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The Works of GPR James, Esq. Volume 17
(University of California, Davis)

GOWRIE:

OR,

THE KING'S PLOT.

BY

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

LONDON:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.
STATIONERS' HALL COURT.
MDCCCXLVIII.

THE WORKS

OF

G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.

REVISED AND CORRECTED BY THE AUTHOR.

WITH AN INTRODUCTORY PREFACE.

"D'autres auteurs l'ont encore plus avili, (le roman,) en y mêlant les tableaux dégoutant du vice; et tandis que le premier avantage des fictions est de rassembler autour de l'homme tout ce qui, dans la nature, peut lui servir de leçon ou de modèle, on a imaginé qu'on tirerait une utilité quelconque des peintures odieuses de mauvaises mœ urs; comme si elles pouvaient jamais; laisser le cœ ur qui les repousse, dans une situation aussi pure que le cœ ur qui les aurait toujours Ignorées. Mais un roman tel qu'on peut le concevoir, tel que nous en avons quelques modèles, est une des plus belles productions de l'esprit humain, une des plus influentes sur la morale des individus, qui doit former ensuite les mœ urs publiques."--Madame de Staël. Essai sur les Fictions.

"Poca favilla gran flamma seconda:
Forse diretro a me, con miglior voci
Si pregherà, perchè Cirra risonda."

Dante. Paradiso, Canto I.

VOL. XVII.

GOWRIE.

LONDON:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.
STATIONERS' HALL COURT.
MDCCCXLVIII.

NOTICE.

The Author is aware that the Frontispiece of this Work is very bad; but in justice to the Engraver, he thinks it fair to state, that in consequence of a necessary change in the publishing arrangements, a space of time totally insufficient was all that could be allowed for the device of a subject, and the execution of the plate. Another illustration, for insertion in "Gowrie," will be given in the succeeding volume of this edition.

TO

HER GRACE

THE DUCHESS OF NORTHUMBERLAND.

Madam,

Man's mind lives too much upon credit. We borrow our thoughts and opinions, and too often trade with the intellectual property of others, when it would be much better for every man to cultivate his own little field, and bring its original produce to market, if he would but be content with what God has given him.

In the pages which I here present to your Grace, I have plainly and boldly stated my own opinion regarding one of the darkest transactions in history; and after much and various reading upon the subject, I am confirmed in the belief that this opinion is just, though I have conveyed it in the form of fiction. Many, and indeed most, of our best historians, have taken an opposite view of the case; but in putting forth my own, I have not been moved by any ambition of originality, and indeed can here lay claim to that quality, only in a limited degree; for others in various ages have advanced the same opinions in regard to the innocence of the Earl of Gowrie, and the guilt of the king, which I have expressed in the present work. However that may be, my own view was taken, and my judgment formed, before I was aware that any others had entertained the same. I had only read, in short, the accounts of the Gowrie Conspiracy which had been written by persons who came to a different conclusion. It was from their own statements, and more especially from that of King James himself, that I was led to believe, at an early period, that of which I am convinced now. Nearly four years ago, I found in the correspondence of Henry IV. of France a letter from the King of Scotland, giving his own account of this bloody transaction, and my note upon it at the time was to the following effect:--"This is more than improbable. It is to suppose that the earl, his brother, and the king, were all seized with sudden madness; for nothing else could account for the conduct of either of the three, if this story were true."

I have since read very nearly all that has been written upon the subject, except other works of fiction, of which I have not seen one, though I am told there are several; and every particle of historical evidence which I have met with has tended to impress upon my mind the firm belief that the last Earl of Gowrie was as amiable, as enlightened, and as innocent of all offence against the king as any man in Scotland. His name, his race, his position, and his opinions, rendered him obnoxious to the king; and he died as in these pages I have attempted to show. I find, on reading the letters and memoirs of contemporaries, that very few persons believed him guilty, and that King James had recourse to all the resources of persecution, in order to silence the many voices which too loudly proclaimed him innocent.

It may seem strange that I introduce such topics into a dedication, which is generally reserved for expressions of respect and esteem; but an appeal to the understanding is, I believe, no bad testimony of respect; and I am quite sure that your Grace will receive it as such; for I know that in kindly permitting me to dedicate this work to your name, you neither needed nor desired any public expression of the respect, the esteem, and the gratitude, with which

I have the honour to be,

Madam,

Your Grace's

Most humble servant,

G. P. R. JAMES.

Willey House, near Farnham, Surrey,
27th June, 1848.

ADVERTISEMENT.

