CHAPTER II. 



A VIRGINIAN. 



Breakfast was over in the snug hunting-quarters 

 of Count Matuschevitz and his Virginian friend, al- 

 though the materials had not yet been removed ; and 

 the remnants of the cold grouse pie, the rognons au 

 vin de madere, the omelette aux huitres, the chocolate 

 pot, and the two empty long-necks, redolent still of 

 the bouquet of chateau margaux, still spoke volumes 

 for the nature of the feed which had been set before 

 the representatives of the two most opposite powers, 

 the greatest despotism and the only republic of the 

 modern world. It was a calm, soft, genial morning, 

 such as is rarely seen in England during the dull and 

 depressing month of December — the month par excel- 

 lence of mist and melancholy, suicide and snow-squalls 

 — with a sun shining warmly through the fleecy va- 

 pors which partially veiled his lustre ; and a breath 

 of south-westerly wind, that fanned the brow and re- 

 galed the senses, like the first sigh of spring-time. 

 So grateful, indeed, was the weather, and so agreeable 

 this lingering of a gentler season into the very lap of 

 winter, that one of the windows of the breakfast-room 

 was left open, and that the friends sat on the broad, 

 soft cushions, with which the window-seat was spread, 

 gazing out into the unpaved yellow road, along which 

 the mingled groups of peasantry and gentry were re- 

 turning from the little village church, morning service 

 just ended. 



The Russian minister has been introduced already ; 

 his comrade, Colonel Fairfax, was a much taller and 

 (28) 



