to him.  True he was young; but, lord of himself, youth was associated with none of those mortifications which make the juvenile pant for manhood.  Cadurcis valued his youth and treasured it.  He could not conceive love, and the romantic life that love should lead, without the circumambient charm of youth adding fresh lustre to all that was bright and fair, and a keener relish to every combination of enjoyment.  The moonbeam fell upon his mother’s monument, a tablet on the cloister wall that recorded the birth and death of Katherine Cadurcis.  His thoughts flew to his ancestry.  They had conquered in France and Palestine, and left a memorable name to the annalist of his country.  Those days were past, and yet Cadurcis felt within him the desire, perhaps the power, of emulating them; but what remained?  What career was open in this mechanical age to the chivalric genius of his race?  Was he misplaced then in life?  The applause of nations, there was something grand and exciting in such a possession.  To be the marvel of mankind what would he not hazard?  Dreams, dreams!  If his ancestors were valiant and celebrated it remained for him to rival, to excel them, at least in one respect.  Their coronet had never rested on a brow fairer than the one for which he destined it.  Venetia then, independently of his passionate love, was the only apparent object worth his pursuit, the only thing in this world that had realised his dreams, dreams sacred to his own musing soul, that even she had never shared or guessed.  And she, she was to be his.  He could not doubt it:  but to-morrow would decide; to-morrow would seal his triumph.

His sleep was short and restless; he had almost out-watched the stars, and yet he rose with the early morn.  His first thought was of Venetia; he was impatient for the interview, the interview she promised and even proposed.  The fresh air was grateful to him; he bounded along to Cherbury, and brushed the dew in his progress from the tall grass and shrubs.  In sight of the hall, he for a moment paused.  He was before his accustomed hour; and yet he was always too soon.  Not to-day, though, not to-day; suddenly he rushes forward and springs down the green vista, for Venetia is on the terrace, and alone!

Always kind, this morning she greeted him with unusual affection.  Never had she seemed to him so exquisitely beautiful.  Perhaps her countenance to-day was more pale than wont.  There seemed a softness in her eyes usually so brilliant and even dazzling; the accents of her salutation were suppressed and tender.

‘I thought you would be here early,’ she remarked, ’and therefore I rose to meet you.’

Was he to infer from this artless confession that his image had haunted her in her dreams, or only that she would not delay the conversation on which his happiness depended?  He could scarcely doubt which version to adopt when she took his arm and led him from the terrace to walk where they could not be disturbed.