Poor Sir Marmaduke hoped at least that the veil of night had put an end to the subject which harassed him at a time when he felt less capable than usual of bearing vexation, for he was yearning sadly after his only son.  The youths had been absent ten months, and had not been heard of for more than three, when they were just leaving Paris in search of the infant.  Sir Francis Walsingham, whose embassy had ended with the death of Charles IX., knew nothing of them, and great apprehensions respecting them were beginning to prevail, and, to Sir Marmaduke especially, seemed to be eating out the peace and joy of his life.  Philip, always at his father’s side ever since he could run alone, was missed at every visit to stable or kennel; the ring of his cheery voice was wanting to the house; and the absence of his merry whistle seemed to make Sir Marmaduke’s heart sink like lead as he donned his heavy boots, and went forth in the silver dew of the summer morning to judge which of his cornfields would soonest be ready for the sickle.  Until this expedition of his sons he had, for more than fourteen years never been alone in those morning rounds on his farm; and much as he loved his daughters, they seemed to weigh very light in the scale compared with the sturdy heir who loved every acre with his own ancestral love.  Indeed, perhaps, Sir Marmaduke had deeper, fonder affection for the children of his first marriage, because he had barely been able to give his full heart to their mother before she was taken from him, and he had felt almost double tenderness to be due to them, when he at length obtained his first and only true love.  Now, as he looked over the shinning billows of the waving barley, his heart was very sore with longing for Philip’s gladsome shout at the harvest-field, and he thought with surprise and compunction how he had seen Lucy leave him struggling with a flood of tears.  While he was still thus gazing, a head appeared in the narrow path that led across the fields, and presently he recognized the slender, upright form of the young Frenchman.

’A fair good morrow to you, Master Merrycourt!  You come right early to look after your ode?’

‘Sir,’ said Mericour, gravely saluting him, ’I come to make you my confession.  I find that I did not deal truly with you last night, but it was all unwittingly.’

‘How?’ exclaimed Sir Marmaduke, recollecting Lucy’s tears and looking much startled.  ‘You have not—–­’ and there he broke off, seeing Mericour eager to speak.

‘Sir,’ he said, ’I was bred as one set apart from love.  I had never learnt to think it possible to me,—­I thought so even when I replied to you last evening; but, sir, the words you then spoke, the question you asked me set my heart burning, and my senses whirling—–­’ And between agitation and confusion he stammered and clasped his hands passionately, trying to continue what he was saying, but muttering nothing intelligible.