would have defended, with desperation, the trust confided to it; but the Generals of the enemy would have taken care to avoid hazarding an ill-timed attack against troops, de

That there were treasons in the interior, I have no doubt. I have spoken of that of the bridge of Pecq, the author of which is well known: there were others besides. The Generals of the enemy would not have risked a direct movement on Paris, had they not been invited thither. Fouché, a man of great cunning, perfectly comprehended the dangers of the Emperor's situation; he had foreseen the issue of his attempt, and had abandoned him for the purpose of providing for his own future interests. But these treasons were of but little service to the enemy, who did not require them.

termined to struggle to the very last, and for the sole | ness and sang froid of the old regiments destroyed in purpose of advancing, by only a few days, their entry Russia, and in the campaign of 1813. into Paris. They accordingly took up their positions on the formidable heights of St. Cloud and Meudon, stretching out their right towards the road to Orleans, with a view to surround the French army, and to starve out the capital. Will it be pretended that Marshal Davoust should have sought out the enemy? He might and ought to have received battle on the plain of Montrouge; he desired it and he waited for it, but it would have been the height of imprudence to have offered it elsewhere. He could not suffer himself to be shut up in Paris, necessity forcing him to absent himself before the roads were closed against him; nor could he allow the capital to fall unconditionally into the hands of the enemy. In this delicate situation he was compelled to treat for the surrender of a place which he was unable any longer to preserve; and to take advantage of the impatience of Wellington and Blucher, to secure the fate of Paris and the retreat of the army. These considerations determined the capitulation of the 3d of July. Had that capitulation not been made, it would not have been the less necessary for the army to quit Paris; orders indeed, had been given, to effect that very night a retreat which it would have been imprudent to defer. The loss of a battle would have delivered Paris to the horrors of a city carried by assault-and yet battle was not refused; but in consequence of the enemy's inaction in avoiding a combat, a retreat was forced

upon us.

To arrive at the truth concerning the catastrophe of 1815, we must always recur to the same point. Success could only have been secured by a miracle, and fortune was weary of serving us.

WATER.

that does not at once feel and confess the influence of a body of There is no man, however cold or unexcitable in disposition, water. Go where you will, or with whom you may, when you approach the ocean, or an inland stream, or lake, every one will, in some way, by some exclamation, show that if all other things fail, this, at least, will awake the "sleeping poetry of the soul." The most grand and magnificent view of water, is from some craggy cliff, to watch the ocean in its wrath, when lashed to fury by the howling tempest. The most soothing and And besides, were the French army and its leaders pleasant view, is of some small lake in the heart of the woodswell convinced of the disposition of the population? the sun just tipped by the trees, and not a sound nor a breath The royalist party, overwhelmed by the event of the moving, or aught to disturb, save some "hastening bird on weary wing." The beautiful and clear reflection of every tint 20th of March, had been restored to life by the rumor and delicate tracery of the woods in the glassy water, the calmof the defeat at Waterloo. The Emperor had quittedness of its surface, and the holy silence that reigns around, never Paris, and left his most decided partizans without de-fail to speak to the heart. There is every variety of water fence and without hope. From the 22d, the minister, view, all pleasing and exciting-such as the heavy water-fallthe little mountain stream, dashing in merry haste to the valley then become the head of the provisionary government, below-the village rivulet, with its farm houses and rural beauhad been negotiating with the Bourbons; a second re-ties, or the broad inland river that affords vigorous support to storation was inevitable. What good then would have busy industry. But, altogether, I have never met with any been effected by the floods of blood which might have water view more varied and beautiful, or peculiar in its influ still been shed? Far from condemning Marshal Da-ence, than that of the James River, near Richmond. Every stranger, as well as inhabitant, confesses its charms, and the voust (and without minutely scrutinizing his intimate pencil has striven, in vain, to trace its beauties. But lovely as motives), we may thank him for not having yielded to is the river by day, yet to me, there is a melancholy pleasure the puerile vanity of risking a battle which might have and fascination in it at night, which I have never experienced added something to his military glory, but which, even elsewhere. The variety of its course, and the steady, unceas ing roar, made doubly impressive by the absence of other in the event of the most brilliant success, could not sounds, lead on the imagination with an irresistible impulse. have prolonged the struggle more than eight days If I am alone in this peculiar feeling, I am not alone in my ad. farther. miration of its other attractions. While under this influence a

