"My love, unknown love!" whispered Florence in the depth of his heart, and then a sadness came over all his features and his soul, he knew not why.
These two persons, the man and the youth, the careless and the impassioned, the triumphant and the sad, conscious that the same face attracted them, now turned towards each other, and spoke.
"Worthy sir, can you favour me with the name of that lady who has just thrown back her hood?" asked Florence, in a voice that was almost tremulous, as if he feared the secret of his heart would be exposed.
"And who is now speaking to the little queen?"
"Yes."
"'Tis Madeline Home, the Countess of Yarrow."
"Yarrow!" reiterated Florence in a breathless voice.
"Yes, the niece, and some say, heiress, of Claude Hamilton of Preston, who hath just passed upward with a train of horse, and his butler, a drunken lout, like a huge lobster at their head."
Had a cannon exploded at his ear, Florence could not have been more astounded than by this revelation of a relationship so fatal to the romance and success of his love.
"She is beautiful, my friend," continued the Englishman, looking at her, with his head on one side, with the air of a connoisseur admiring a horse, a yacht, or a picture; "what think you of her?"