Rumor said that the fast young Marquis of Arondelle, while deer-stalking from his hunting lodge in the neighborhood of Ben Lone, had chanced to draw rein at the gate of Rob.  Cameron’s sheiling, and had received from the shapely hand of the beautiful shepherdess a cup of water, and had been so suddenly and forcibly smitten by her Juno-like beauty, that thenceforth his visits to his hunting lodge became very frequent, both in season and out of season, and that he was a very dry soul, whose thirst could be satisfied by nothing but the spring water that spouted close by the shepherd’s sheiling, dipped up and offered by the hands of the beautiful shepherdess.

Much blame was cast by the rustic neighbors upon all parties concerned—­first of all, upon the young marquis, who they declared “meant nae guid to the lass,” and then to the old shepherd, who they said, “suld tak mair care o’ his puir mitherless bairn,” and lastly, to the girl, who, as they affirmed, “suld guide hersel’ wi’ mair discretion.”

None of these criticisms ever came to the ears of the parties concerned:  they never do, you know.

Besides the lovers seemed to be infatuated with each other, and the shepherd seemed to be blind to what was going on in his sheiling.  To be sure, he was out all day with his sheep, while his lass was alone in the sheiling.  Or, if by sickness he was forced to stay home, then she was out all day with the sheep alone.

Gossip said that the young marquis visited the handsome shepherdess in her sheiling, and met her by appointment, when she was out with her flock.

And as the occasion grew, so grew the scandal, and so grew indignation against the marquis and scorn of the shepherdess.

“He’ll nae mean to marry the quean!  If she were my lass, I’d kick him out, an’ he were twenty times a markis!” said the shepherd’s next neighbor, and many approved his sentiment.  These were among the detractors of the young nobleman.

But he had warm defenders—­who affirmed that the Marquis of Arondelle would never seek a peasant girl to win her affections, unless he intended to make her his marchioness—­which was an idea too preposterous to be entertained for an instant—­therefore there could be no truth in these rumors.

And at length, when the great thunderbolt fell that destroyed Lone and banished the ducal family, there were not wanting “guid neebors” who taunted Rose Cameron with such words as these: 

“The braw young markis hae made a fule o’ ye, lass.  Thoul’t ne’er see him mair.  And a guid job, too.  Best ye’d ne’er see him at a’!”

But the handsome shepherdess betrayed no sign of mortification or doubt.  When such prognostics were uttered, she crested her queenly head with a smile of conscious power, and looked as though—­“she could, an if she would,”—­tell more about the Marquis of Arondelle, than any of these people guessed.

Meanwhile, princely Lone passed into the possession of Sir Lemuel Levison, a London banker of enormous wealth.  He had not always been Sir Lemuel Levison.  But he had once been Lord Mayor of London, and for some part that he had taken in a public demonstration or a royal pageant, (I forget which,) he had been knighted by her Majesty.