He slept, and the scene was renewed with a thousand strange varieties. Imagination recalled, in fantastic vision, all that he had read of enchanted pleasures, or of descending goddesses mingling their immortal nature with favoured man. He now lost his own identity in the person of Rogero, slumbering away life in the arms of Alcina; and then became the indignant Rinaldo, cutting his way through the entangling thickets of Armida\'s wood.—He awoke heated, and unrefreshed. His heart panted with his imaginary contest; and his fevered temples beat to agony as he sprung from his disordered bed, and throwing open the window towards the breezes of the sea, inhaled their cooling freshness. His[103] tremulous frame gradually recovered a braced tone; and wrapping his dressing-gown around him, he stood gazing on the opposite rocks of Lindisfarne, with feelings as new to him as had been the spectacle of the night before. He blushed as he thought of rejoining the dear inhabitants of that sacred spot.—A strange faintness seized on his heart—a sense of shame!

"For what?" cried he, "what have I done, to cause this self-accusation?—I have not broken my word with my uncle; I did not consent willingly, to stay till this morning: I made the sacrifice to Sir Anthony\'s feelings."

Thus far, his conscience acquitted him; and he breathed freer: but still he could not say, my heart is lightened of its load.

"I feel myself polluted!" cried he; "I know not what was said and done last night, to change me thus; but the wine I drank, and those women\'s looks and[104] words; and my very dreams, seem to have contaminated my soul and body!—Oh, holy Lindisfarne!—My uncle, my sweet cousins, why did I ever leave your innocent presence!"

With this agonized invocation, he hastened to dress himself; that he might fly from the castle, and all its present mischiefs.

Violante had informed him the preceding night, how so strange a party came together; and why they had intruded themselves on the hospitality of his uncle. She described, with satirical pleasantry, a week\'s visit, which she and her Thespian sisters had been making to a noble amateur in Teviotdale.—Lord Warwick was there; and soon after, Duke Wharton came in his way from the Highlands. At the time of his arrival, the whole company were on the eve of departure; but as he was coming southward, and they were to travel in the same direction, he complied with War[105]wick\'s entreaties to join the party.—The storm caught them on the moors; and as it was attended with thunder, the women became so frightened, it was necessary to take them to some place of shelter.—A minute\'s thought brought to Wharton\'s recollection that Bamborough was in the neighbourhood; and without hesitation he ordered the horses heads of half a dozen carriages to be turned towards the mansion of the convivial baronet.

As Louis ran over these circumstances in his mind, and recalled the lively indifference with which the Duke seemed to dally with all this youth and beauty, and female witchery; turning from one to the other with the gay caprice of the frolic butterfly, which flies from flower to flower, hovering and touching, and straight to flight again:—"Happy Wharton!" exclaimed he, "yours is indeed the spirit which skims the earth, and does not soil its wings! while mine,[106] has only to approach its surface, and be made but too sensible, that dust I am, and would to dust return!"

In this mood he descended to the court yard; and gave orders for a boat to be ready at the castle-cove, to row him across to Lindisfarne as soon as the tide should serve. But in returning along the terrace, he encountered the object of his meditation and his envy; the object which still made his heart linger about the spot he was so determined to leave.

"Ha, de Montemar!" cried the Duke, "Well met; before the constellations of last night arise to put yon saucy, upbraiding sun out of countenance!—But how long have you been making morn hideous with those rueful looks?—Why, you are a different man, from the etherial son of joy, who moved amongst us last night like Ganymede dispensing the draughts of Olympus!"

Louis saw in this gay hyperbole, only the spectre of a folly he was ashamed of.[107] His disturbed countenance spoke what was passing in his mind; but trying to smile, "Indeed, my Lord," said he, "you are right to laugh at my inebriated senses.—I assure you, I despise myself."

"For what, de Montemar? That you have eyes, and ears, and are a man?"

Louis coloured; "Perhaps, that I own too much of his worst part!"

"How?"

He did not answer, but quickened his steps. The Duke looked archly in his face, and laughed:—"I will answer myself. That fond little devil Violante has driven Saint Cuthbert out of your head, and you are hastening to exorcise the strange possession at the shrine of the holy woman-hater!"