Finally, treason has been spoken of; there was none in the army. There were three desertions on the evening of the 17th; but they had no influence on the events of the campaign. Faults committed at that period, have also been spoken of. There were some, doubtless, but the principal were those of the Emperor. It has been asserted, that the Generals exhibited weakness and indecision, and that the devotion of the soldiery was thus paralyzed. In this statement there is some truth and some falsehood. It will not be asserted that the Generals Count Lobau, Count de Valmy, Duhesme, Foy and some others, exhibited weakness or indecision. But there was but little enthusiasm in the army. The Generals, for the most part, fatigued with war, dared not risk anything, because they no longer found in their soldiers, who were too young, the firm

few nights since, I penned the following hasty

ADDRESS TO JAMES RIVER.

'Tis sweet, as falls the twilight hour
O'er river, hill, and scented glade,
When bees have left the closing flower,
And all is soft in deep'ning shade,
To muse within some woody spot,
Or near some gently sighing stream,
"Till worldly cares are all forgot,
And life seems like a pleasant dream.
But sweeter far, when day hast cast
Its closing glance upon the scene,
To moralize upon the past,
And dream of things that once have been.
Fair river! by thy troubled tide

Oft have I watched the daylight fade,
And marked thy waters onward glide,
Or idly on thy banks have strayed.
Though beautiful in sunset hour,
Thy brightly gilded waters are,
As still, or foaming on, they pour
Oe'r rocks, or by green islands fair;-
While all around the dying sun
Glances a mellow, golden light,
And slowly fading, one by one,
The purple clouds are lost in night,—
Though beauteous at this hour thou art,
And calm enjoyment soothes each sense,
Yet 'tis not then the willing heart,
Confesses most thy influence;
'Tis when fair day has left the sky,
And yon blue arch is lit with stars,
When the bound spirit strives to fly,
And fain would break its weary bars,-
Ah! then indeed the bosom feels
That fancy's wings brook no control,
And melancholy pleasure steals
Unconsciously upon the soul.
When, in the hours of silent night,
The thousands of the city sleep,
While, with an eye of tender light,
The moon its mournful watch doth keep,—
When winds, and trees, and birds are still,
And nature's self in slumber lies,-
When dew-drops shine on every hill,
And not a cloud floats in the skies,—
When, turning to itself, the soul
Communes upon the solemn past,
And feels that Time's resistless roll,
Must bring all to the grave at last,-
How sadly, to the bosom, swells
Thy voice upon the silent air;
For every tone, prophetic, tells
Fate's stayless step is echoed there.

Yon beauteous orb, so calm and pure,
Was there a thousand years ago,
And softly through its nightly tour,
Spread o'er the world its silver glow,
And thou, fair river, raised thy song,
And swept as now through vale and hill;
Thou sped thy sparkling steps along,
With wild, unchecked, and wayward will,
Those islands that thy bosom press,
And dip their verdure in thy wave,
Blushed forth in summer's lovely dress,
That found, as now, an early grave:
Then, o'er thy tide a simple race
Their light and fragile vessel bore ;-
But ah! each bright and fertile place
That knew them, knows them now no more.
Upon thy marge, the palace proud
Now stands with bold and stately air,
And where the savage meekly bowed,
Another people bend in prayer.

A few brief years-Time's blasting breath
Shall wither all around thee now;
This mighty nation, grasped by death,
To fate's decree, must humbled bow.

But thou wilt sing and sparkle on,
And through the night wilt raise thy wail,

When those that hear thee now are gone
Their journey through the shadowy vale.
Thus do I muse and sadly dream,
While listening to thy ceaseless moan;
For thou art like life's troubled stream,
That bears the world tumultuous on:
O'er rocks thy waves are wildly cast,
With here and there a clear, calm place,
Till in the distant ocean lost,

Thy form or path no eye can trace.

And man, through waves of smiles and tears,
Floats on Life's river to the sea:

The sun that lights his course soon wears,
And fades within Eternity.

Richmond, 1837.

