Day by day the time crept on toward the end of June, and brought no change to the garrison. There were fewer mouths, it is true, to feed now, for disease and battle had laid them under heavy contribution, but the store of provisions was rapidly becoming exhausted. A fortnight more, so they believed and said, would bring them face to face with actual starvation, and the city must fall from want of men to line the walls and man the guns. For surrender they would not. “First the prisoners and then each other,” was their grim jest that had an edge of earnest with it. No man now dared to whisper the prudence of surrender, for the spirit of resistance, which had been strong before, now burned with a wild and splendid flame as they felt the end was coming. The enthusiasm of the Ulster man does not find its outlet in boisterous speech--as his excitement increases his silence deepens, and he is, unlike his Celtic countryman, ever readier with his hand than with his tongue. And now, though hope was growing fainter as the days dragged on, their pride--the stern pride of religion and of race--inspired them with an obstinacy that had something 209sublime in it. Yet all the while the ships lay in the Lough and made no effort to come to their relief. Day by day they signalled in vain from the Cathedral tower and the great guns rang out, but Kirke would make no move. So close was the investment now, every loophole guarded with the extremest vigilance, that communication was impossible. One brave man had indeed made his way from the fleet to the city after passing through perils innumerable; but though he made the attempt, he found himself unable to return. Another messenger had bravely volunteered to carry out their message of despair, but he never reached the ships. A day or two after, the enemy erected a gallows on the bastion across the river, and there in the sight of the city the gallant fellow met his fate.

Dorothy Carew never looked back on this time without a shudder. She suffered more than many, for to the hardships she endured she added a private and peculiar sorrow of her own. The first she bore cheerfully and uncomplainingly, but her brother′s secret, so base and so contemptible, oppressed her with a terrible feeling of shame and distress. After her first outburst of confidence to Gervase Orme, which she sometimes half regretted, she watched her brother jealously, and lay night after night listening for his footsteps.

But whether the warning he had received had taught him caution, or whether he had fulfilled his mission, his midnight excursions were now abandoned and he kept closely to the house. Still, to her keen 210and high sense of honour it was intolerable that her brother--the head of the house--should be a traitor whose guilt might be discovered at any time, and among so many brave men should act the coward and the spy. Had he gone over boldly to the enemy and thrown in his lot with them, she could have loved him. But now her love had been crushed out of her heart, and only comtempt and shame were left. Physical suffering seemed a light thing in comparison, and she envied the women who sent their husbands out to fight, and prayed for their safety when they were absent. But still she bore up with uncomplaining fortitude, and no one guessed the secret grief that was preying on her mind. Lady Hester, who had suffered agonies of fear while the bombs were raining on the city, she had encouraged with a simulated cheerfulness, and ordered her little household as she might have done in times of peace. The pinch of famine had hardly affected them yet--that was to come--but even that she looked forward to without any fear for herself.

But besides all this, she had another source of future trouble in her cousin. She could not long remain blind to the fact that his admiration for her was undisguised, and that beneath his cynical and flippant manner there had grown up a regard that was more than cousinly. It is true that he did not annoy her with his attentions, for Jasper and himself spent much of their time together. But he had shown clearly on more than one occasion that he was only waiting for a fitting opportunity to 211declare himself her lover. That opportunity she was anxious should not present itself. It was not, she reasoned with herself, that she loved another better, but she did not love De Laprade, and she did not wish to wound him. She did not wholly understand him, and could not tell whether he was ever in earnest or felt sincerely about anything. Then she thought of Gervase Orme, with his frank laughter and quiet speech, who treated her with a distant reverence and that was all. It was a pleasant thing to have him as a friend, full of quiet strength and honest as the day. But these were no times to think of such things, and so she put away the thought and went about her simple duties, hoping that Gervase would call to see her soon.

That evening she was seated by the open window, for the day had been close and sultry and the night was warm, a volume of Quarles′ Emblems spread open on her knees. Her brother and the Vicomte had been closeted together during the day, and Lady Hester, fatigued and desponding, had retired for the night. She was very busy with her own thoughts, and had not heard De Laprade enter the room. He came softly up and took a chair beside her.

“Of what is my cousin Dorothy so full of thought?” he said.

She looked up with a blush, for just at that moment she was wondering what a certain fair-haired, long-limbed young giant was doing in the outposts or elsewhere, and the voice recalled her to herself with a feeling of self-reproach.

212“I am afraid,” she answered, “my thoughts would have little interest for you. A woman′s head is ever full of idle thoughts.”

“Not the wise head of my cousin; it is only the men of her family who give themselves to folly.”

“The Vicomte de Laprade for example?”

“Truly he is a chief offender, but he is growing wise and sober and hardly knows himself. He has not smiled for a week, and thinks he never will be able to smile again. Even his cousin Jasper has ceased to amuse him.”

“You are greatly to be pitied,” she said with a smile. “But it is not duller than you would have found Vincennes. There too you would have grown wiser.”

“Nay, I think not. A long time ago--it seems like years, I grow so old--I was for six months a prisoner in the Bastille, and when His Majesty relented and I returned to court I was no wiser than before. My folly only took another turn. But then I had not found a friend to warn, nor a counsellor like my fair cousin to teach me better things.”

“I dare say you deserved your punishment. Now tell me something of your offence.”

“Indeed, I hardly know myself, but I think it was--yes, I think it was a lady. By accident I trod on her train in a minuet and she refused to accept my apology. I could only smile and do penance for my clumsiness, for one may not lightly offend a great lady like Madame de----”

213“Madame de----?”

“I have forgotten her name, but it does not matter now. She has forgotten Victor de Laprade, as he has forgotten her.”

“I do not believe that, my cousin Victor.”

“That I have forgotten the circumstances? Ah, well! it is possible that I might recall them to memory, but I would, rather let them die, as I would all that belongs to the past. If my cousin Dorothy would but give me leave I would begin a new life to-day with new thoughts, new feelings, and a new heart. She smiles, and thinks it is not possible that I, who have wasted my youth, should try to save my manhood.”

“Indeed you have my leave, but your reformation is too sudden, and you know you are not serious.”

“I have been serious all my life; my cousin does not know her kinsman. Because I followed the fashion of my time, and fought and drank and played, wasting my youth like many another reckless fellow, therefore I was merry and had no thought or care. Because I am a gentleman, and not a solemn citizen who looks with a grim frown on all the devil′s works, therefore my heart knows no sadness. It is thus the world has judged me, and so it may. But it is because I am sad and weary that I would have my cousin judge me differently.”

For the first time since Dorothy had known him, he had lost his light and cynical manner and spoke with simple earnestness. He had made no display 214of emotion, but though he was calm and self-restrained, it was yet evident he spoke with abundant feeling. If he was not sincere, his humility and contrition were well assumed.

“I have been looking all my life,” he went on, looking at her steadily as she kept her eyes bent on the book that still lay open on her knees; “I have been seeking all my life for a quiet heart--I, the libertine, the gambler who have squandered my patrimony and wasted my heritage. It was not to be found where I sought it, and my search was in vain. But now I know the secret that I was too blind to see before. Do you know, my cousin, what it is? Nay, you will not rise, for you must hear me out. It is love--the love a man may feel for what is purer and better than himself, the love that fills him with fresh hopes and new desires, the love that raises him to the pure heights of her he worships.”

Then he suddenly stopped. Hardly knowing what answer to make, Dorothy rose from her seat and the Vicomte stooped down ............