He entered the room below as silently as possible; but Edward, who had heard his rapid step running up the stairs, turned his head, asking, "Is there any thing the matter above?"

"Only that your brother has escaped," said his lord.

"Thank God!" said the young man, with a smile. "Pray, do not pursue him, my lord."

"I will not," replied Montagu: "make your mind easy, Ned."

"Here come some people with a litter up the hill," said one of the blacksmiths.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

His reasoning was conclusive; and Edward Langdale was accordingly carried to the abbey and kindly received.

No need to dwell upon his illness. It was severe, but it was not fatal; and, by the reader's leave, we will advance six days in our story and look into the chamber which had been assigned him in the hospital-part of the building. Lord Montagu sat by his bedside with a cheerful look, and the young man was already able to raise himself upon his arm and listen to or answer questions. His noble friend had passed the intervening time, as he had proposed, at Aix, and his days were full of business and excitement; but still he had found leisure to ride out each day and visit his page.

"Well, Ned," he said, "you are now in a fair way. The surgeon tells me there is no doubt of your recovery now, if you have even tolerable prudence; so I shall leave you for a day or two and go to Turin. I trust you will be able to travel shortly after I come back; for I have wanted you much during your long absence, and shall want you more now. There is Henry Freeland; he is stupid as an ass; and then George Abbot, who has sense enough when you give him three hours to think over what he has to do, is as slow as an elephant."

"I was indeed very long on my journey, my lord," replied Edward; "but I can assure you I could not help it. One unfortunate accident after another detained me, as I have partly told you."

"Ay, Madame de Chevreuse wrote me all that," said Montagu. "You were ill from a knock on the head at Rochelle. You are too quick, my boy, and, I dare say, brought it on yourself; but I would rather have a ready hand and a ready head than a slow heart and a dull understanding. It was unfortunate, it is true; for it gave an excuse for sending away Lord Denbigh's fleet. But that was all a pretext. We understand these Rochellais well; and they will quarrel amongst themselves till they lose their city. Then you were caught by this great cardinal and detained by him. You must tell me all about that by-and-by. It is a marvel he hanged you not; and you must have managed him skilfully. But tell me about these two blacksmith horse-doctors you had with you. They say they met you on the road at Chartres, and that you would have none of their company."

"They say true, my lord," answered Edward. "I liked not their faces, and I wished to ride alone. Besides, I had seen one of them, I am sure, at Nantes, in the court of the castle; and I feared he might be one of the cardinal's people. But, as he is here in Savoy, whither he said from the first he was coming, I was probably mistaken. However, it is always better to be sure of your company."

"Oh, they are honest fellows," said Lord Montagu; "and, as I am continually wanting a smith, I have engaged them both to go with me as far at least as Liege. If they were the cardinal's men they would not go out of the cardinal's reach."

It may be necessary to explain that in those days, in Europe, men were much in the same state as travellers in Hindostan at present. Each servant you had with you had his specialty, and the train of a man of means and retinue consisted of a dozen more persons than any one now requires. It is true that at great towns you could find artificers of all sorts, ready to repair your coach or shoe your horses, or perform any services which the accidents of the road might require; but, if one of those accidents occurred between great town and great town, you might have to travel twenty miles with a lame horse or a broken vehicle, unless you had some one with you capable of rectifying the mischance upon the spot. Poor men were obliged to submit to such inconveniences, but the rich were prepared against them; and, as Lord Montagu's object was haste, and that rapidity of movement which is the best concealment, he very naturally desired to guard against all impediments.

The object of that nobleman in the long journey which he was even then taking was to forward the great schemes of one to whom he was devoted with a warmth and sincerity of attachment very rare even then, rarer still now. The famous Duke of Buckingham, favorite of two kings, and ruler for a time of both king and people, was a man of great and daring enterprise, of bold and courageous action, but of small foresight and of less discretion. Unfortunate in action, from causes which he often could not control, he was great in purpose and even obstinate in resolution. The fault was generally a want of capacity for detail, and a miscalculation of the means in his power as proportioned to the end he had in view. For the first time in life, however, he had now considered his steps well and devised each move on the political chess-board accurately. Whatever were his motives, (none has discovered them, nor, perhaps, ever will,) his present object was to humble France and to raise England at her expense; and, while he himself prepared eagerly for a war in which he was not fitted for command, his most intimate friend and confidant, Lord Montagu, was intrusted with the execution of that great political scheme which is the only bright point in Buckingham's career as a statesman. His task was, in the first place, to unite every discontented person and party in France against the crown, to combine Huguenots with dissatisfied Catholics, a turbulent nobility with a turbulent people, and to disunite the powers, wherever they might be, which supported the throne. But in the next place came the still more important part of the scheme. It was to bring together all the foreign enemies of France, a discordant and heterogeneous body, and to direct their efforts in one concentrated torrent against a kingdom already distracted by internal feuds.

Few men could have been better fitted for these tasks; but in some respects Lord Montagu was wanting. He was somewhat too confiding; though politic, he was not sufficiently reserved; though clear-sighted, he was not observant of small particulars.

Hitherto he had been successful in all he had attempted; and now, by Edward's bedside, he spoke with some satisfaction of all he had done:—how he had remained in France in despite of the terrible minister who then already ruled the destinies of that great country; how he had passed from house to house and castle to castle, giving consistency to plans and direction to purposes which had previously been vague and undefined; how he had obtained written assurances of co-operation and support from many of the most powerful nobility and the most influential factions in France; how his efforts in Spain and Lorraine and Savoy were all on the eve of triumph.

"Here," he said, "I have met with more difficulty than I expected. The court of the duke is divided. Many of his advisers have been gained by Richelieu, and a number of the chief nobility are attached to an alliance with France. It was to strengthen the hands of our friend the Abbé Scaglia, and to commit irrevocably to our party many of the most influential of these nobles, that we held the secret meeting in the old Chateau of Groslie, where you found us so unexpectedly. Your coming was not, in truth, inopportune; for all was settled, and further discussion would have done harm rather than good."

"I am glad your lordship has been so successful in great matters," said Edward, "while I have been so unsuccessful in smaller ones. Indeed, though I cannot trace my want of success to any fault of my own, yet I cannot help feeling that my failure to accomplish any thing that was intrusted to me must have shaken your lordship's confidence in me. Either I must have been stupid, or most unfortunate,—which is perhaps worse."

"Nonsense, lad!" said Lord Montagu. "Many of the most successful men I have ever known failed in their first efforts: some failed for many years. There is in circumstance, my good youth, a dead weight which no human strength can overcome. We sent you to France because you were likely to pass where no man of riper years and known reputation could have made his way; but we were well aware that you had difficulties to contend with which were sure to try you hard and probably might frustrate all your efforts. But you have not wholly failed. You have been delayed, impeded; but you have made known the views of England where it was necessary they should be known, and you have brought me intelligence of the state of preparation of his Grace of Buckingham, which was most important at the present moment."

