now 1703—­I shall come of age in 1709.  I shall go back to Castlewood; I shall live at Castlewood; I shall build up the house.  My property will be pretty well restored by then.  The late viscount mismanaged my property, and left it in a very bad state.  My mother is living close, as you see, and keeps me in a way hardly befitting a peer of these realms; for I have but a pair of horses, a governor, and a man that is valet and groom.  But when I am of age, these things will be set right, Harry.  Our house will be as it should be.  You will always come to Castlewood, won’t you?  You shall always have your two rooms in the court kept for you; and if anybody slights you, d—–­ them! let them have a care of me.  I shall marry early—­Trix will be a duchess by that time, most likely; for a cannon ball may knock over his grace any day, you know.”

“How?” says Harry.

“Hush, my dear!” says my Lord Viscount.  “You are of the family—­you are faithful to us, by George, and I tell you everything.  Blandford will marry her—­or”—­and here he put his little hand on his sword—­“you understand the rest.  Blandford knows which of us two is the best weapon.  At small-sword, or back-sword, or sword and dagger if he likes; I can beat him.  I have tried him, Harry; and begad he knows I am a man not to be trifled with.”

“But you do not mean,” says Harry, concealing his laughter, but not his wonder, “that you can force my Lord Blandford, the son of the first man of this kingdom, to marry your sister at sword’s point?”

“I mean to say that we are cousins by the mother’s side, though that’s nothing to boast of.  I mean to say that an Esmond is as good as a Churchill; and when the King comes back, the Marquis of Esmond’s sister may be a match for any nobleman’s daughter in the kingdom.  There are but two marquises in all England, William Herbert Marquis of Powis, and Francis James Marquis of Esmond; and hark you, Harry,—­now swear you will never mention this.  Give me your honor as a gentleman, for you are a gentleman, though you are a—­”

“Well, well?” says Harry, a little impatient.

“Well, then, when after my late viscount’s misfortune, my mother went up with us to London, to ask for justice against you all (as for Mohun, I’ll have his blood, as sure as my name is Francis Viscount Esmond)—­we went to stay with our cousin my Lady Marlborough, with whom we had quarrelled for ever so long.  But when misfortune came, she stood by her blood:—­so did the Dowager Viscountess stand by her blood,—­so did you.  Well, sir, whilst my mother was petitioning the late Prince of Orange—­for I will never call him king—­and while you were in prison, we lived at my Lord Marlborough’s house, who was only a little there, being away with the army in Holland.  And then . . .  I say, Harry, you won’t tell, now?”

Harry again made a vow of secrecy.