Cornelia alone found uninterrupted slumber; Ferdinand did not sleep that night; Alice wondered why she did not close her eyes; and Louis lay meditating on the last four-and-twenty hours, till day dawned, and wearied nature sank into repose.
The morning brought him a letter before he had quitted his bed. Its seal was Wharton's manche and ducal coronet. Louis held it some time unopened in his hand. What new contention might it demand of him? Was it to upbraid him for his flight? or was it an apology from the Duke for his attempt to detain him? Whatever were its errand, the sight of the letter recalled to him all the fascinations of its writer; and with trepidation he broke the seal. His heart clung to every line, while that of the volatile writer seemed winged, and lightly skimming the surface he professed to dwell on. The latter ran thus,
"Et hi Brute! was a mighty dextrous Parthian bolt, but it whistled away, I know not whither. Would Cæsar have been so bad a marksman, as not to have distinguished his own Anthony from the wretch who played the brute part in the capitol? Why, de Montemar you are as much like the lantern-jawed Cassius, as I to that nose-led Stoic! You are too profound in canonization not to have read of a certain saint, no matter his name, who, with a pair of convenient red-hot pincers, clutched the devil by his feature of honour, and so dragged him roaring round the world. Cassius was no saint, whatever he might be of a conjuror; but I never hear your king-killing demagogues vaunting of their prince of patriots, without seeing the pincers at his nose. So, prithee, my dainty Cæsar, no more misnomers if you would not have me requite you in kind!
"And so, you even took the flood! I would not for happier hours, than even those your stubbornness wrested from me, I would not have lost that proof of your substance. You know I am a being of vapour! People who say so, must not wonder that I should be glad to play the atmosphere round something worth my while. Louis! had you not believed them, would you have fled me like a pestilence?
"Being of a gentle nature, as full of ruth as perhaps I ought to be of ruefulness, I will not bristle the grey locks of your venerable uncle this Saturday night, by likening him to any old woman on earth or in heaven. But I have a shrewd guess, that like the good lady Calphurnia, he pretends to dream; and on the evidence of such whimsies will report you my orisons!
—— Pulchra Laverna,
Da mihi fallere, da justum sanctumque videri.
—Oh, wizards, how little do you know the mettle of Philip Wharton!—In the face of day, and of these darkling augurs, I avow that it is my object to make you my own! My true spirit, wearied with the tricks of men, and their sordid chemistry,
Delights to quaff the yet untasted spring,
And pluck the virgin flower!
"Is there a cloak over this dagger, my panic-struck Cæsar?
"However, that there may be no more alarms in. Saint Cuthbert's sanctuary, tell the holy man I have met Romulus's fate. If you look for me to-night it must be amongst the stars; for, after this is dispatched, neither Bamborough nor England, will hold your faithful.