handsomest and wickedest woman in England cast her eyes upon him, and he became the rival of royalty itself.  All England knew the story of the founding of his later fortunes, but if he himself blushed for it, none but John Churchill knew—­outwardly he was the being whose name was the synonym for success, the lover of the brilliant Castlemaine, the hero of the auxiliary force sent to Louis, the “handsome Englishman” of the siege of Nimeguen for whom Turenne predicted the greatest future a man could dream of.

When Roxholm first had the honour of being presented to this gentleman ’twas at a time when, after a brief period during which the hero’s fortunes had been under a cloud, the tide had turned for him and the sun of royal favour shone forth again.  Perhaps during certain perilous dark days in the Tower, my Lord Marlborough had passed through hours which had caused him to look back upon the past with some regret and doubting, and when among those who crowded about him when fortune smiled once more—­friends, sycophants, place-hunters, and new admirers—­he beheld a figure whose youth and physical gifts brought back old memories to him, ’tis possible they awakened in him curious reflections.

“You,” he said to Roxholm one day at St. James, “begin the game with all the cards in your hand.”

“The game, my lord?” said the youthful Marquess, bowing.

“The game of life,” returned the Earl of Marlborough (for so William of Orange had made him nine years before), and his eagle eye rested on the young man with a keen, strange look.  “You need not plan and strive for rank and fortune.  You were born to them—­to those things which will aid a man to gain what he desires, if he is not a flippant idler and has brain enough to create ambitions for him.  Most men must spend their youth in building the bridge which is to carry their dreams across to the shore which is their goal.  Your bridge was built before you were born.  You left Oxford with high honours, they tell me; you are not long of age, you come of a heroic race—­what do you think to do, my lord?”

Roxholm met his scrutinizing gaze with that steadiness which ever marked his own.  He knew that he reddened a little, but he did not look away.

“I am young to know, my Lord Marlborough,” he returned, “but I think to live—­to live.”

His Lordship slightly narrowed his eyes, and nodded his head.

“Ay,” he said, “you will live!”

“There have been soldiers of our house,” said Roxholm.  “I may fight if need be, perhaps,” bowing, “following your lordship to some greater triumph, if I have that fortune.  There may be services to the country at home I may be deemed worthy to devote my powers to when I have lived longer.  But,” reddening and bowing again, “before men of achievement and renown, I am yet a boy.”

“England wants such boys,” complimented his lordship, gracefully.  “The Partition Treaty and the needs of the Great Alliance call for the breeding of them.  You will marry?”