L. R. S.

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The death of Lorenzo de' Medici, surnamed the Magnificent, on account of the lustre of his private virtues and his enlightened patronage of letters and arts, preceded the commencement of an era fraught with events destined to be fatal to the interests of Italy. The policy, prudence and reputation of this prince had contributed to maintain the balance of power among the republics, and to restrain the ambition of many petty sovereigns, particularly those of Naples and Milan.

and

Ludovico Sforza (Il Moro) governed Milan as Regent during the minority of his nephew Gian Galeazzo; when the latter attained the full age of manhood, continued to exclude him from the exercise of any share of the power belonging rightfully to him. The young duke was feeble and imbecile in character, and of infirm health, ill able to struggle against the encroachments of his uncle; but he had married Isabel of Arragon, daughter to the Duke of Calabria; and the lofty spirit of that princess ill brooked Ludovico's usurpation. With the timidity ever attendant on the consciousness of wrong, Ludovico stood in awe of the courageous resolution of this lady, whom he knew to have appealed to her grandfather, the Neapolitan king, in behalf of her husband; and his fears were increased by the intelligence of a league between Piero de' Medici and Ferdinand of Naples; intelligence followed speedily by a demand that the Milanese duke should be put in possession of his legitimate authority. Determined not to relinquish the power so unjustly gained, Sforza looked abroad for aid; endeavored to persuade the Pope, the Venetians and the Duke of Ferrara to unite with him for their mutual protection, and apprehending this measure insufficient for his security, took the fatal step of inviting the French king into Naples; thus sealing forever the ruin of Italian independence.

The throne of France was at that time occupied by Charles VIII. A grant of the kingdom of Naples by Urban IV, in 1274, to the brother of St. Louis, the Count of Anjou and Provence, had often been the ground of claims on the part of the French monarchs to the sovereignty of that portion of Italy; and when the promise of aid from Milan offered a fair opportunity for securing so rich a province, Charles VIII, in whose right ancient pretensions had merged, resolved to lose no time in making good his claim. He prepared to pass the Alps with a powerful army.

Though Ludovico had judged his application to the French king to be his only means of humbling Ferdinand, and securing himself against the danger of being compelled to resign his illegal authority, he was not without misgivings in his secret heart, as to the ultimate consequences of the step he had taken, in tendering his arms and treasures for the assistance of Charles. Scarcely was he certain that his invitation had been eagerly accepted-scarcely saw he, in prospect, the first lances of France gleam along the defiles of the Alps, than his restless fears were again awake; and a thousand apprehensions of which he had never dreamed in his eagerness for revenge, started up before him. But it was now no time to shrink; he had but to rush onward in his dark and crooked career, and close his eyes to the dangers that menaced himself.

The apartment was hung with various pictures, conspicuous among which was one larger and more highly finished than the rest, the work of a Cremonese pencil. It was the full length portrait of one of the former Dukes of Milan; a green silk curtain, drawn to one side of the gilded frame, showed the care taken to protect it from dust and smoke, with which defilement it was especially threatened from two chimneys, whose immense jambs, bright with burning faggots, yawned like some tomblike chasm on either side of the room. In front of the portrait was a seat covered with cloth, embroidered with silver, designed for the occupation of the principal individuals in affairs of state business; five or six other seats arranged with less luxury, completed the furniture of the room.

The Regent remained sitting with his head leaning on his hand, apparently lost in thought; nor started from his revery, when a footstep without, and a pressure on the fastenings of the door, gave notice of the approach of an intruder. When the door opened, his eyes glanced towards it; yet without changing his position, he pursued his meditations; while the air of his visitor indicated the easy familiarity of one used at all times to approach unbidden the presence of his superior. His garment of black serge was simply fastened by a ribbon of the same color;-thick bushy mustaches gave an air of gravity to features which, though strongly marked, were indicative of low cunning and repulsive to the utmost degree, nor rendered less so by an evidently assumed expression of audacity, meant to pass for conscious dignity. He came near the table, and remained standing a few moments, till Ludovico, with a deep sigh, removed his hand, and spoke, more as if communing with his own mind than addressing his companion.

