Here he rose from his chair (I, of course, rising also), turned himself round, and gazed at a map of France hanging on the wall; ran, too, his finger along it from the Pyrenees in the direction of Marseilles, while, as he did so, he muttered continually, yet loud enough to be quite audible to me—
"He would cross there—there, surely. Fifteen days to quit Spain, two to quit Madrid—seventeen altogether.
"Ran his finger along a map of France."
From the fifth. The fifth! This is the twelfth. Ten days still."
Then he continued to run his finger along the coast line of the Mediterranean until it rested on Marseilles, at which he stood gazing for some time. But now he said nothing aloud for me to listen to, though it was evident enough that he was considering deeply; but at last he spoke again.
"His Eminence must be met and escorted—yes,