Louis started at this insinuation: it offended him, though so lightly uttered. Perplexed, and every way displeased with himself and his companions, he however tried to answer composedly.—"Your Grace is mistaken. I carry away with[108] me no image from last night\'s revelry, but that of my own weakness. I despise the facility with which I fell in with the fashion of the hour, to drink wine till I unsettled my reason; and I detest myself for feeling that I existed from that time until I awoke this morning, without other consciousness than that which my besotted senses afforded." He stopped, then raising his before bent head, smiled scornfully, and added, "The garden of the Hourii is not my paradise!"

Wharton gazed on him a moment in fixed astonishment.—Louis did not perceive the amazement he had created, but walked on with a steadier pace and a calmer countenance.

"Well," thought the Duke, as he put his arm through that of Louis; "Anteas rose the stronger, after he had touched his mother earth! But Hercules will try another throw!"

"De Montemar," said he, "let us leave these unlucky Hourii to their slum[109]bers, and resume the subject which they charmed to silence last night?—An eve\'s dropper might be dangerous; so, let us turn towards the wood, where we may converse undisturbed."

Louis looked at his watch, and seeing that the tide would not be at full for yet half an hour, he allowed Wharton to turn his steps through the inner-court into the park.

"Louis de Montemar, I am going to unlock my heart to you.—I am going to put my life into your hands."

"My Lord?"

"I am.—But I have weighed the trust.—You do not know yourself.—I do; and,—laugh at me for a coxcomb, if you please! But I affirm, your character and mine are composed of the same materials. I recognize my brother\'s soul in your breast; and the same will be your pursuits, the same your destiny."

"Oh, my Lord," cried Louis, "if emulation could transform its subject, you[110] might not prophesy in vain!—But I will not think you mock me! Your own luminous nature surrounds you; and seeing through that, you fancy objects bright, which only reflect your beams."

"Prettily said, my ingenious friend," answered the Duke, "but my position shall be proved by the fact.—Let us compare circumstances.—You are not yet of age?"

"Just twenty."

"Young enough to be catechised!—Will you answer me fairly?"

Louis smiled: "as my godfathers did promise and vow?"

"Have you ambition?"

"As much as ever budded the brow of young Ammon."

"Have you enterprize?"

"Else my ambition had never been avowed."

"Can you dare the world\'s obloquy?"

"In a noble cause, I would risk its hisses."[111] The Duke caught him in his arms.—"By all the host of heaven," exclaimed he, "Yours is a spirit, with which mine shall have no disguises!—You know I am reported, slandered! But, on your own principle, I exult in the hooting of the mob; and I would direct your flight to the point whereon I stand, and laugh triumphant on the fools below! Mark my progress, de Montemar.—You see in Warwick, what nine-tenths of nobility are; distinguished from the crowd by nothing but their titles and extravagance. I would sooner hang like Absalom on a tree, than so pass away amongst the herd of my cotemporaries!

"My father did not understand my character; and when he died, bequeathed me doctors of law and doctors of divinity, to teach me the way I should go. They tried to break the spirit they could not bend; and often hard words, and harder usage, shook their heads as well as their canes, and pronounced me an unmanag[112]able colt. In the very heat and tempest of my rebellion, I told them I was a Bucephalus they could not tame! And so, breaking from their bridle, wonder not I scoured the field in the very wantonness of liberty!"

Louis joined in the gay laugh of his friend, and Wharton proceeded.

"I was then hardly nineteen, but I spurned the tedious tutelage of schools and colleges, and threw myself at once into the university of nature; the wide and populous world. I went to the continent.—But not to visit the garden of the Hourii! At Geneva, I became the friend of philosophers; at Paris, the companion of wits; in Italy, the counsellor of princes.—Do you mark me?"

"I do, with wonder and admiration."

"What I then dared to advise, I am now come to execute." He paused a moment, then resumed, "De Montemar, there are objects at Avignon, of more interest than Vaucluse!"—again he[113] paused, and looked at Louis, expecting a reply.

