"And leaving the dexter blank for those of——"
"Who—what?"
"Their future husband—whoever Heaven shall send; and these we call our 'arms of expectation.'"
Encouraged by her merry laugh, with a beating heart I took up a pencil which lay in her work-case, and traced upon the dexter side my own arms, three cinque foils within a border.
"Whose arms are these?" she asked, looking up with a timid expression in her eyes.
"The Rollos—they are mine! Oh, Ernestine!—do not be offended; but you are so proud, that I am positively quite afraid of you. My fathers have carried these emblems on their shields in many a battle—and by the side of Scotland's kings."
"Ah! good heavens!—what do I see—they are the same as ours! argent, three cinque foils or, is it? My father has them engraved on every thing at Vienna, from his banner to his saddle-bags."
"This is very remarkable; we may be related."
"Who can say that we are not?" continued Ernestine with a charming smile, while every moment her colour deepened; "my father bears an assumed name, and even we scarcely know him by any other than Rupert-with-the-Red-plume. His is a strange story! He quarrelled with his elder brother, the lord of his family, who concluded that he was born to misfortune because his mouth was not adapted to the capacity of a certain gigantic spoon, or heirloom, which, however, I do not understand; but to ask questions about it is sufficient to kindle his anger. He served in a Scottish ship of war as captain of arquebusses, and fought against the Spaniards and Portuguese. He was wrecked; and, after many and strange vicissitudes, found his way into the Imperial army, and, belying the old tradition of his house, won himself a coronet, and a fame that will die only with the history of Austria. His own name, written in a character which I do not understand, is traced here on a blank leaf of this old family missal."
I had listened to her as one transfixed by her words, and now, trembling with eagerness, I turned to the leaf of the Latin missal (a thick little volume, printed on vellum by Thomas Davidsone, "Printer to the King's Majestie of Scotland,") and read a single line in the old Gaëlic letter, which will make two when translated;—