“I was not aware, sir, that I had spoken of my suit to Madam Beatrix to your Royal Highness.”

“Bah, bah, Monsieur! we need not be a conjurer to see that.  It makes itself seen at all moments.  You are jealous, my lord, and the maid of honor cannot look at another face without yours beginning to scowl.  That which you do is unworthy, Monsieur; is inhospitable—­is, is lache, yes, lache:”  (he spoke rapidly in French, his rage carrying him away with each phrase:) “I come to your house; I risk my life; I pass it in ennui; I repose myself on your fidelity; I have no company but your lordship’s sermons or the conversations of that adorable young lady, and you take her from me, and you, you rest!  Merci, Monsieur!  I shall thank you when I have the means; I shall know to recompense a devotion a little importunate, my lord—­a little importunate.  For a month past your airs of protector have annoyed me beyond measure.  You deign to offer me the crown, and bid me take it on my knees like King John—­eh!  I know my history, Monsieur, and mock myself of frowning barons.  I admire your mistress, and you send her to a Bastile of the Province; I enter your house, and you mistrust me.  I will leave it, Monsieur; from to-night I will leave it.  I have other friends whose loyalty will not be so ready to question mine.  If I have garters to give away, ’tis to noblemen who are not so ready to think evil.  Bring me a coach and let me quit this place, or let the fair Beatrix return to it.  I will not have your hospitality at the expense of the freedom of that fair creature.”

This harangue was uttered with rapid gesticulation such as the French use, and in the language of that nation.  The Prince striding up and down the room; his face flushed, and his hands trembling with anger.  He was very thin and frail from repeated illness and a life of pleasure.  Either Castlewood or Esmond could have broke him across their knee, and in half a minute’s struggle put an end to him; and here he was insulting us both, and scarce deigning to hide from the two, whose honor it most concerned, the passion he felt for the young lady of our family.  My Lord Castlewood replied to the Prince’s tirade very nobly and simply.

“Sir,” says he, “your Royal Highness is pleased to forget that others risk their lives, and for your cause.  Very few Englishmen, please God, would dare to lay hands on your sacred person, though none would ever think of respecting ours.  Our family’s lives are at your service, and everything we have except our honor.”

“Honor! bah, sir, who ever thought of hurting your honor?” says the Prince with a peevish air.

“We implore your Royal Highness never to think of hurting it,” says Lord Castlewood with a low bow.  The night being warm, the windows were open both towards the Gardens and the Square.  Colonel Esmond heard through the closed door the voice of the watchman calling the hour, in the square on the other side.  He opened the door communicating with the Prince’s room; Martin, the servant that had rode with Beatrix to Hounslow, was just going out of the chamber as Esmond entered it, and when the fellow was gone, and the watchman again sang his cry of “Past ten o’clock, and a starlight night,” Esmond spoke to the Prince in a low voice, and said—­“Your Royal Highness hears that man.”