"Indeed, my lord!" cried Edward, with a look of extreme surprise. "The cardinal minister opened all the letters and read them in my presence, and I heard no such intelligence."

"Look there!" said Montagu, taking a letter from his pocket and holding it up before the young man's eyes. "You thought that there was nothing on that sheet but what is written in black ink; and so did Richelieu; but he did not and could not discover all that is told in those orange characters unless he had possessed the secret, only known to three persons, of the liquid which brings out the characters from the apparently blank paper. It is only a marvel, my boy, that you passed at all. We hardly expected it; but you have passed, and, though delayed upon your journey, have brought me this intelligence in time. This cardinal is very shrewd; but there are people as shrewd as he. This news will hurry the movements of Savoy, Lorraine, the empire; and yet he had this letter in his hand and suffered it to pass."

"No thanks to me," said Edward; "for I knew not what was in it."

He was in a somewhat desponding mood, and inclined to undervalue his own services; but he could not help seeing that papers had been put into his hands which, unknown to himself, must have led him to an ignominious death if they had been discovered; and, for the time at least, he felt sick of political intrigue. There are moments; even in the midst of the bustle and turmoil, the eagerness and the excitement, of this world's objects and ambitions, when a consciousness of the excellence of perfect truth and plain sincerity comes upon us, and we feel that if all men would but follow the pure and plain injunction of the Savior, and do unto others as we would they should do unto us, we should be happier here as well as hereafter. We excuse to ourselves our own acts by the actions of others. We say, "We must fight our adversaries with their own weapons." We would be ready to follow the gospel precept if others would follow it; but each man has the same apology, and no one will commence obedience.

But Edward felt that it did not befit one so young to discuss ethics with his lord; and, changing the subject, he inquired, "How long did your lordship say you would be absent?"

"Some seven days," answered Lord Montagu. "And, from what the surgeon says, I judge you will be able to travel about six days after. I have work here for at least that time."

"I trust so, my lord; for I certainly feel my health improving," said the young man. "But I wish your lordship would not take those blacksmiths with you,—though they treated me well and kindly,—perhaps skilfully too: I can feel grateful to them, but cannot bring my mind to confide in them."

"Why, what is the matter with them?" asked Montagu, bluffly.

"I know not, my lord," said Edward; "but they have both bad faces,—a cunning and a double look."

"Pooh, pooh! prejudice!" said Lord Montagu. "They are mighty good folks. Why, they have already cured two of my horses, which the people here could make nothing of. You are sick and whimsical, boy. Now, tell me: how long did you stay at the Chateau of Dampierre? The fair duchess does not mention that fact; but she seems mightily smitten with you."

"But a day and a night, my lord," replied Edward, not without a slight flush of the cheek. "She received a command from the court to retire to Lorraine, and a letter—I presume from your lordship—arrived the same day, telling me to go to Gray."

"No need of reasons," said Montagu, somewhat shortly. "Well, have you heard that your somewhat unkind brother has succeeded in making his escape?"

"No; I have heard nothing, my lord," replied Edward. "You assured me he should not be pursued."

"Not so," answered Montagu. "A few words make a great difference, young man. I assured you I would not pursue him,—not that he should not be pursued; and the Abbé Scaglia, as in duty bound, ordered an immediate search for one who had attempted such a crime in his presence. It has thus far been unsuccessful, and I think will prove so altogether."

"Has nothing at all been heard of him?" asked Edward.

"Very little that can be at all relied upon," replied Lord Montagu. "The servant who was with him when he so rashly leaped his horse into the river was apprehended and questioned. He says that Sir Richard was on his way to Lyons when the accident occurred; but on that road no trace of him can be discovered. A peasant declares he met with a man of an appearance like his, without boots, hat, or sword, wandering along the mountain-paths toward Les Echelles, and a little boy says he saw the same person at a distance; but this is all that has yet been discovered."

"I would fain beseech the Abbé Scaglia to drop all pursuit," said the young man; "but I fear they will not let me write. It is useless to seek for him now that I am, as they say, recovering; and, moreover, my lord, I think I was myself a good deal in fault. My words were rash and intemperate. I could not have borne them myself had I been in his place."

"They certainly were not very sweet," said Lord Montagu, with a laugh; "and I will tell the abbé what you say, Ned. But you will soon be well, I do trust, and then this affair will terminate of itself."

The conversation was not prolonged much further; and Lord Montagu left his young friend to the care of Pierrot and Jacques Beaupré and the attendance of the good sisters. Every kindness was shown him. The room in which he had been placed was large and airy; the sunshine and the sweet summer air came streaming in at his window, and day by day his health improved; but still illness is ever tedious, and the hours passed heavily along. Thought was his only resource; but, for a young man of his character, thought—even enforced thought—is a blessing. The adventure which had so nearly closed his life was not without its good results. He reproached himself for the harsh words he had uttered and the harsh feelings he had entertained toward his brother, and he resolved to nourish better things in his heart. The five or six preceding years and the events they had brought with them had all had a hardening tendency; but, one by one, during the few last months, softening lessons of various kinds had disciplined and entendered without enfeebling his spirit; and on the sixth day after Lord Montagu's departure Edward rose for an hour or two from his bed of sickness, a very different being from him whom we first introduced to the reader.

CHAPTER XXIX.

"Why should I be so angry with my brother?" he thought. "If he had not taken from me my property, what a different creature I should have been!—a country squire with a pack of hounds; a justice of the peace some day, to hear old women's plaints about robbed orchards and violated hen-roosts! I should never have been Lord Montagu's page; I should never have met with dear, dear Lucette. Sweet girl! where is she now? Does she think of me still? Does she ever regret the indissoluble bond that binds us together?"

Then the train of thought became somewhat more gloomy. He recollected that for two long years—how sadly, sadly long they seemed in prospect!—he was not to see her. And what might happen in the interval? All means, all arts, would be used to induce her to forget him, to break their union, perhaps to make her love some other; and he felt for an instant, as he thus pondered, the little, sharp sting of jealousy,—the most poignant of pangs.

The world has always been full of tales of woman's fickleness, and Edward had heard them,—tales in which her firmness and her truth are often forgotten altogether. But speedily came better thoughts and nobler confidence. Lucette was full of gentleness, was of a tender, loving nature, he knew; but he thought he had remarked, in the various scenes through which they had passed,—scenes well calculated to try a young girl to the utmost,—a strength, a constancy of purpose which bade him trust.