"I do not understand you, my Lord."

"Expound my riddle, and you shall have a better fate than ?dipus."

"I should deserve a worse, were I to waste the time in guesses; when I may profit by its exposition from yourself."

The Duke did not like this dullness, but he proceeded.—"De Montemar, what is your opinion of the Marquis of Montrose? He who Cromwell sent to the scaffold for attachment to the house of Stuart."

"I consider his gallant patriotism," replied Louis, "as hardly second to that of his immortal country-man William Wallace; and could almost envy him his feelings, when the executioner bound to his neck the catalogue of his battles against the regicides. What a consciousness of true greatness must have been in the smile with which he welcomed this intended badge of disgrace, as a brighter[114] testimony to his honour, than the star of Saint George which they tore from his breast!"

"Well answered, my promising catechumen!" cried the Duke, "now for another question, and I have done.—In what respect do you hold honest George Monk, who deserted the blockhead chief of the Roundheads, and recalled the son of his murdered sovereign to the throne of his ancestors?"

"Monk does not fire my heart, like Montrose," replied Louis, "I love the direct path; and honest George was most inclined to crooked ones.—However, he walked straight at last, and for that I honour him."

"Then you love the Stuarts?"

"Their line is of mingled yarn!—I revere, love, blame, pity them."

"De Montemar, you must know the Chevalier de Saint George!"

"How?—where?"[115] "At Avignon.—Now, do you read me?"

Louis met the powerful glance of Wharton\'s eye, and it shot into his soul. At the same instant the words of his guardian seemed to ring in his ear:—The wily Duke will teach you to be a traitor!—Hot and cold damps burst from every pore of his body.

"You do not answer me, de Montemar?—I see you are discomposed,—you are agitated;—and it is a cause to stir up every vital spring in the breast of free-born man! My blood is ready to follow the course of Derwentwater and Kenmuir; or to purchase, in some happy field of victory, the re-establishment of my lawful king!"

Louis had been taken unawares, and was still incapable of reply. He verified the remark, that no history is so little understood by young persons as that of their country near their own times. The false lights of party have not sufficiently[116] subsided, to allow the regular historian a clear view of events; and the prejudiced memoirs of the day are too numerous and contradictory to be put into the hands of youth, without making a waste of that time which ought to be devoted to building up a future judgement on the well-founded basis of the history of past ages. The subject proposed by the Duke, was therefore new to the reflections of Louis. He had never questioned, nor confirmed his loyalty to the House of Hanover, by considering the change of succession with any reference to his own peculiar opinions. He had never seen any thing at the parsonage but peaceful submission to authority, not for wrath, but conscience sake. At the castle, another sentiment was often agitated; but the speakers were usually violent, unreflecting characters, whose praise or blame were equally worthless. However, he could not deny to himself that he had shrunk in horror from recitals of what passed ten years ago,[117] with regard to the rebel lords; and he also could not forget that his uncle of Lindisfarne had often lamented the severe policy of their execution, and wished the State had thought it possible to unite mercy with judgement. "Had His Majesty pardoned them," said Mr. Athelstone, "rebellion would have perished in their stead; for the honour of a British heart is stronger than death."

All this rushed confusedly to the recollection of Louis. His partialities, romantic associations, and generous enthusiam, were all on the side of the suffering party; but his habits of submission had been directed by his best friends to the reigning family. He felt his own indecision he saw the Duke\'s advantage; and repeating to himself his uncle\'s warning, again determined not to linger another hour near the dangerous contagion.

Wharton\'s observing eye perceived fluctuation in the mind of his friend; and[118] as there was fluctuation on so portentous a subject, he boded a favourable issue to his side of the argument, could he detain him a little longer from the island. Should Louis return thither before his faith were actually pledged to the Stuart cause, it could not be doubted he would impart his scruples to the Pastor; and that true minister of the reformation, would keep him firm to the House of Hanover. Full of this apprehension, and aware that his proselyte must soon be summoned to the boat, unless he could prevent it by some unsuspected man?uvre, Wharton was not sorry when he saw Sir Anthony and several of the party advancing fast upon them from the house.—The tongues of the ladies proclaimed their vicinity.

"Gird your loins, my friend!" cried the Duke, resuming his usual merriment; and laughing at the stern air with which Louis turned to their voices:—"Dalilah and the Philistines are upon you!"[119] "And if every hair on my head were a rope by which they held me," replied Louis, "I would escape them!" As he spoke, he suddenly turned on his heel, and darted down a vista of firs towards the sea-beach. Wharton did no more than wave his hand to the light-footed Violante. She shot by a cross path through the shrubbery, and at a curve in the avenue met the flying object of her pursuit with such force, that she was struck to the ground. The rest of the party soon hastened forward, by the cries of Louis for help; for on raising her, and finding her insensible, he thought she was killed by the violence of the shock.

When they came up he was on one knee, with her head leaning on the other, and gazing with horror on her pale face. The pallid hue of his own, told all that he feared, to the Duke and Sir Anthony. But the ladies found the case not so desperate; and by the help[120] of essences soon restored the fair sufferer to animation.

Sir Anthony proposed her being taken into the house. But on attempting to rise, she sunk back, almost fainting a second time from the excessive pain of a sprained ancle. Wharton called for a sofa, which being brought, the invalid was carefully placed in it on cushions; and the gentlemen present, insisted on being its bearers into the castle. As the sofa was raised from the ground, Violante turned to Louis with a languid smile; "you will not leave me, Mr. de Montemar?" said she, and stretched out her hand to him, with a look more persuasive than her words.

To disappoint the wish and expectation these words and action implied, he found impossible.—He had no suspicion that she was running to intercept him, when the accident happened; and now, turning with a respectful bow to her summons, he silently followed the sofa into[121] the breakfast-room. Her gallant bearers placed it by the fire, at a small distance from the table. The Duke offered his services to the reclining beauty; but she would accept of no hand to bring her coffee and toast, but that of Louis: saying, that he who wounded, was in duty bound to administer the restoratives. Recovered from his dismay at what might have been the fatal effect of the accident he had so unintentionally occasioned, he gladly took the opportunity to make the amende honourable, and express his concern at what had happened.

Time rolled away, and he heard no tidings of the boat. It was an unusual inattention in his uncle\'s servants, who always vied with each other who should be most prompt in obeying every wish of their beloved Mr. de Montemar. But Wharton had contrived to have the little vessel countermanded, without appearing in the orders. Ignorant of this, Louis seized the first moment the inva[122]lid addressed herself to another person; and in a low voice asked the butler whether the boat were in waiting. The man, not aware of the commands which had been given one way or the other, simply answered the tide had been at ebb two hours. Stung with vexation, Louis started from his chair. Violante observed his disorder, and softly enquired the cause.—It was no sooner explained, than casting on him a reproachful look, she burst into tears and turned her head silently away. Louis felt himself in a very embarrassing situation; and almost unconsciously resuming his seat beside her, he drew a vexatious sigh as he said to himself,—"I am caught, and coiled in spite of myself!"

Violante mistook its meaning; and withdrawing her hand from her eyes, gave him a glance that mantled his face with crimson. Though apparently engaged in gay badinage with the other ladies, Wharton did not lose an expres[123]sion of his friend\'s countenance, as the alluring Frenchwoman continued to converse with him in a tone of mingled tenderness and raillery. "If he stand this," thought the Duke, "he has even more ice, of a certain kind, in his composition, than he forced me this morning to believe!"

Sir Anthony entered from the hall, calling aloud, "Who rides this morning? I have ordered horses round to the court."

"De Montemar, what are you for?" said the Duke, "I see victory is in the hands where I would always have it; but as the ladies may not wish to have their captive in their way all day;—are you inclined for a steeple-hunt this morning?"

Louis eagerly embraced the proposal.—Violante coloured, touched his arm; and pressing it with strong emotion, whispered something in his ear. Wharton laughed, and turned on his heel. Louis[124] believed himself turned idiot. Abandoned of his usual presence of mind, he knew not what to say, or how to look; though he felt perfectly resolved not to sleep another night in the castle, while it contained its present extraordinary inmates. The seductive scenes of the preceding night, seemed disenchanted before him; men and women, all were divested of their magic garments, excepting Wharton, and he still wore the vesture of light.

