“The poor little chap makes no difference.  He is only born to die.  And I think your offer is a good one.  I am so worn out, and things are really desperate with me.  I never can go back to England.  I am sick to death of Florence.  There are places where Beatrice might even yet recover.  Yes, for her sake, I will sell you my inheritance.  Can I have the money soon?”

“This hour.  I had the proper paper drawn up before I came here.  Read it over carefully.  See if you think it fair and honorable.  If you do, sign your name; and I will give you a check you can cash here in Florence.  Then it will be your own fault if Beatrice wants change of air, luxuries, and medicine.”

He laid the paper on the table, and Harry sat down and pretended to read it.  But he did not understand any thing of the jargon.  The words danced up and down.  He could only see “Beatrice,” “freedom from care,” “power to get away from Florence,” and the final thought, the one which removed his last scruple, “Lanza can have the cottage, and I shall be clear of him forever.”

Without a word he went for a pen and ink, and wrote his name boldly to the deed of relinquishment.  Then Julius handed him a check for ten thousand pounds, and went with him to the bank in order to facilitate the transfer of the sum to Harry’s credit.  On the street, in the hot sunshine, they stood a few minutes.

“You are quite satisfied, Harry?”

“You have saved me from despair.  Perhaps you have saved Beatrice.  I am grateful to you.”

“Have I done justly and honorably by you?”

“I believe you have.”

“Then good-by.  I must hasten home.  Sophia will be anxious, and one never knows what may happen.”

“Julius, one moment.  Tell my mother to pray for me.  And the same word to Charlotte.  Poor Charley!  Sophia”—­

“Sophia pities you very much, Harry.  Sophia feels as I do.  We don’t expect people to cut their lives on a fifteenth-century pattern.”

Then Harry lifted his hat, and walked away, with a shadow still of his old military, up-head manner.  And Julius looked after him with contempt, and thought, “What a poor fellow he is!  Not a word for himself, or a plea for that wretched little heir in his cradle.  There are some miserable kinds of men in this world.  I thank God I am not one of them!”

And the wretched Esau, with the ten thousand pounds in his pocket?  Ah, God only knew his agony, his shame, his longing, and despair!  He felt like an outcast.  Yes, even when he clasped Beatrice in his arms, with promises of unstinted comforts; when she kissed him, with tender words and tears of joy,—­he felt like an outcast.

CHAPTER X.

THE NEW SQUIRE.

“A word was brought,
Unto him,—­the King himself desired his presence.”

                  “The mystery of life

He probes; and in the battling din of things
That frets the feeble ear, he seeks and finds
A harmony that tunes the dissonant strife
To sweetest music.”