"It will not do!" he exclaimed in a tone of despondency; "the train is fired, and I fear me, will spread further than we wot of. He has leagued with Maximilian; the cowardly Florentine is ready to throw himself at his feet; fate opens him a golden path to victory-worse than all-Orleans is on his way to Genoa! Ah! well I know at what prize HE is aiming!-Signor Malvezzi, look not so fateful! here alas! even thine art cannot avail me-unless I could send thee to cure the distemper at Asti."

It was towards the close of a brilliant day in the autumn of 1494. In the castle of Pavia the ill-fated young duke of Milan, then lying dangerously ill, was retained with his duchess, who was permitted to attend him. Apartments were assigned them in a remote part of the castle; and in a solitary room used as the private council chamber, sat he who held their destiny in his hands, the crafty Regent. Ludovico was alone: the rich light of the setting sun streamed through the high arched painted windows, and colored with crimson, fell full upon his figure. He was seated at a table covered with a carpet and strewn with parchments and papers, on which his eye seemed to rest with an expression of vexed dissatisfaction; he looked like some lonely and baffled magician, cheated by the very agents he had summoned to minister to his success. His features, as far as they could be discerned, half shaded by his hand, were most forbidding; his complexion, from the darkness of which he is supposed to have received the appellation of "the Moor," wore yet a gloomier tinge from his aspect of disappointment; his eyes, oversha- “Talk not of pleasure to me—I am foiled-entangled dowed by thick bushy brows, flashed with painful keen- in the web mine own policy hath helped to weave. I ness. The whole expression of the countenance, was would to heaven, Malvezzi, thou wert as wise a statesnot one of malignity, but of cunning, and shuffling man as thou art a skilful leech! thou, at the least, meanness; the quick glance, and momentary contrac- | art faithful.” tion of the brows, showed too the workings of a mind oppressed by fear of approaching evil; while the occasional movement of his lips denoted that he was laboring to form some decisive determination.

"If in aught I could pleasure your highness"-began the courtier-like physician.

"Hath aught chanced to trouble your grace ?" "All-all-falls out to my discomfort. Look at these pacquets; they bear me the intelligence that ruin, on every side, is falling upon Naples; yet from my A loose robe of dark colored velvet, lined with grey soul I repent me that I prepared that ruin! Charles of miniver, gathered round his waist by a belt from which France is recovered of his malady-and hastens to protruded the hilt of a poniard studded with gems-consummate my vengeance-yet would the ill-fated and an undervest of silk, composed his dress;-a bon-project had never been born of my unlucky brain!" net of the same material with the robe, was carelessly "Has your highness fears of him? Hath he not thrown upon his head, and a chain of gold, depending from a richly ornamented collar, fell as low as his waist, bearing the star of a religious order which had been conferred on him by the king of France.

guaranteed you possession of your dominions?"

"Mostro! what is the word of a king, pledged in purchase of men and treasure, when his desires are fulfilled, and its violation can pleasure an ambitious rela

tive? Thou know'st the claims of Orleans on the Dukedom of Milan ?"

"This very night! I repeat it"-answered Sforza; "the very fiend hath spurred him from Asti hither"Trust your fortune, my noble lord-shrink not from to visit, forsooth, his young cousin the duke, who he distant evils!"

has heard, lies ill at ease in this castle; I tell thee, leech, his coming must be provided for! I must forth to meet him—and this moment; be it thy care to prevent his sight of the prince. Shorten the business, if needs be-enough-Charles must not behold my ne

"Never! Malvezzi!” returned the Regent, pushing from him the pile of papers, and rising from his seat. "Yet one step-one-ay, and that in my power, could place me higher, and secure my elevation. The investiture of this duchy, granted me by the king of the Ro-phew alive! I leave ALL in thy hands.” mans, will avail nought with the discontented populace, nor with foreign courts, so long-so long-as any can dispute my rights."