"She will not abandon me," he thought. "She will not bestow that love upon another which was first mine,—is mine by right. Dear, beautiful girl! there is truth and enduring love in those clear, liquid eyes. Oh that I could see her again but for one moment! Oh for one embrace, one kiss!"

The day declined, and night came on. They brought the invalid the scanty supper that was allowed him, and, an hour or two after, Pierrot came to take away the light; for Edward, who had slept very lightly for several nights, had expressed a wish that the night-lamp and the good folks who had hitherto watched him might be withdrawn. He thought he should rest better, he said, if he were quite alone and in darkness. He was not mistaken. From ten till twelve he slept more soundly than he had done for many days. He heard the abbey clock strike twelve, however, but it was but a momentary interruption of his slumber; and he was turning round to sleep again, when the door of the chamber creaked a little upon its hinges. The room was large and the windows well shaded; but, as Edward lay with his face toward the door, he could see a gleam of moonlight partly interrupted at the door-way, and he gazed to discover who was coming in. The figure was small, the garments those of a woman; and the youth thought, "One of the good sisters, to see if I am sleeping well. She means it kindly; but I wish she had not come."

Unwilling to have any conversation, he shut his eyes again and affected to be still asleep; but the door was gently closed, and then a light footfall crossed the floor. It stopped near his bedside, and then a hand lightly touched him; for the room was very dark, and probably the visitor, whoever it was, did not see any thing distinctly.

"This is strange," thought Edward: "the sisters commonly have a lamp with them."

The stranger paused where she stood, and seemed to be gazing down upon the spot where he lay; and then she quietly crossed the room to where a small crack between the blind and the wall showed a very narrow ray of moonshine. She quietly and softly pulled back the blind a very little farther, so as to admit the slightest possible light into the room, and then returned to the bedside and gazed down again. A moment or two after, Edward felt the pressure of a cool, delicious kiss upon his cheek. He could affect sleep no longer, and opened his eyes; but it was in vain. He could neither see the face nor distinguish the garments of his visitor; and, stretching forth his hand, he caught her dress, saying, "Who are you? what is it you seek?"

She answered not; but, kneeling down by his bedside, she threw her arms round him, covering his lips and brow with kisses; and he thought he felt a warm drop or two fall from her eyes upon his cheek.

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the young man, raising himself on his arm; "who are you? What is this? I should know that kiss; but I do not—I cannot believe in such happiness. Tell me, tell me who you are!"

She put her soft cheek, wet with tears, close to his, and whispered, "Dear, dear Edward! Who am I? Who but your own Lucette,—your own wife? And did you know my kiss? Never, never forget it, Edward." And she kissed him again and again, as if she would fix the soft pressure of her lips upon his memory forever.

"Never! never!" he said, putting his arm round her. "But am I in a dream? I cannot believe that this is a waking truth."

"Lie down," said Lucette, "and do not be agitated, dear husband; otherwise I must leave you. It is no dream, though it seems almost as much so to me as to you. I thought you would forgive me for waking you; and I could not be so near you, and you ill and wounded, without one word of affection before we go on. I am afraid it was cruel and wrong, when you were sleeping so calmly. But tell me yourself that you are better,—that you are getting well. The good sister who told me all about your wound said you would soon be able to ride out. They are all anxious about you here; but who can be so anxious as I am?"

"But tell me more, dear Lucette," said Edward, disobeying her, and still holding her to his heart. "How came you in Savoy? how came you here? how did you find your way hither?"

"I came on with the family of Monsieur de Rohan," answered Lucette. "He judged it best we should all quit France for a season and go to Turin or Venice, while he endeavored to deliver Rochelle; and when we arrived here the first thing the nuns told us was of the young foreign cavalier who lay wounded under their care. When I heard your name, I seemed for a moment to have no feeling in my heart, no thought in my brain; but I soon recovered. I got the good sister who attends upon you to tell me all; and, by prayers and entreaties and the gold cross I used to wear, I induced her to bring me here, telling her that you are my husband,—my own wedded husband. But I promised her, Edward, not to agitate you or talk to you too much, and only to stay five minutes."

"Oh, stay, Lucette! stay!" said Edward, forgetting all consequences. "Dearest girl, do not leave me! Lord Montagu will be back to-morrow. Must you go on to Turin?"

"Remember your promise to the cardinal, Edward," she answered. "I must remember mine to good Sister Agatha. If I break my promises to others, you will not believe mine to you,—although I fear I have already somewhat failed, and agitated you more than I intended."

"Five minutes have not passed yet," said the youth, feeling that she was about to rise from her knees, where she had hitherto remained. "Oh, no! it is but an instant since you came, dearest! Another kiss, dear Lucette. Could I have had them before, I should have been well ere this." He took another, and not only one; and, between, he told her he was really better, and would soon be well, and that he would try some means to see her soon, and at the end of two years would seek her as his wife, whoever might oppose; and she on her part promised that he should not seek in vain, but should find her ever ready to go with him to the ends of the earth.

But the five minutes were certainly outstayed; and Lucette's heart was reproaching her, and Edward was thinking how he could ever part with her, when the door opened again, and Sister Agatha came in to remind the poor girl of her promise.

It was a hard parting,—harder, perhaps, than it had been before; and many another word had to be spoken and many another kiss to be taken ere they could separate. Sister Agatha was no restraint upon them, and, to say sooth, entered into their feelings with sympathies not altogether consistent with her vows. What they said she could not understand, for they spoke in English; and, though she had a certain portion of French and a good deal more of Italian, the rich Anglo-Saxon tongue was to the good old soul a most harsh and un-intelligible jargon, and she wondered that such pretty lips as Lucette's could pronounce the hideous sounds. The five minutes were lengthened to half an hour after her arrival, for Lucette felt she was breaking no promise when the person to whom it had been made was present and not an unconsenting party; but in the end Sister Agatha insisted that they should part, asking Lucette in a reproachful tone if she would kill the poor young man.

"I have been selfish," said Lucette, rising from the edge of the bed where she had been sitting; and, kissing him once more, with a long, tender, lingering kiss, she left him.

Thus they parted, not to meet again for a longer period than they anticipated. They could hardly be said to have seen each other, for Sister Agatha had left her lamp at the door, and the ray of moonlight which Lucette had let in was very faint; but that interview, short as it had been, was something for memory to fix upon during many months.

