“I do not think a fondness for disguise is natural to her,” said Stanhope; “though she seems to have supported her borrowed character with considerable address.”

“Yes, she completely deceived me at first; and this evening, I again lost the use of my senses, and mistook her for the sauciest knave of a priest, that ever muttered an ave-marie.”

“Long as it is, since I have seen her,” said Stanhope, “I think I could have sworn to that face and voice, under any disguise.”

“You obtained a full view of her features, at once,” said De Valette; “when I first met her, they were carefully shaded by a tartan bonnet, and she entirely altered the tones of her voice; and this evening, again, she would scarcely have been recognized in the imperfect light, had she not suffered her vexation to betray her.  But the night wanes, and it is time for us to separate; I must go abroad, and see that all things are quiet and in order, after this unusual revelling.”

De Valette then quitted the house, and Stanhope gladly sought the solitude of his own apartment, where he could reflect, at leisure, on the agitating events of the few last hours.  He walked to and fro, with rapid steps, till, exhausted by his excitement, he threw himself beside an open window, and endeavoured to collect the confused ideas, which crowded on his mind and memory.  The noise of mirth and music had long since passed away, and the weary guard, who walked his dull round of duty in solitude and silence, was the only living object which met his eye.  No sound was abroad, but the voice of the restless stream, which glittered beneath the rising moon;—­the breath of midnight fanned him with its refreshing coolness, and the calm beauty of that lonely hour gradually soothed his restless spirits.

He had encountered the object of a fond and cherished attachment, but under circumstances of perplexity and doubt, which marred the pleasure of that unexpected meeting.  More than two years had elapsed since he first saw Lucie de Courcy, then residing in the north of England, whither she had accompanied a maternal aunt, the widow of an Englishman of rank and fortune.  Madame Rossville, who was in a declining state of health, had yielded to the importunity of her husband’s connexions, and left her native land for the summer months, hoping to receive benefit from change of scene and climate.  She had no children, and Lucie, whom she adopted in infancy, was dear to her, as a daughter could have been.  They resided at a short distance from the elder Mr. Stanhope; and the strict Hugonot principles of the French invalid interested the rigid puritan, and led to a friendly intimacy between the families.