I knew, too, that to listen to his advice was the way to Lord Erymanth’s heart, and rejoiced to hear Harold begging for the names of recent books on drainage, and consulting our friend upon the means of dealing with a certain small farm in a tiny inclosed valley, on an outlying part of the property, where the yard and outhouses were in a permanent state of horrors; but interference was alike resented by Bullock and the farmer, though the wife and family were piteous spectacles of ague and rheumatism, and low fever smouldered every autumn in the hamlet.

Very sound advice was given and accepted with pertinent questions, such as I thought must convince anyone of Harold’s superiority, when he must needs produce a long blue envelope, and beg Lord Erymanth to look at it and tell him how to get it presented to the Secretary of State.

It was graciously received, but no sooner did the name of Stanislas Prometesky strike the earl’s eyes than he exclaimed, “That rascally old demagogue!  The author of all the mischief.  It was the greatest error and weakness not to have had him executed.”

“You have not seen my father’s statement?”

“Statement, sir!  I read statements till I was sick of them, absolutely disgusted with their reiteration, and what could they say but that he was a Pole?  A Pole!” (the word uttered with infinite loathing).  “As if the very name were not a sufficient conviction of whatever is seditious and treasonable, only that people are sentimental about it, forsooth!”

Certainly it was droll to suspect sentiment in the great broad giant, who indignantly made reply, “The Poles have been infamously treated.”

“No more than they deserved,” said Lord Erymanth, startled for once into brevity.  “A nation who could never govern themselves decently, and since they have been broken up, as they richly deserved, though I do not justify the manner—­ever since, I say, have been acting the incendiary in every country where they have set foot.  I would as soon hear of an infernal machine in the country as a Pole!”

“Poles deserve justice as well as other men,” said Harold, perhaps the more doggedly because Eustace laid a restraining hand on his arm.

“Do you ntean to tell me, sir, that every man has not received justice at the tribunal of this country?” exclaimed Lord Erymanth.

Perhaps he recollected that he was speaking to the son of a convict, for there was a moment’s pause, into which I launched myself.  “Dear Lord Erymanth,” I said, “we all know that my poor brothers did offend against the laws and were sentenced according to them.  They said so themselves, and that they were mistaken, did they not, Harold?”

Harold bent his head.

“And owing to whom?” demanded Lord Elymanth.  “I never thought of blaming those two poor lads as I did that fellow who led them astray.  I did all I could to save their lives; if they were alive this moment I would wish nothing better than to bring them home, but as to asking me to forward a petition in favour of the hoary old rebel that perverted them, I should think it a crime.”