In the balcony at the Earl of Ellingham’s drawing-room window, a degree of curiosity and excitement prevailed which certainly could not have been aroused on the part of the intelligent individuals there assembled, by the mere display of gorgeous equipages. Let us see whether the conversation passing in that balcony will throw any light upon the subject.
“Well,” exclaimed Sir John Lascelles, almost in a petulant tone, “I wonder how much longer your cynosure of attraction will be before he makes his appearance? Truly, it was worth while for my friend Ellingham here, to drag me away from my experiments in order to catch a glimpse of a foreign Prince——”
“Nay, doctor,” interrupted the Earl, smiling: “It was precisely because this illustrious Prince is not a foreigner—but an Englishman by birth and a true Briton in his noble heart—that I thought you would be pleased to join those who are desirous to behold a youthful hero whose name occupies so memorable a page in history.”
“Well, well,” said the physician, somewhat more mildly: “I will have patience—and since you assure us that the object of all curiosity is indeed an Englishman——”
“Surely you can neither doubt the fact, nor be ignorant of his great achievements, doctor?” exclaimed the Earl. “But if you wish to receive positive assurances as to his Royal Highness’s English parentage, Lady Hatfield will satisfy you.”
“Yes—truly,” observed Georgiana. “When we were staying in Italy, we not only became as it were eye-witnesses of the great Revolution which was conducted to so signally triumphant an issue by the young hero of whom you are speaking; but we subsequently had the honour of forming the acquaintance of his Royal Highness and that of his Princess, who is as amiable as she is beautiful.”
“And now that the Prince has come to visit his native land once more,” said Charles Hatfield, his eyes flashing the fires of that enthusiasm which filled his soul, “the people assemble in crowds to do honour to their illustrious fellow-countryman. Oh! how delicious must his feelings be, when he reflects that as an obscure individual he once moved, unnoticed and unknown, amidst the mazes of this great city,—and that by his own brilliant merits he has raised himself to that pinnacle of rank and glory which renders him the admiration of the myriads now assembled to welcome his presence.”
“Well spoken, my dear Charles,” exclaimed Lady Hatfield. “Look up and down the street—it is literally paved and walled with human faces! In the balconies on either side of this house—and opposite too—I recognise many ladies and peers of the highest rank. Yes—Charles, you are right: the feelings of the Prince must indeed be joyous when he reflects that this vast congregation of all classes has gathered to do honour to the fellow-countryman of whom they are so justly proud.”
“History teems with examples of bold, bad, and ambitious men usurping power and decorating themselves with lofty titles,” continued Charles, addressing himself partly to Lady Hatfield and partly to the beautiful Lady Frances Ellingham: “but in the present instance we have a young Englishman, of generous soul, enlightened opinions, and even rigorous rectitude of conduct, raising himself from nothing as it were and acquiring the proudest titular distinctions. For what a glorious elevation was it from plain Mr. Richard Markham to His Royal Highness Field-Marshal the Prince of Montoni, Captain-General of the Castelcicalan Army, and Heir-Apparent to the Grand-Ducal Throne!”
Scarcely had Charles Hatfield enunciated these sounding titles in a tone which afforded full evidence of the enthusiasm that filled his soul as he thought of the splendid career of Richard Markham,[1] when far-off shouts of welcome and of joy suddenly reached the ears of the group on the balcony:—then those sounds came nearer and nearer, as the crowd took up the cries from the direction where they commenced;—and never was Royalty saluted with a more cordial greeting than that which now welcomed the hero of Castelcicala.