The mention of the carriage and the accident recalled to Dr. Beaton his hasty vision of the prince, but, before he could collect his confused thoughts, he was led through a splendid suite of apartments to a small ante-room, decorated with several portraits, among which he instantly recognised one of the Duke of Perth and another of King James VIII.  Thence he was conducted into a magnificent bed-chamber, where the light of a single taper shed a dim glimmer through the apartment.  A lady who addressed him in English led him towards the bed.  The curtains were almost closed, and by the bed stood a female attendant holding an infant enveloped in a mantle.  As she retired, the lady drew aside the curtains, and by the faint light which fell within the bed, the doctor imperfectly distinguished the pale features of a delicate face, which lay wan and languid, almost enveloped in the down pillow.  The patient uttered a few words in German, but was extremely weak, and almost pulseless.  The case was urgent, and the Scotch doctor, suppressing all indication of the danger of which he was sensible, offered at once to write a prescription.

For this purpose he was taken to a writing-cabinet which stood near; and there, while momentarily reflecting upon the ingredients which were to form his prescription, he glanced at a toilet beside him.  The light of the taper shone full upon a number of jewels, which lay loosely intermixed among the scent bottles, as if put off in haste and confusion; and his surprise was great to recognise an exquisite miniature of his noble exiled prince, Charles Edward, representing him in the very dress in which he had seen him at Culloden.  The lady suddenly approached, as if looking for some ornaments, and placed herself between him and the table.  It was but an instant, and she retired; but when the doctor, anxious for another glimpse, again turned his eyes to the table, the face of the miniature was turned.

His duty done, he was led from the house in the same mysterious manner in which he was admitted to it; but not until he had taken an oath on the crucifix “never to speak of what he had seen, heard, or thought on that night, unless it should be in the service of his king—­King Charles.”  Moreover, he was required to leave Tuscany the same night, and, in implicit obedience to his instructions, departed to a seaport.  Here he resumed his rambles and meditation, having still deeper food for thought than when he was at St. Rosalie.

On the third night after his arrival, while strolling along the beach, his attention was attracted by an English frigate, and in answer to his inquiries he was told that her name was the “Albina,” and that she was commanded by Commodore O’Haleran.  The doctor lingered on the shore in the bright moonlight, and was just about to retire when he was detained by the approach of a horseman, who was followed by a small close carriage.  In the horseman he recognised his mysterious guide of St. Rosalie, and waited to