Chapter Seventy Five.
A Statesman in Private Life.
Wrapped in a richly-embroidered dressing-gown, with tasselled cap set jauntily on his head—his feet in striped silk stockings and red morocco slippers—Swinton’s noble patron was seated in his library.
He was alone: soothing his solitude with a cigar—one of the best brand, from the vuelta-de-abajo.
A cloud upon his brow told that his spirit was troubled.
But it was only a slight ruffle, such as might spring from some unpleasantness. It was regret for the escape of Louis Kossuth, from the toils that had been set for him, and set according to his lordship’s own suggestions.
His lordship, along with other crown-commissioned conspirators, had expected much from the émeute at Milan. With all their cunning had they contrived that sham insurrection, in the hopes of getting within their jailors’ grasp the great leaders of the “nationalities.”
Their design was defeated by their own fears. It was a child whose teeth were too well grown to endure long nursing; and, before it could be brought to maturity, they were compelled to proclaim it a bastard.
This was shown by their sudden disarming of the Hungarian regiments, and the arrest of such of the compromised as had too rashly made appearance upon the spot.