From the first hour of his arrival he had loved the venerable hall of his fathers.  Its appearance harmonised with all the associations of his race.  Power and pomp, ancestral fame, the legendary respect of ages, all that was great, exciting, and heroic, all that was marked out from the commonplace current of human events, hovered round him.  In the halls of Cadurcis he was the Cadurcis; though a child, he was keenly sensible of his high race; his whole being sympathised with their glory; he was capable of dying sooner than of disgracing them; and then came the memory of his mother’s sharp voice and harsh vulgar words, and he shivered with disgust.

Forced into solitude, forced to feed upon his own mind, Cadurcis found in that solitude each day a dearer charm, and in that mind a richer treasure of interest and curiosity.  He loved to wander about, dream of the past, and conjure up a future as glorious.  What was he to be?  What should be his career?  Whither should he wend his course?  Even at this early age, dreams of far lands flitted over his mind; and schemes of fantastic and adventurous life.  But now he was a boy, a wretched boy, controlled by a vulgar and narrow-minded woman!  And this servitude must last for years; yes! years must elapse before he was his own master.  Oh! if he could only pass them alone, without a human voice to disturb his musings, a single form to distract his vision!

Under the influence of such feelings, even Cherbury figured to his fancy in somewhat faded colours.  There, indeed, he was loved and cherished; there, indeed, no sound was ever heard, no sight ever seen, that could annoy or mortify the high pitch of his unconscious ideal; but still, even at Cherbury, he was a child.  Under the influence of daily intercourse, his tender heart had balanced, perhaps even outweighed, his fiery imagination.  That constant yet delicate affection had softened all his soul:  he had no time but to be grateful and to love.  He returned home only to muse over their sweet society, and contrast their refined and gentle life with the harsh rude hearth that awaited him.  Whatever might be his reception at home, he was thrown, back for solace on their memory, not upon his own heart; and he felt the delightful conviction that to-morrow would renew the spell whose enchantment had enabled him to endure the present vexation.  But now the magic of that intercourse had ceased; after a few days of restlessness and repining, he discovered that he must find in his desolation sterner sources of support than the memory of Venetia, and the recollections of the domestic joys of Cherbury.  It astonishing with what rapidity the character of Cadurcis developed itself in solitude; and strange was the contrast between the gentle child who, a few weeks before, had looked forward with so much interest to accompanying Venetia to a childish festival, and the stern and moody being who paced the solitary cloisters of Cadurcis, and then would withdraw to his lonely