The first effect upon Edward Langdale was what Sister Agatha had dreaded. It had agitated him much, and for more than one hour after Lucette had left him his heart beat and his brain throbbed, and sleep deserted him as if she never would return. But the reaction was balmy. He had met her again; he had held her in his arms; he had tasted once more the honey of her lips; and there was a sort of superstitious feeling about him as if a bad spell had been broken. He had felt a dread till then that some old rhyme he had heard in his young days was to be verified in his own case. It was somewhat to the following effect, though I know not if memory retains it rightly:—

It had haunted him, that old distich, ever since he left Lucette under the care of the Duc de Rohan; but now the vision was dispelled. They had met again, and his Lucette loved him still as warmly, fondly, as he could wish. It was a dexter omen; and, with more faith than ever Roman augur possessed, he interpreted it to forebode future happiness. Joy, however, is wakeful as well as sorrow; and, even after the first effect of agitation and excitement had passed away, he lay sleepless and thoughtful, but very, very happy. He remembered many a word he could have wished to have uttered, many a question he would willingly have asked; but the great question of the heart was answered. She loved him still unchanged; and Edward was at a time of life when hope and trust were sure to rise out of such assurance. Gradually fatigue and exhaustion did their work upon the body, and, through the body, upon the mind. Had there been trouble in the spirit, he might, and probably would, have slept a few minutes, from mere weariness, to wake speedily with irritation, if not fever. But the heart was at rest; and as soon as his eyes closed he slept like a wearied but happy child, calmly, profoundly, long, and only woke some three hours after every other person in the abbey. His look was relieved, his color better, his eyes more bright. During that night he had made the first rapid stride toward convalescence.

Oh, if physicians would but take pains to discover whether the malady lies most in the mind or the body, what cures might be performed!—if they could but find the medicine! But happiness is a mithridate so compound and so fine that, search over the world, you will find few places where it can be procured, and never—alas! never—pure and unadulterated. That villanous serpent has left his slime on every thing.

The whole day Edward Langdale waited impatiently for the return of Lord Montagu; but he waited in vain: Lord Montagu did not appear. Another and another day passed: still he was absent. Young men calculate not the many impediments which lie between design and performance. "He could easily do this; he might easily have done that," is the constant cry; when in truth it would have been impossible for the person spoken of to have done any thing more than he did do. The smallest thing in the world overthrows the grandest scheme, frustrates the most positive assurance. Is it accident,—that refuge of the destitute? Is it not rather the quiet intervention of that ruling Power which, foreseeing all man's acts, bends the results to the accomplishment of his own predetermined purposes?

Edward Langdale was impatient. Strength was returning fast: when he coughed, his handkerchief came from his lips unstained with blood; his wound was nearly healed, and he longed to pursue his career of active exertion. But he did not know that the Duke of Savoy had been out to kill deer in the mountains, and that Lord Montagu was forced to wait his return. In the mean time, however, he rose earlier each day. He went out; he roamed round the abbey; he visited the city; and the only thing which retarded his complete recovery was his impatience. He was eager to get on,—too eager. He had always been too eager; but there was a great difference between his eagerness now and that of former years. Hitherto he had been moved only by the vague, aspiring hope of youth,—so often disappointed till the frost of age and the chill of adversity have withered the plant and blighted the flower and destroyed the fruit under the bud,—the hope of doing some-thing great in life. Now he had a more definite object, a clearer purpose. It was Lucette.

CHAPTER XXX.

The expression of Lord Montagu's face when he at length rejoined his page at Aix was calm and well satisfied, cheerful, but not particularly gay. Yet Edward, who had enjoyed many opportunities of witnessing the effect of various emotions upon him, clearly perceived that he returned with full success. Had his mood been merrier, the page might have doubted; had he been full of the playful wit or the light jest which distinguished the cavaliers of those days, the youth might have supposed there was disappointment under the levity; but that quiet and composed demeanor he knew meant success. Their first meeting was at the inn where Montagu had lodged while previously at Aix; for the youth had gone down each evening for the last two or three days to watch for his arrival: but on the night in question his lord had ridden into the town some half-hour before the time he was expected; and when Edward entered his chamber he was sitting with a book in one hand and a spoon in the other, lightly running over the pages, and from time to time taking a spoonful of soup flavored with those delicious truffles of Savoy which have often kept kingly couriers running between Paris and Turin.

"Ah, Ned!" he exclaimed, as soon as he saw the lad. "You have recovered wonderfully soon: a little pale still; but that is natural. How say you? can you ride forward three days hence?"

"Whenever your lordship pleases," answered Edward. "I am only eager to get on; and this inactivity does me more harm than all the exercise in the world. I am quite well, my lord, and only a little weak."

"Do not be impatient," answered Montagu, with a smile. "We cannot go on just yet. Oakingham is ill now, poor fellow! I have ridden too fast for him; and he broke down during the last stage, and has gone to bed. So I am without any one to write my letters for me to-night."

"Can your lordship trust the task to me?" asked the young man.

"Oh, trust you? Certainly, Ned," replied the other. "But will it not hurt you?"

Edward expressed his readiness; and the letters were written, full of that well-satisfied confidence which in this world is so often destined to disappointment. Fate is no better than a fine silk stocking, in which one stitch or another is sure to run down ere we have taken a dozen steps in the ball-room of the world: well if it be not rent from top to toe! There are no key-stones in the architecture of our designs; and, if a pebble slips, woe be to the whole edifice!

But we are getting a little ahead of the story, or, at least, foreshadowing conclusions which should be reserved in solemn secrecy for the moment of their occurrence.

The letters being written, one of the noble lord's grooms was called up, furnished with money and directions, and departed to bear the missives to their several destinations as rapidly and as carefully as he could.

"There goes another," said Montagu. "That is the fifth courier I have sent off this week. Upon my word, Ned, if it had not been for your coming with two lackeys and two blacksmiths I should soon have been without any train at all. But you seem not to love your two blacksmiths, my boy. What has set your face against them? Have they lamed your horse, or found you out in a love-affair with the landlord's daughter, cheated you of two livres Tournois, or eaten the only fish upon a jour maigre?"

"None of all those great offences, my lord," replied Edward. "They are good smiths; I have not been fortunate with mine host's daughters; their charges are compassionate to youths without experience; and no trout that I know of has slipped off my own hook. But one of them I am certain I saw in the court of the chateau at Nantes; and I like not the countenance of either."

"Pshaw!" said Lord Montagu. "Do you give way to the superstition of physiognomy? Why, cut me across the nose with the back-handed blow of a spadroon, and you make a marvellous ill-favored fellow out of a gay gentleman who has not been thought unpersonable. Nonsense, nonsense, Edward! The best nuts have the roughest shells. The diamond itself is but like a pebble-stone till it is cut and polished. And where in the fiend's name should either of these two poor devils get ground down or burnished?"