In laying before the public in one volume a work of equal extent with those which are usually produced in three volumes, and in placing in the general collection of my romances an entirely new composition, I may be expected to say something of the motives which have induced me to follow such a course.

Some years ago, when a question was agitated amongst Ministers and in Parliament, as to whether it was expedient or not to give British authors increased facilities for maintaining their just rights against foreigners who reprinted their works and used every unscrupulous means to introduce their pirated editions into various parts of the British dominions, Government was induced to decide in the affirmative, not upon the one-sided and partial statement of authors and publishers, but on a general and very extensive view of the subject, as affecting the country at large. While the question was under consideration, many long and important discussions took place, in which I bore a principal share; and while I endeavoured to support, to the best of my abilities, the just claims of British authors, the then President of the Board of Trade, the Right Honourable W. E. Gladstone, with consummate ability and great scope of view, maintained the general interests of the public. Although the right of the British author was never contested, some apprehension was expressed--I believe by Sir Robert Peel--lest the granting of increased means of protecting that right might have a tendency generally to increase the price of books.

When Mr. Gladstone informed me of this fact, I stated my own opinion to be directly the reverse, and that by the extension and security of the market, the price would be rather diminished than increased. I need not here enter into all the arguments I used to show that such must naturally be the case, but I stated, at the same time, my readiness, upon certain acts being passed, to use every means in my power to avert the evil which Government apprehended, by making an effort to diminish the price of books. From various causes since that period, the price has greatly diminished; but I do not mean to assert that the diminution has been caused alone by the facilities that were ultimately granted, although they have operated in that direction to a considerable extent.

For my own part, even before all the measures were taken which had been contemplated, I fulfilled my engagement to Government by diminishing the price of my next work by one third. The result was unfavourable, as, indeed, I had anticipated. The increased sale by no means compensated for the diminution of price. I was a loser to a considerable extent, and the publisher no gainer by the experiment.

I was afterwards told that the diminution was not sufficient to produce any great effect; and I resolved to make another trial, though anticipating but one result. Such is my motive for giving one entire new work of fiction at about one fourth of the sum which is ordinarily charged. My reason for placing it in this edition is, that the collection having already some hold upon the public, and the sale being considerable, the experiment has the better chance of success, while the effect will be favourable rather than otherwise upon the collection itself.

I need only farther say, that I have no doubt whatsoever of the result--namely, that the increase of sale will be in no degree commensurate with the reduction of price; and therefore I shall never make the experiment again.

GOWRIE:

OR

THE KING'S PLOT.

CHAPTER I.

On the 15th of August, 1599, a young man was seen standing on one of the little bridges in the town of Padua. He was plainly dressed in an ordinary riding habit of that period, having a short black cloak over his shoulders, a tawny suit of cloth below, and a high crowned hat with a plume of feathers falling on one side. In most respects his apparel indicated no higher station than that of a respectable citizen, and indeed citizens of his age, for he could not be more than two-and-twenty, very frequently displayed more gaudy feathers, although the bird they covered might be of inferior race. There were, however, one or two marks about him which seemed to point out a superior station. Instead of a large fraise or ruff round his neck, which was then still common, he wore a falling collar of the richest and most delicate lace, tied in front of the throat by a silver cord and tassel; and though the sheath of his long rapier was merely of black leather, the hilt of the weapon, as well as that of the dagger to his girdle, was of silver exquisitely wrought. His large buckskin gloves, too, were edged with a silver fringe, and embroidered upon the back. In person he was tall and finely formed, with a highly intelligent and expressive countenance, somewhat stern and determined, indeed, for one so young, but yet with a strange mingling of lofty thoughtlessness and careless ease. He was perfectly alone, though on that day the citizens of Padua were all in full holiday, the bells of the churches ringing, and the cannon firing from the ramparts. Every one seemed to have got a companion but himself; and all the streets in the interior of that city of numberless arcades, were thronged with groups celebrating the holiday, the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, while he stood alone on the little bridge, as I have said, near the Ferara gate, which was left to comparative solitude by the populace, who were flocking to the churches. He remained in the same spot for more than a quarter of an hour, sometimes leaning his arms on the parapet of the bridge, and gazing down into the shining water, or watching the labours of a stout man, less devout than his neighbours, who still continued his work in one of the boats, with his white shirt and his bright blue breeches reflected in the painted mirror below--sometimes looking up the street which led to the bridge, amongst the arches of which, groups of men and women in gay attire were seen, appearing and disappearing as they crossed from one side to the other. The bright sunshine of Italy was pouring in oblique lines through the openings of the street, and as it caught from time to time upon the brilliant dresses of the passing inhabitants, the effect was strange and pleasing; and a city, the narrow streets and dim arcades of which generally rendered its aspect somewhat gloomy, was now all life and gaiety. The young stranger did not seem to take part in the general merriment: not that he looked sad or even grave, for when he turned his eyes up the street, and caught sight of any of the moving groups which it presented, a smile came upon his lip, somewhat sarcastic it is true, as if he regarded with a certain portion of contempt the rejoicings of the people or the occasion which called them forth, but yet cheerful and free, as of a mind untroubled which could afford to find amusement in the little follies of others.