"Why will he mingle his noble nature with creatures base as these?" again he said to himself; "are they his toys? his tools?—To what purpose?"

He was gazing on the Duke, as these thoughts occurred to him, and deepened his reflections. Wharton caught the look; its expression went through him: but waving his hand, as if that would glance it aside, he shook his head sportively and exclaimed; "You want me to pledge my guarantee to Violante, that[125] there shall be no more desertions!—Believe me, pretty one! For the bright Pleiades are not more inseparable above, than are your swain and humble servant below."

    "—— We rise and set together."

He spoke the last sentence without any reference to the subject which had first suggested the idea; and having in the utterance as much forgotten Violante, as though she had never existed, he put his arm through Louis\'s, and turned with him out of the room.

"De Montemar," said he, as they crossed the hall; "the conversation which was interrupted this morning, must be finished. I have put a packet open into your hand, which must be sealed this evening; else the vagrant leaves may follow the sybil\'s trick; and I know nothing of the gatherer, till that doughty Lictor, Jack Ketch, makes me his bow on Tower-Hill."[126] "Surely, my Lord, you cannot doubt my honour, if you could my heart?"

"I will doubt every thing, till that heart is laid open to me.—I vowed to have no disguises with you.—Repay me in kind.—Heart for heart, De Montemar, is the only true exchange!"

Louis did not immediately answer; for he felt what he would not fairly acknowledge to himself, that a mist did sometime appear to rise over this professed frankness of the Duke, which often made it uncertain whether he had really shewn his heart at all.—In the midst of a sentiment that seemed direct from the soul, a sudden quirk of fancy would present itself, that turned all athwart into whim and laughter. And the freest disclosure would as frequently start aside, to appear nothing more than a fantastic figure of speech, or break off into irreconcilable fragments, without apparent aim or connexion. But for all this, an apology came to the breast of his[127] friend. "He has embraced the desperate fortunes of a dethroned prince.—And perhaps it depends upon the caution of this, that prince\'s ablest confident, whether they are to be redeemed, or finally consigned to despair!"

The horses were at the hall door; and Sir Anthony, and his other male guests, mounted. On sight of the friends, he called to them, and the grooms bringing forward more horses, the Duke vaulted into his seat, and Louis, with a sensation of a double release, gladly followed his example.—As they turned merrily down the rocky path-way which led by the ancient fosse to the open country, every man had something to say according to his own humour, of the pleasures of the preceding night; but all concurred in so overcharging their anticipations of the coming evening, that it was easily to be foreseen the revelry of the past, would be encreased to an excess in the future,[128] which would destroy all, by drowning pleasure and consciousness in the same stream.

Sir Anthony appeared to take it for granted, his nephew had completely surrendered himself to the impulse which governed them all; but with redoubling disgust, Louis tried to make his uncle comprehend, that so far from intending to partake the projected festivity, he would not go back to the castle, but return to Lindisfarne immediately after their ride. Astonishment, remonstrance, raillery, entreaties, reproaches; all were successively and successlessly brought forward: Louis found his spirit rise with the clamour of opposition. He was now steadily doing, what he always knew was his only proper conduct; the padlock which had seemed to chain down his faculties under a sense of committing wrong, now burst asunder, and he was all himself again.—Sir Anthony affected not to believe him serious; talked of[129] Violante, then declared, it was his belief, he only wanted to be forced to do the thing he liked; and whispering the noisy sheriff and others, a loud laugh peeled through the party, and they instantly drew around Louis.

"What do you mean, gentlemen?" cried he, glad to be manually opposed by others beside his uncle.

"To bear you, as the Loves bore Adonis"—cried Wharton gaily, and planting his steed also, before that of his friend.

"Et tu Brute?" cried Louis; and striking his spurs into the sides of his horse, the high mettled animal sprang through the foremost rank, dispersed the rest; and speeding forward with the wings of the wind, was plunged by his determined rider into the receding waters of the tide.