"Well, my lord, I say not a word against them," answered Edward. "They told a true tale, it seems, as to their journey. To me they were wonderfully kind when I was hurt. Neither do I mind mere ugliness: that is God's doing; and it may be as a warning to others, or it may not: I cannot tell. But there is a sort of look—an expression—which men beget in themselves by their habitual acts or thoughts, which is a great truth-teller, I think. Now, these men look cunning. Each of them squints, too, more or less. One cannot see whom or what they are looking at."

Lord Montagu broke into a gay laugh. "As if every man," he said, "should be condemned who does not square his gaze by line and rule. Out upon it, Ned! If ever you fall in love, you will need an astrolabe to measure the exact angles of your beauty's lustrous orbs. Why, some of the best men in England squint like a green parrot. More lucky they, if they can see both sides of every thing at once. But I will show you a man to-night who shall come up to even your ideas of perfection. He ought to be here about this hour. Oh, he is a marvel of beauty and grace!"

Thus saying, he knocked hard with the hilt of his dagger upon the table, and one of the servants of the inn appeared. "Show in the illustrious Signor Morini whenever he comes," said Lord Montagu: "we must not keep so great and amiable a personage waiting."

"He is here now, monseigneur," answered the servant.

"Well, conduct him hither," answered the English gentleman, "and tell my servant to give you a bottle of that delicious Italian wine which I sent on from Turin. Three Venice glasses, too, must be brought, and a small plate of sugared peaches."

The waiter retired, and, a moment or two after, one of the most singular figures entered the room that Edward had ever seen. It was that of a man, not old, but past the middle age, dressed in the height of the fashion, beribboned and belaced, with a long rapier by his side, which would have touched the ground had it even been borne upon the thigh of a tall man. But Signor Morini was not a tall man: on the contrary, he was certainly not more than four feet two or three inches in height, with a back bent into the shape of the bow of a double-bass. He was thin, too, and his face—with the exception of the eyes, which were large and lustrous—was of that peculiar ugliness which is frequently seen in the deformed, the features all packed together and looking as if they had been pinched to get them into a smaller space.

No consciousness of ugliness appeared in his demeanor, however,—no timidity, no shyness. He entered with the strut of a bantam-cock, while his rich but short cloak, borne out by the round of his back so as to hang far off from his person, afforded no bad image of the tail of the bird. He saluted Lord Montagu with ceremonious respect, and stared at Edward Langdale with an unwinking gaze which was almost insolent, smoothing down the little sharp tuft of sandy-colored hair which adorned his chin in the form of what was then called a royal, with an air of ineffable puppyism.

"Ah, my lord," he said, in French, "you see I kept my word and was at Aix two days before you. But who is this young gentleman? I do not know him. He was not in your suite at Turin, I believe."

"This is my young friend and gentleman, Monsieur de Langdale," answered Lord Montagu, with much assumed politeness. "Let me present him to you, Signor Morini. He is a philosopher like yourself, and deals, as you do, in the great science of physiognomy, though of course his youth places him far behind you in knowledge."

Edward and Morini exchanged bows and salutations, the latter either not at all perceiving, or not appearing to perceive, that there was a vein of jest running through Lord Montagu's politeness which might not have been very flattering to his vanity. "Ha! a philosopher!" he exclaimed. "I am right glad to see any one who, in these degenerate times, devotes himself to the only great, pure, and noble pursuits on which the mind of a man can expatiate. What is the particular science to which you have most addicted yourself, young gentleman? What have you lately been studying?"

"Nothing," replied Edward, almost inclined to be rude. "My lord does me too much honor in calling me a philosopher."

"Nay, nay," said Montagu, laughing: "if I may judge from letters I have received, and from what you yourself have told me, you have been lately studying much,—fair ladies' hearts and prime ministers' heads,—Ned. He has quite captivated a duchess and smoothed down a cardinal. But what he means, learned signor, is, that, having been badly wounded by a sword which let rather too much daylight into the dark chamber of his chest, his only study was to get well again."

"Did you anoint the blade?" asked Morini: "the blade should always be anointed at the proper hour of the moon. Had I been here he would have been well in a few days."

"Probably," said Montagu, gravely; "but we had no one but poor, ignorant surgeons, who forgot the precaution you mention."

"Ah, they are stupid and hard-headed creatures," replied the other: "they never consider that man is composed of an animal and an ethereal part indissolubly linked together, each depending upon the other, and both affected by higher influences. The sympathies which exist between all created things they take into no account. The compelling powers of the whole heavenly host upon the human frame, upon every part thereof,—upon man as an animal, upon man as an angel, upon man's whole fate and destiny, upon his mixed and separate natures,—are mere visions to them; and the time will come, my lord, when this mere material view will prevail over all the earth: intelligence—spirit—will be superseded, and engines will be invented to do the work of mind as well as matter. Where was your wound, young gentleman?"

"Here on the right breast the sword entered," answered Edward; "and it went out here, just under the shoulder."

"A dangerous wound!" replied the little man, gravely. "None but a brother's hand could have inflicted that wound and the sufferer survive."

Lord Montagu and Edward both started; but Morini went on, without seeming to perceive their surprise. "Nature abhors," he said, "such acts, and often frustrates them. The crime of Cain—the first and most terrible the world ever saw, the origin of death, the eldest-born of evil—is repugnant to every thing animate and inanimate. Fibres and tissues join which seem rent apart forever, and humours flow of themselves, nerves act without cause, all to repair the consequences of the terrible act, while thunders fall to prevent it and rocks to hide it. But what is written up there must be,—shall be; and it is possible this very wound, given by a brother's hand, may work great changes in your life."

"I trust it will," said Edward.

"But how did you know it was so given?" asked Lord Montagu.

"By the simplest of all means," replied Morini: "from knowing it could be given in no other way."

As he spoke, he turned round sharply, for the door behind him opened suddenly. It was but two of the servants of the inn, bringing in the wine and the Venice glasses; and their coming so laden was certainly not at all unpleasant to the learned signor, who did full justice not only to the wine but to the confections also. While the party regaled themselves, the conversation wandered to many topics,—some of little, some of much, interest, with variety always agreeable. Indeed, Morini, who undoubtedly led, did not suffer it to rest long upon any subject. He spoke of several of the most celebrated people of Europe, of that and of the preceding age. He had seen King James, he said, shaking his head. "I did think," he said, "that homely sovereign would never have died a natural death, for he certainly brought a dark and bloody cloud over the royal house of England. But you will remark, my lord, I could never obtain clearly the particulars of his nativity; otherwise I could not have been mistaken. However, the aspects in the horoscope of his successor are more unfavorable still, I hear."

"Now, Heaven forefend!" said Lord Montagu, warmly: "he is a right noble monarch, and, though the commonalty do fret and storm, he is too strong and firm for them to shake him. But what say you of the great and gallant Duke of Buckingham, signor? There is a man born to success and honor."

"His star has passed its culminating-point," said Morini: "there is something dark and sad behind. His life cannot be long. Perhaps he may die upon the battle-field in this new war; but I think it more likely he will receive his death in a private encounter. He is hot and fiery, they say. Such a thing is probable."

Montagu shook his head. "Few things less probable," he said: "there are not many men in England who would venture to call Buckingham to the field; and, though his is so free and noble a spirit that he would very likely consent to meet any one of gentle blood, yet he would not willingly offend the king by such rashness."

"Well, 'tis a foolish practice," said Morini, changing the subject,—"ay, and a barbarous one too, my lord. We derive it from the worst and rudest times of history. Who ever heard of a Roman or a Greek fighting a duel? Yet they were brave men, those ancients."

"Yet you go well armed, signor," said Lord Montagu, pointing to his long rapier, with a smile.

"It is good always to be prepared," answered the other. "Besides, this rapier has many qualities and perfections, for which I value it. The blade is true Toledo, the sheath wrought by Jean of Cordova. Then the hilt, you see, is of silver, exquisitely cast by Cellini's own hand. Did you ever see a more graceful group than the two figures which compose it?—a warrior putting his hand to his sword, and a young girl with her arm round his neck pressing the weapon back into the sheath,—types of courage and moderation. The dagger is a curious relic of the feudal times,—a kill-villain, as the young Genoese nobles used to call it. We have no such handiwork as that now, my lord," he continued, as Montagu examined the weapon. "'Tis curious how arts and sciences are lost, and how, whilst mankind deem they are making great progress, they are falling back in one path as much as they are advancing in another."

Edward Langdale went round to Lord Montagu's side and gazed at the workmanship of the sword and dagger over his shoulder, murmuring, as he did so, "Beautiful, indeed!"—much to Morini's satisfaction.

"You seem to be a judge of such things, young gentleman," said the Italian.

"But little," said Edward: "my father, indeed, had some fine specimens of art which he had brought over to England from this country; but any one who sees a beautiful and graceful figure, well executed, must know and admire it."

"Your pardon! your pardon!" cried Morini. "The eye and the taste both want educating. Had you not seen and admired those objects of your father's, you would probably not have discovered the beauty of this. If you stay long in Aix, I can show you some other things well worth your observation."

"My stay depends entirely upon my lord," replied Edward; "but I think if he have no further commands I must retire to the abbey, for it is late."

"I will accompany you part of the way," said Morini, rising.

"Nay," said Lord Montagu, "you forget you came here for a special purpose, my good signor. Edward can go; for, though he has faith in physiognomy, he has none in astrology, I believe; but you must stay with me a little longer. Come early to-morrow, Ned, and bring your two men with you."

"It is wrong, my lord," said the Italian, "very wrong, to put full faith in an uncertain science and refuse it to a certain one. But I will convince him in a moment before he goes home. Come hither, young gentleman, and let me speak a word in your ear."

Edward went round to the side of the table where he was still standing, and bent his head a little. Morini dexterously placed himself between the young man and his lord and slipped a folded paper into his hand, whispering, "Read when you get home."

"Are you now convinced?" continued the Italian, aloud; but Edward, while bending down his head to listen, had kept his eyes raised thoughtfully to Montagu, and he saw—what the other had not seen—that his lord was not unaware of what had passed. He kept the paper in his hand, however, and took his leave; but, determined that, if needful, Lord Montagu should know the contents of the paper that very night, he called for a light at the foot of the stairs. He found a note in his hand, neatly folded, and tied with silk. It was addressed to him, and, on opening it, he saw a few lines beautifully written in a woman's hand, and, at the bottom of the page, "Lucette."

All other thoughts were gone; and he hurried to the abbey to read in a less exposed place.

CHAPTER XXXI.

"My Beloved Husband:—I think you will be glad to hear of me after my leaving you so shortly a few nights since. We have reached Turin in safety, and without accident; but it was a weary journey for me, as every step took me farther from the place where I wished to remain. We are going on to Venice in three days, and there I am to be placed with a Madame de la Cour, a cousin of the Duc de Rohan, and a distant relation, I am told, of my own. I am glad of it, for I cannot love the duchess. I trust this to the care of an Italian gentleman going to Aix. He passes for an astrologer; and Madame de Rohan, who is very superstitious, receives him with great distinction. She would fain have had him draw the horoscope of all the household, and we each had audiences apart. But I could tell him nothing of my own birth,—neither date, nor time, nor place. He, however, contrived to draw from me, before I well knew it, something of my history, and has promised to take this and deliver it to you secretly, if I write it quickly. He knows Lord Montagu, and is to join him at Aix. Perhaps I have been imprudent to tell him any thing; but his questions were so artfully shaped that I knew not how to answer; and I cannot resist the temptation of sending you these few words, to let you know where I am and where a letter will find me. Whenever a change occurs, I will try to find means of letting you know, in order that when our long period of separation isover you may be aware where to find your Lucette."

Such were the lines upon which Edward's eyes rested as soon as he reached his room in the abbey; and, though very simple, they gave him matter for thought during one-half of the night. That thought was all sweet; but on the following morning other considerations suggested themselves. He felt certain that Lord Montagu had seen Morini slip the paper into his hand; and there had been so much and such unusual confidence between the master and the page that Edward shrank from the idea of its being shaken even by a suspicion. Yet he could not resolve to put the note into Montagu's hands. Lucette's love had something sacred in it in his eyes, and, with the shyness of early affection, he could not bear the idea of even a jest upon the subject. He thought long while he was dressing: the servants came and went, and he had almost forgotten to tell them to follow him to the town, when Pierrot himself brought the matter to his mind by mentioning Lord Montagu's return as a rumor of the abbey.

The youth then set out for the city on foot, without having at all settled how he should act in regard to Lucette's letter. It is extraordinary how trifles sometimes embarrass us more than matters of deep moment. He had faced Richelieu himself, conscious that life hung upon the caprice or the accident of a moment, without half the hesitation he now felt. He did at last what he might as well have done at first,—left the direction of the matter to chance; for chance, unfriendly on most occasions, generally supplies us with an opportunity of acting rightly in embarrassing circumstances, if we have but the wit to take advantage of it.

When Edward entered Lord Montagu's room, he found the learned Signor Morini already there, with some papers, covered with strange characters, on a table between him and the English nobleman. Montagu gathered up the papers quickly and spoke to his page, without any allusion to the subject which principally occupied the young man's thoughts. His speech seemed somewhat dry, however, and Edward saw that the Italian gazed at him with meaning looks. A sudden thought struck him as Lord Montagu turned the conversation with Morini to some common topic, and, waiting till there was a momentary pause, he said, "By-the-way, Signor Morini, where did you leave the lady from whom you brought me a note last night? Had she gone on toward Venice?"

The Italian changed not a muscle, but replied, deliberately, "Yes: she went in the morning. I set out in the afternoon."

"Ho, ho! Signor Morini!" cried Montagu, laughing: "so you condescend to be Venus's messenger, do you?"

"Well may your lordship say Venus," replied Morini; "for a more beautiful little creature never rose from the sea or brightened the land. But your lordship will bear me witness that I betrayed no secrets. It was the young gentleman himself."

"I have betrayed no secret," said Edward, gayly, for he felt relieved. "Lord Montagu has never seen the young lady,—does not even know her name; and there is no cause why I should conceal that a lady has written to me."

"A young lady!" said Montagu, thoughtfully. "Now I have it. The Duchess of Rohan was at Turin; she had with her a cousin or a niece,—as pretty a little creature as I ever beheld. Ha, Edward! so you took care on your long journey to guard yourself against the charms of the innkeepers' daughters. Now I understand a good deal. And pray, Ned, how much of the time you consumed is to be attributed to the attractions of this pretty fair one?"

"Not a moment, my lord," replied Edward,—"unless it be that when she was stricken with the fever of the Marais I stayed with her a few days, rather than leave a lady confided to my care amongst a people almost savage and in a rude country. I might perhaps have forced my way on more quickly had I been alone; but by that time I had accepted the charge; and I will ask your lordship if I could have refused to see a lady of high rank safely to the Duc de Rohan or the Prince de Soubise, her relations, when the only alternative was for her to be shut up in Rochelle during the horrors of a siege, and when the task was pressed upon me by those who had nursed me tenderly and saved my life by their care. All we contemplated at first was a journey of a few hours; but would your lordship have left her when a series of unfortunate mishaps had cast her, sick and in danger, upon the care of perfect strangers? Could you have left any woman?"

"Perhaps not, Master Ned," said Lord Montagu, laughing,—"especially if she were as young and as pretty as the lady I saw. The only question is why you did not tell me all this before. Concealment between friends is a bad thing, Edward, and in this case might breed a suspicion that you had been trifling your time away with the pretty girl who is now sending you love-letters."

"I did not even imply that the letter was a love-letter," replied Edward; "and, moreover,——"

"I will return to your lordship in an hour or two," said Morini, rising and approaching the door: "at present I have some business."

"I was going to say," continued Edward, resuming the subject which he had dropped as Morini spoke, "if your lordship would consider, you would see that I have not yet had time to tell you one-half that has happened to me."

"Well, well," answered Montagu, good-humoredly, "no need of any excuses, Ned. I do not doubt you. Young men are young men, all the world over; and you have fewer of their faults and more of their best qualities than any one of your age I ever met with. Besides, your conduct this day would clear away all suspicions of your frankness, if I had any. I saw that crouch-backed Italian give you a billet secretly last night; and, had you concealed the fact from me, I might have thought it had reference to an intrigue more within my competence than a love-affair. But you spoke of it frankly, and that cleared my mind; for, to say truth, I had some doubts——"

"Not of me, I trust, my lord?" said Edward, somewhat mortified.

"No, not exactly of you," replied Montagu, thoughtfully, "but great doubts of that man. Do you know who he is?—or, rather, what he is?"

"I know nothing of him, my lord," replied the youth. "I never saw him or heard of him till last night."

"And yet he knew all about your having been wounded by your own brother. You will make even me believe in occult sciences," answered Montagu.

"That piece of knowledge is easily accounted for," said Edward. "He learned that from Lucette. She stayed at the abbey with Madame de Rohan as they passed, heard all my story from the good sisters, and, in her anxiety to write to me, suffered him to draw the facts from her."

"Oh, it was from Lucette, was it?" asked Montagu, with a smile. "Well, that explains all, and without any secrecy, if you are sure it is so."

"She speaks of it in her letter," answered Edward, "and blames herself for indiscretion. But your lordship asked me but now if I knew what Signor Morini is. What can he be but a well-read quack?"

"He is something more than that," replied Montagu, lowering his voice. "He is a most cunning intriguant. He is more than that. He is an agent of the Cardinal de Richelieu; and I could not be certain that the note you received last night did not contain strong inducements for you to betray me."

"He would be a bold man to offer them to me, my lord," replied Edward, warmly; "but there was nothing of the kind. The possibility of such a thing, however, forces me to do what nothing else would have induced me to think of,—namely, to show you the letter. There it is, my lord. In regard to all that concerns myself and the writer, I must beg you to ask me no questions. If there can be found in it any thing that affects your lordship, interrogate me, if you will; and I will answer all frankly."

Montagu looked at the address of the letter, and, perhaps, had some desire to see more; for where is the breast without some share of that small vice called curiosity? but he returned it unopened, saying, "I am quite satisfied, Ned. But you must understand: we are living in an age of intrigue. Each man is playing a game which has no laws. And in cases where the strong arm of power cannot reach—where no soldiers or sailors can be employed—friends, acquaintances, attendants, pages, must be gained to obtain this or that advantage for an adverse politician. You know not how widely this is practised,—how many devoted confidants of great men are also the confidants of their bitterest enemies,—what hosts of spies surround every man in eminent station. You know little of all this; but in France and Italy the evil system is carried further, deeper, lower than anywhere else; and it was very natural for me to suppose that this man, whom I know to be an emissary of Richelieu, should attempt to seduce you, and to find it hardly possible to suppose that when Richelieu had you wholly in his power he did not personally aim at the same object. The thought never struck me till last night; but then it flashed across my mind vividly, and would seem to explain how he let you go so easily."

Edward smiled bitterly. "This is somewhat hard!" he said. "And thus, my lord, my good fortune in escaping safe from a most perilous situation has shaken your trust in my honesty?"

"Not at all," replied Montagu: "he may have attempted you without success, or you may have promised him, in order to save your neck, what you did not intend to perform. I do not believe that you would really betray me for any consideration: on my soul I do not!—no, not for life! But tell me, Ned; in your conversation with that Eminence, did he never desire you to write him of my movements, or perchance to send him some of my letters, or copies thereof, or give him intimation of whom I correspond with?"

"No, my lord! no!" replied Edward, warmly. "He never did. He never hinted at or insinuated such a desire. Your name was never mentioned but once or twice in the last interview I had with him. Then he said, so far as I can recollect his words, 'You may say to Lord Montagu that the cardinal treated you well,—liberally,—and, although he had every right to stop you, sent you on to Lord Montagu, though he knew your errand and his. Compliment his lordship for me!' This was the only time that your name was mentioned, my lord; and till toward the close of that interview I did not know that his Eminence was aware I was attached to your household."

