“We shall take care,” says Esmond, “not much oftener to offend in that particular.”

“What mean you, my lord?” says the Prince, and muttered something about a guet-a-pens, which Esmond caught up.

“The snare, Sir,” said he, “was not of our laying; it is not we that invited you.  We came to avenge, and not to compass, the dishonor of our family.”

“Dishonor!  Morbleu, there has been no dishonor,” says the Prince, turning scarlet, “only a little harmless playing.”

“That was meant to end seriously.”

“I swear,” the Prince broke out impetuously, “upon the honor of a gentleman, my lords—­”

“That we arrived in time.  No wrong hath been done, Frank,” says Colonel Esmond, turning round to young Castlewood, who stood at the door as the talk was going on.  “See! here is a paper whereon his Majesty has deigned to commence some verses in honor, or dishonor, of Beatrix.  Here is ‘Madame’ and ‘Flamme,’ ‘Cruelle’ and ‘Rebelle,’ and ‘Amour’ and ‘Jour’ in the Royal writing and spelling.  Had the Gracious lover been happy, he had not passed his time in sighing.”  In fact, and actually as he was speaking, Esmond cast his eyes down towards the table, and saw a paper on which my young Prince had been scrawling a madrigal, that was to finish his charmer on the morrow.

“Sir,” says the Prince, burning with rage (he had assumed his Royal coat unassisted by this time), “did I come here to receive insults?”

“To confer them, may it please your Majesty,” says the Colonel, with a very low bow, “and the gentlemen of our family are come to thank you.”

“Malediction!” says the young man, tears starting into his eyes with helpless rage and mortification.  “What will you with me, gentlemen?”

“If your Majesty will please to enter the next apartment,” says Esmond, preserving his grave tone, “I have some papers there which I would gladly submit to you, and by your permission I will lead the way;” and, taking the taper up, and backing before the Prince with very great ceremony, Mr. Esmond passed into the little Chaplain’s room, through which we had just entered into the house:—­“Please to set a chair for his Majesty, Frank,” says the Colonel to his companion, who wondered almost as much at this scene, and was as much puzzled by it, as the other actor in it.  Then going to the crypt over the mantel-piece, the Colonel opened it, and drew thence the papers which so long had lain there.

“Here, may it please your Majesty,” says he, “is the Patent of Marquis sent over by your Royal Father at St. Germains to Viscount Castlewood, my father:  here is the witnessed certificate of my father’s marriage to my mother, and of my birth and christening; I was christened of that religion of which your sainted sire gave all through life so shining example.  These are my titles, dear Frank, and this what I do with them:  here go Baptism and Marriage, and here the Marquisate and the August