“A strange fortune, in truth.  But what interest could—­”

“I will tell you,” interrupted Montreal, “the only conjecture I could form;—­Adeline’s mother, on learning we had a son, sent to Adeline a letter, that well nigh broke her heart, reproaching her for her love to me, and so forth, as if that had made her the vilest of the sex.  She bade her take compassion on her child, and not bring him up to a robber’s life,—­so was she pleased to style the bold career of Walter de Montreal.  She offered to rear the child in her own dull halls, and fit him, no doubt, for a shaven pate and a monk’s cowl.  She chafed much that a mother would not part with her treasure!  She alone, partly in revenge, partly in silly compassion for Adeline’s child, partly, it may be, from some pious fanaticism, could, it so seemed to me, have robbed us of our boy.  On inquiry, I learned from the nurse—­who, but that she was of the same sex as Adeline, should have tasted my dagger,—­that in their walks, a woman of advanced years, but seemingly of humble rank, (that might be disguise!) had often stopped, and caressed and admired the child.  I repaired at once to France, sought the old Castle of De Courval;—­it had passed to the next heir, and the old widow was go on, none knew whither, but, it was conjectured, to take the veil in some remote convent.”

“And you never saw her since?”

“Yes, at Rome,” answered Montreal, turning pale; “when last there I chanced suddenly upon her; and then at length I learned my boy’s fate, and the truth of my own surmise; she confessed to the theft—­and my child was dead!  I have not dared to tell Adeline of this; it seems to me as if it would be like plucking the shaft from the wounded side—­and she would die at once, bereft of the uncertainty that rankles within her.  She has still a hope—­it comforts her; though my heart bleeds when I think on its vanity.  Let this pass, my Colonna.”

And Montreal started to his feet as if he strove, by a strong effort, to shake off the weakness that had crept over him in his narration.

“Think no more of it.  Life is short—­its thorns are many—­let us not neglect any of its flowers.  This is piety and wisdom too; Nature that meant me to struggle and to toil, gave me, happily, the sanguine heart and the elastic soul of France; and I have lived long enough to own that to die young is not an evil.  Come, Lord Adrian, let us join my lady ere you part, if part you must; the moon will be up soon, and Fondi is but a short journey hence.  You know that though I admire not your Petrarch, you with more courtesy laud our Provencal ballads, and you must hear Adeline sing one that you may prize them the more.  The race of the Troubadours is dead, but the minstrelsy survives the minstrel!”