"That is strange!" said Montagu, gravely. "He knew your errand and mine, and yet let us both go forward! We form a different estimate of his character in England."

"At the risk of making your lordship still suspect he has gained me," said Edward, "I must say that I cannot but believe the cardinal has many high and noble qualities. Some evening—perchance the time may come again—when I may be permitted to pass a few hours in calm conversation with your lordship, as in days of yore, I will repeat, as nearly as I can remember, all that passed between his Eminence and myself. You will then see why I think so highly of him. But now I cannot conceive why, knowing this man Morini as you seem to know him,—an agent of Richelieu, a spy, and a charlatan,—you suffer him to hang about you, and give him the opportunity of tampering with your servants or perhaps even stealing your letters and despatches. I cannot believe that your lordship has any faith in his pretended science."

Montagu looked at him for a moment with a somewhat doubtful smile. "As to my believing in his pretended science, as you call it," he said, "I neither altogether believe nor disbelieve. There is such a thing in the world as a state of doubt, Ned,—a state where assent is not given nor dissent entertained. But what is this pretended science you speak of? Astrology has a very wide meaning, though circumscribed to its mere etymological sense it seems very narrow. But even in that sense I see not why it should be rejected altogether. Are not the stars mere creatures of God, obeying his will, following his impulses? Were they created for some purpose, or for none? Various men will tell you that their functions are this or that. Now, the astrologer says they are the real handwriting on the wall of heaven, announcing to those who can read them the fate of nations and of men. Writing in stars! What a magnificent thought! I have heard men object that those golden characters are so few and the human race so numerous that the several fortunes of all men could not be written by them. But such people forget that the motions of the stars are infinitely complex, that the relative position of every star to every other forms a new combination and may foreshadow a different event to each one of those born under their influence. Thus, if the human race be protracted to eternity, or the numbers now existing be multiplied by myriads, the various positions of those bright characters to each other in the course of time would be more than sufficient to indicate the fate of every man that ever can be born. I say not that they do indicate, but that they may. These things must always remain doubtful till repeated verification gives more convincing proof. I hold my mind open to receive or to reject; but, in the mean time, I do not neglect opportunities of obtaining means for forming a just opinion."

Lord Montagu might be in some degree amusing himself by puzzling his young companion, or he might not; but there can be no doubt that a great portion of the well-educated and many of the greatest men of his day believed at least as much as he seemed to believe of judicial astrology. Indeed, no picture of those times would be correct which did not display this peculiar aspect of the human mind. The great reformers of science had not yet appeared, or were little known; and the mind of Bacon itself was but beginning to have its influence in leading the minds of others into the course of truth and certainty.

But Edward Langdale had a great fondness for the definite, not original,—perhaps, for he was of a somewhat poetical disposition,—but acquired by the rubbing and chafing of the hard world; and he returned pertinaciously to his point. "However that may be, my lord," he said, "I cannot believe that your desire for opportunities of judging on these abstract points can be the cause of your giving such opportunities to a man whom you believe to be an enemy and a rascal. You must have some other motives for tolerating the Signor Morini about you, and appointing to meet him here, than a desire to test the science of astrology. What they are I cannot divine."

Montagu laughed. "Thou wilt be satisfied, Ned!" he said. "That man is better here than at Turin. Do you understand me? He is better under my eye than intriguing unobserved at the court of Savoy. He may tamper with my attendants, but I am upon my guard; and I would rather that he tampered with them than with the duke's counsellors. To me he can do little harm while I am forewarned and forearmed against him; but he might do much to the cause of England if he were left with a hesitating court to plant a word here and a purse of gold there as they might be needed. Yet what I said about astrology is true, and this very man's firm belief in it rather tends to make the balance in my mind lean that way; for he is keen, philosophical, worldly, learned."

"But does he really believe firmly in it?" asked Edward. "Is it not with him a mere cloak and a pretence?"

"He has suffered it to lure him here," answered Lord Montagu, "when no other inducement would have brought him. He will allow it to keep him here three days longer, when in truth he is all anxiety to hurry into France and tell the cardinal what he has discovered. I have played him as your skilful angler plays a lively fish. Once his ruling passion discovered, I have led him by it where I wished. It was like a ring in a bull's nose, which he was forced to follow, with or against his will."

"Then does your lordship propose to stay three more days in Aix?" asked the page.

"Ay, or till I receive one more note from Scaglia," answered Montagu. "Then all will be settled irrevocably: Signor Morini may bestow himself where he will, and we may do so likewise. You are impatient to hurry on, I see. Impatience is youth's quality, deliberation is man's; and so, my boy, you must keep your wishes tranquil, for I certainly shall not put spurs to mine."

"Of course, my lord, I must only follow where you lead," answered Edward, gayly. "I dare say your lordship believes I should bear the delay more patiently in Venice, and I will not deny the fact; but I suppose there is no time to go thither ere we depart."

"No, no, Ned! no!" replied Montagu. "I will not trust you near that little siren again while we have business in hand,—at least till you learn the great art of the present day, to let love and policy go hand in hand and yet never let the former impede the latter."

"A difficult task," said Edward.

"Ay," answered Montagu; "and those who try it and miss often find a bloody pillow. But here comes Morini again."

Edward immediately took his leave, and retired to obtain a chamber for himself in the inn, where he could meditate over the conversation which had just passed. It was satisfactory to him that his connection with Lucette had been acknowledged. He had previously shrunk from the thought of all mention of the subject to Lord Montagu, with the sensitive timidity of early love; but now the ice was broken, and he feared no more. But one point in that conversation was very painful to him. He saw that, if Montagu did not absolutely suspect him, his lord's confidence, which had hitherto been unbounded, was shaken. It was in vain Edward said to himself, "These great men are bound to be suspicious." There was a voice within him which always added, "At all events, he ought not to suspect me."

His musings were not suffered to continue long uninterrupted, however. Pierrot and Jacques Beaupré soon arrived with the horses. The two junior pages of Lord Montagu—Henry Freeland and George Abbot—came to see him, and he himself had to visit the chamber of Mr. Oakingham, a companion of Lord Montagu's, who was travelling with him in no very well-defined capacity. Oakingham was still ill from over-fatigue, and Edward sat with him for some time, trying to amuse and soothe him. Thus passed the greater part of the morning, and the two following days were fully occupied by preparations for departure; but the thought that Lord Montagu confided in him less still rankled in Edward's mind. He thought he perceived evidences of doubt in many things where perhaps no doubt existed; and he said to himself, more than once, "I cannot bear it long." The time, however, was rapidly approaching when, according to the custom of those days, Lord Montagu would feel it incumbent upon him to provide for his young friend, either in the army or at the court; and Edward resolved to wait and be patient as long as it was possible.