“It was her fate, however, to be the guest of your Grace’s convent for a brace of days, or so. Marry, my lord, the father confessor was not at home, and—for convents have been scaled of late—returned not till the bird was flown.”
“Christian, thou art an old reynard—I see there is no doubling with thee. It was thou, then, that stole away my pretty prize, but left me something so much prettier in my mind, that, had it not made itself wings to fly away with, I would have placed it in a cage of gold. Never be downcast, man; I forgive thee—I forgive thee.”
“Your Grace is of a most merciful disposition, especially considering it is I who have had the wrong; and sages have said, that he who doth the injury is less apt to forgive than he who only sustains it.”
“True, true, Christian,” said the Duke, “which, as you say, is something quite new, and places my clemency in a striking point of view. Well, then, thou forgiven man, when shall I see my Mauritanian Princess again?”
“Wherever I am certain that a quibble, and a carwhichit, for a play or a sermon, will not banish her from your Grace’s memory.”
“Not all the wit of South, or of Etherege,” said Buckingham hastily, “to say nothing of my own, shall in future make me oblivious of what I owe the Morisco Princess.”
“Yet, to leave the fair lady out of thought for a little while—a very little while,” said Christian, “since I swear that in due time your Grace shall see her, and know in her the most extraordinary woman that the age has produced—to leave her, I say out of sight for a little while, has your Grace had late notice of your Duchess’s health?”
“Health,” said the Duke. “Umph—no—nothing particular. She has been ill—but——”
“She is no longer so,” subjoined Christian; “she died in Yorkshire forty-eight hours since.”
“Thou must deal with the devil,” said the Duke.