It is a truly noble structure, built in the purest style of Grecian architecture, situated in the midst of a vast park, embosomed in richly wooded hills, perfumed with orange and citron groves, and watered by a branch of the Gambia, almost equal in sight to the parent stream.

The magnificence of the interior is equal to that of the outside. There is an air of regal state and splendour throughout all the lofty domed apartments which strikes the spectator with awe for the lord of so imposing a residence. The marquis has a particular pride in the knowledge that he is the owner of one of the most splendid, select, and extensive libraries now in the possession of any individual. His picture and statue galleries likewise contain many of the finest works, both of the ancient and modern masters, particularly the latter, of whom the marquis is a most generous and munificent patron. In his cabinet of curiosities I observed a beautiful casket of wrought gold. At my request he opened it and produced the contents, viz. a manuscript copy of that rare work, ‘The Autobiography of Captain Leaf.’ It was written on a roll of vellum, but much discoloured and rendered nearly illegible by time. To my eager inquiries respecting the manner in which he had obtained so inestimable a treasure, he replied, with a smile:

‘That question I must decline to answer. It is a secret with which I alone am acquainted.’

I likewise noticed a brace of pistols, most exquisitely wrought and highly finished. He told me they were the chef-d’œuvre of Darrow, the best manufacturer of firearms in the universe. I counted one hundred gold and silver medals, which had been presented to this youthful but all-accomplished nobleman by different literary and scientific establishments. They were all contained in a truly splendid gold vase awarded to him last year by the Academy of Modern Athenians (as that learned body somewhat presumptuously chooses to style itself) as being the composer of the best epigram in Greek. Above this was suspended a silver bow and quiver, the first prize given by the Royal Society of Archers, together with a bit, bridle, spurs, and stirrups, all of fine gold, obtained from the Honourable Community of Equestrians. Near these lay several withered wreaths of myrtle, laurel, etc., etc., won by him as conqueror in the great African Biennial Games. On a rich stand of polished ebony were ranged twenty-three beautiful vases of marble, alabaster, etc., all richly carved in basso-relievo, remarkable for classic elegance of form, design, and execution. Some of these were filled with cameos, others with ancient coins, and others again bore branches of scarlet and white coral, pearls, gems of various sorts, fossils, etc. But what interested me more than all these trophies of victory and specimens of art and nature, costly, beautiful, and almost invaluable as they were, was a little figure of Apollo, about six inches in height, curiously carved in white agate, holding a lyre in his hand, and placed on a pedestal of the same valuable material, on which was the following inscription:—

In our day we beheld the god of Archery, Eloquence, and Verse, shrined in an infinitely fairer form than that worn by the ancient Apollo, and giving far more glorious proofs of his divinity than the day-god ever vouchsafed to the inhabitants of the old Pagan world. Zenobia Ellrington implores Arthur Augustus Wellesley to accept this small memorial, and consider it as a token that, though forsaken and despised by him whose good opinion and friendship she valued more than life, she yet bears no malice.

There was a secret contained in this inscription which I could not fathom. I had never before heard of any misunderstanding between his lordship and Lady Zenobia, nor did public appearances warrant a suspicion of its existence. Long after, however, the following circumstances came to my knowledge. The channel through which they reached me cannot be doubted, but I am not at liberty to mention names.

[*] One evening about dusk, as the Marquis of Douro was returning from a shooting excursion into the country, he heard suddenly a rustling noise in a deep ditch on the roadside. He was preparing his fowling-piece for a shot when the form of Lady Ellrington started up before him. Her head was bare, her tall person was enveloped in the tattered remnants of a dark velvet mantle. Her dishevelled hair hung in wild elf-locks over her face, neck, and shoulders, almost concealing her features, which were emaciated and pale as death. He stepped back a few paces, startled at the sudden and ghastly apparition. She threw herself on her knees before him, exclaiming in wild, maniacal accents:

‘My lord, tell me truly, sincerely, ingenuously, where you have been. I heard that you had left Verdopolis, and I followed you on foot five hundred miles. Then my strength failed me, and I lay down in this place, as I thought, to die. But it was doomed I should see you once more before I became an inhabitant of the grave. Answer me, my lord: Have you seen that wretch Marian Hume? Have you spoken to her? Viper! Viper! Oh, that I could sheathe this weapon in her heart!’

Here she stopped for want of breath, and, drawing a long, sharp, glittering knife from under her cloak, brandished it wildly in the air. The marquis looked at her steadily, and, without attempting to disarm her, answered with great composure:

‘You have asked me a strange question, Lady Zenobia; but, before I attempt to answer, you had better come with me to our encampment. I will order a tent to be prepared for you where you may pass the night in safety, and, to-morrow, when you are a little recruited by rest and refreshment, we will discuss this matter soberly.’[*]