Sign-Manual, with which your predecessor was pleased to honor our race.”  And as Esmond spoke he set the papers burning in the brazier.  “You will please, sir, to remember,” he continued, “that our family hath ruined itself by fidelity to yours:  that my grandfather spent his estate, and gave his blood and his son to die for your service; that my dear lord’s grandfather (for lord you are now, Frank, by right and title too) died for the same cause; that my poor kinswoman, my father’s second wife, after giving away her honor to your wicked perjured race, sent all her wealth to the King; and got in return, that precious title that lies in ashes, and this inestimable yard of blue ribbon.  I lay this at your feet and stamp upon it:  I draw this sword, and break it and deny you; and, had you completed the wrong you designed us, by heaven I would have driven it through your heart, and no more pardoned you than your father pardoned Monmouth.  Frank will do the same, won’t you, cousin?”

Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at the papers, as they flamed in the old brazier, took out his sword and broke it, holding his head down:—­“I go with my cousin,” says he, giving Esmond a grasp of the hand.  “Marquis or not, by —–­, I stand by him any day.  I beg your Majesty’s pardon for swearing; that is—­that is—­I’m for the Elector of Hanover.  It’s all your Majesty’s own fault.  The Queen’s dead most likely by this time.  And you might have been King if you hadn’t come dangling after Trix.”

“Thus to lose a crown,” says the young Prince, starting up, and speaking French in his eager way; “to lose the loveliest woman in the world; to lose the loyalty of such hearts as yours, is not this, my lords, enough of humiliation?—­Marquis, if I go on my knees will you pardon me?—­No, I can’t do that, but I can offer you reparation, that of honor, that of gentlemen.  Favor me by crossing the sword with mine:  yours is broke—­see, yonder in the armoire are two;” and the Prince took them out as eager as a boy, and held them towards Esmond:—­“Ah! you will?  Merci, monsieur, merci!”

Extremely touched by this immense mark of condescension and repentance for wrong done, Colonel Esmond bowed down so low as almost to kiss the gracious young hand that conferred on him such an honor, and took his guard in silence.  The swords were no sooner met, than Castlewood knocked up Esmond’s with the blade of his own, which he had broke off short at the shell; and the Colonel falling back a step dropped his point with another very low bow, and declared himself perfectly satisfied.

“Eh bien, Vicomte!” says the young Prince, who was a boy, and a French boy, “il ne nous reste qu’une chose a faire:”  he placed his sword upon the table, and the fingers of his two hands upon his breast:—­“We have one more thing to do,” says he; “you do not divine it?” He stretched out his arms:—­“Embrassons nous!”

The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room:—­What came she to seek there?  She started and turned pale at the sight of her brother and kinsman, drawn swords, broken sword-blades, and papers yet smouldering in the brazier.