The physician placed his hand on his heart-as if to intimate his sense of the responsibility—and with sullen haste, Ludovico departed. Ere an hour had passed,

"I understand you,” replied the physician; "you the principal street of Pavia presented a gay and stirwill soon be undisputed lord of Milan." ring scene. The King of France, accompanied by "Ha! is my nephew" gasped, rather than spoke twelve chevaliers, the flower of his nobility, entered the Regent. the city, received with the show of cordial reverence

"The malady gains strength apace. There are none and exulting friendship by the Regent. The young but myself to attend him"-answered the other-ap-monarch rode a superb Arabian horse, richly capariproaching nearer, and speaking in a whisper-while a soned in the Eastern style, which, with others of the glance supplied the horrid meaning to his words.

same breed, he had received as a gift from Bajazet the Magnificent. The royal armor was of silver, elegantly wrought by Spanish artificers; it covered his shoulders

Sforza could not suppress an inward shudder as his "trusty friend" thus announced the partial success of his villainy; but he quickly mastered the emotion—and breast, but descended not lower than the hips; and said in a low voice-"I fear me, we have been too hasty; the life of a prince, good friend, hath too many watchers to be safely tampered with ;-and the Lady Isabel"

"Think not so lightly of mine art-your highness. Her vigilance hath ample employment;-she has a child-"

from the lower border hung small plates of silver, light and easily moved aside, so as to prove no impediment to the rider. He wore a species of helmet of the same metal, the front of which was surmounted by a crown of the purest gold, while the back was turned up. It was closed at the side of the crown by a nail in the form of a star, whose rays were alternately of gold and

resembled in shape the top of a cardinal's hat. The dress was becoming, and added grace to the deportment of the monarch, who had not been so fortunate as to receive from nature the advantages of a fine figure, or a prepossessing countenance.

"Harm him not-on thy life, I charge thee!" ex-silver. The upper part of the helmet was divided, and claimed Ludovico, catching his arm. "They can be readily disposed of whenever they are no foes to mine ambition! meddle not with the mother and child!" "Nay"--said Malvezzi-"1 will pledge them health and safe passage from this good city, when the young duke is no more. His days, I warrant me, will not be long-for I know your highness' strait. But signify your will-he shall not live till midnight."

At his side rode Brissonet, his favorite, and one of his chief encouragers to the present enterprise. His attire was a strange mixture of the dress of the soldier and the ecclesiastic. He wore a vest of white silk and cloth of gold; a white mantle, fastened on his left shoulder with a rich clasp of gems, was suffered to fall, confined, however, at the waist by a belt embroidered with gold. The sword at his side, the gift of his royal master, was curiously ornamented; and in contrast to the implements of warfare, a cross of gold, attached to a violet ribbon, hung on his breast. In his left hand he carried a small shield, destined it would seem, more for ornament than defence: upon a white field were blended two devices ;-one in French had for a motto "L' "By our Lady"-ejaculated Sforza-" but I should humilité m'a exalté;" the other in Latin, ran thusknow that peal! without there-hoa!"

"My good Malvezzi,” replied Sforza, with a slight ironical emphasis on the adjective, "we are beholden for thy zeal. Could the state boast many servants true as thyself;" but ere he could finish the sentence, an unwonted tumult without, and the sudden winding of a horn, changed the current of his thoughts. The messenger who had sounded the signal for admittance, after a single blast, began to play an air of victory; the wild and exulting tones of the instrument rang through the silent corridors of the castle, and smote with no welcome music on the ears of its master.

The summons was speedily answered by the entrance of an attendant, who with a deep obeisance presented a pacquet; the Regent glanced impatiently at the superscription, tore asunder the silken string that secured its folds, and broke the massive seal, which bore the royal arms of France. Whatever intelligence the letter contained, seemed most distasteful to the reader; it was with deeper paleness on his dark features, that he refolded the pacquet, and calling his attendants, bade them prepare his train to go forth upon the instant; while he whispered some directions in the ear of Malvezzi. "To-night?" gasped the bewildered physician-"the King of France in Pavia to-night ?"

"Ditat servata fides."

The personage who after Brissonet rode next in the king's train, was of a very different character from the ambitious minister, yet one of no insignificant importance in those days in the equipage of the court-the king's dwarf. He was mounted on a low horse, the trappings of the animal adapted to the figure of the rider, who was arrayed in a doublet of yellow silk, with a square cap of deep red, so formed as not to add even the fraction of an inch to his stature. He had at his side a small flat sword, and a horn not unlike those with which the swine herds of Germany were wont to summon home their charge. His small round eyes, quick in motion and flashing with unusual brilliancy,

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