Seven times," he cried with an oath,--"seven times has a horse dropped under me to-day.

There's not an inch of me unbruised, curse me if there is! I'm a cake of mud." Misset knew very well why the courier had suffered these falls.

The horses he had ridden had first been tired by the Prince of Baden, and then had the last spark of fire flogged out of them by the Princess's postillions.

He merely shrugged his shoulders, however, and said, "That looks ill for us." The courier gazed suddenly at Misset, then at O'Toole, with a dull sort of suspicion in his eyes.
"And which way might you gentlemen be travelling ?" "To Innspruck; we're from Trent," said Misset, boldly.
The courier turned to O'Toole.
"And you too, sir ?" O'Toole turned a stolid, uncomprehending face upon the courier.
"Pour moi, monsieur, je suis Savoyard.

Monsieur qui vous parle, c'est mon compagnon de negoce." The courier gazed with blank, heavy eyes at O'Toole.