"Sit down, young sir, sit down, and give me your letter," said the duke, pointing to a chair, and resuming his own seat. "Good Heaven, how like this boy's voice was to the voice of the young Marquis of Arondelle! Who could he be?" mused the duke, as he sat and waited the issue.
The youth seated himself as directed, and seemed to hesitate, as if respectfully referring to his host's convenience.
"Your letter of introduction, now, if you please, young sir," said the duke, at length.
"Thanks; your grace. It's from my mother. She—" Here the boy's voice faltered and broke down; but he soon, recovered it and resumed: "She wrote it on her death-bed—on the very day she died. Here it is, your grace."
The duke took the letter and held it gravely in his fingers while he gazed upon the orphaned boy with sympathy and compassion in every lineament of his fine face, saying, slowly and seriously:
"Ah! that is very, very sad. You have lost your mother, my boy; and if I judge correctly from the circumstance of your coming to me, you have lost your father also. I hope, however, I am wrong."
"Your grace is right. I have lost my father also. I lost him first, so long ago that I have no memory of him. I have no relatives at all. That is the reason why my dear mother, on her death-bed, gave me that letter of introduction to your grace, who used to know her, so that I might not be without friends as well as without relatives," modestly replied the youth.
"Ah! I see! I see! And she wrote this letter on her death-bed, which gives it a grave importance. I must therefore pay the more respect to it. The wishes of the dying should be considered sacred," said the duke, as he adjusted his glass and looked at the letter, wondering who the writer could be and what claims she could possibly have on him; but feeling too kindly toward the orphan-boy to let such thought betray itself.
He scrutinized the handwriting of the letter. He could not recognize the faint, scratchy, uncertain characters as anything he had ever seen before. After all, the whole thing might be an imposture, and he himself an exceedingly great dupe, to suffer his feelings to be enlisted by a perfect stranger, merely because that stranger happened to be a counterpart of his own idolized boy Arondelle.
Still dallying with the note, he looked again at the youth, and as he looked, his confidence in him revived. No boy of such a noble countenance could possibly be an impostor. He might have satisfied himself at once, by opening the note and reading the signature; but from some occult reason that even he could not have given, he held it in his hands for a few moments longer, as if it contained some oracle he dreaded to discover. At length he broke the seal and looked at the signature. It was a faint maze of scratches, so difficult to decipher that he gave it up in despair, and turning to the boy, said: