"I wished to have no name," said Leonard, colouring deeply, "but that which I could make myself."
"Proud poet, this I can comprehend. But from what reason did you assume the strange and fantastic name of Oran?"
The flush on Leonard's face became deeper. "My lord," said he, in a low voice, "it is a childish fancy of mine; it is an anagram."
"Ah!"
"At a time when my cravings after knowledge were likely much to mislead, and perhaps undo me, I chanced on some poems that suddenly affected my whole mind, and led me up into purer air; and I was told that these poems were written in youth, by one who had beauty and genius—one who was in her grave—a relation of my own, and her familiar name was Nora—"
"Ah!" again ejaculated Lord L'Estrange, and his arm pressed heavily upon Leonard's.
"So, somehow or other," continued the young author, falteringly, "I wished that if ever I won to a poet's fame, it might be to my own heart, at least, associated with this name of Nora—with her whom death had robbed of the fame that she might otherwise have won—with her who—"
He paused, greatly agitated.
Harley was no less so. But as if by a sudden impulse, the soldier bent down his manly head and kissed the poet's brow; then he hastened to the gate, flung himself on his horse, and rode away.