When he had remained in that same spot for nearly a quarter of an hour, the loiterer was joined by another, a much more gaily habited cavalier. The latter was about the same age, or perhaps a year or two older, not quite so tall as his companion, though still a tall man, darker in complexion, and powerfully though lightly made. His step was free, his look open and sparkling; and though his features were not strikingly handsome, yet his countenance was exceedingly pleasing, and not the less striking from some degree of irregularity.

"Ever exact to time and place, Signor Johannes," said the latter, grasping the hand of him who had been waiting; "and now, I dare say, you have been accusing my tardiness and want of punctuality; but, upon my life, what between folly in the morning, study at mid-day, business in the afternoon, and emotions in the evening, I have had my hands full; so be not angry, good my lord."

"Heaven forbid," replied the other; "he that were angry with want of punctuality in you, Hume, would quarrel with a lark for singing, or an owl for hooting, and might spend his whole time in fretting his spirit at the nature of his friend. Besides, you made no promise to be here. I wrote, fixing my own hour, and taking my chance of its suiting you."

"But why all this mystery, and why this sober suit?" exclaimed the other, taking hold of his cloak, with a gay laugh; "this smells strongly of Geneva; and your brown jerkin is worthy of a true disciple of Beza. In pity, John, do not let him affect the outward man. Be as rigid as you will in resisting the powers of the Babylonian lady on your heart and mind, but do not carry your religion into taffeta, or suffer tenets to interfere with silk and satin. The religion that kills one innocent joy, is not the religion of Him who more than once told us to rejoice; and I cannot help thinking, that those who prescribe particular clothing for particular ceremonies, and those who proscribe it upon all occasions, are equally foolish and wrong."

"And so do I," answered his companion; "you will not find me altered in the least in those things; but the cause of my homely suit, and the mystery of my coming is the same, and very simple. I did not wish to be recognised by any of our good teachers here in this learned university, nor by any of our old companions but yourself. To show you, however, that I am no fanatic, know that I am even now on my way to Rome, to see the wonders of the eternal city and his holiness the Pope, though I shall not certainly ask his blessing, from a very strong doubt of its doing me any good."

"There I agree with you," replied his friend; "though the blessing of a good man can never do one any harm, and there might be worse men than Clement; but what have you done with your retinue? Where are all the servants, where the famous tutor, Dominie Rhind?"

"Gone on to Monselice," replied the other, "there to wait for my coming, if they can find room in the little inn, and if not, to travel farther, to Rovigo. But you have my messenger with you, have you not? I bade him wait my coming."

"Good sooth have I," answered the other, "and the mad knave has kept the whole of Padua in an uproar for the last three days. What between jeering the men, making love to the women, and playing with the children, he has made friends and enemies enough to serve a man a lifetime."

"He is incorrigible!" said his friend, with an air of vexation. "I was forced to send him away from Geneva, for Beza would not tolerate him, and I loved not to see the good old man distressed. But the fellow promised amendment, and he is so attached and faithful, that his virtues and his vices, like a Spanish olla, are blended into a very savoury dish, though of the most opposite ingredients. I laid strict injunctions upon him to be discreet, and above all, never to mention my name."

"That last point of discretion he has most strictly maintained," replied the more gaily dressed cavalier; "for even to me he has never pronounced the forbidden word, always expressing his meaning by some periphrasis, such as 'the noble gentleman you wot of,' 'the worshipful writer of the letter,' 'him who shall be nameless,' and so forth, ever eking out the sense with a raised eyebrow and thumb jerked back over his shoulder, as if he were speaking of the devil, and owned Beelzebub for his master. But now let us to your inn, where supper and a small room are provided for you according to your behest, and there you shall tell me what has brought you back to this fair Italian land, and I will relate what has occurred to me since last we met."

"My errand in Italy is soon told," said his comrade, with a smile. "I come to buy some pictures to adorn my poor house at Perth. It were a shame to have dwelt so long in Italy, and not to carry back something of the Caracci's handiwork. I will see Annibale, and Ludovick too, and Caravaggio. I have heard, too, of a young painter named Reni--Guido Reni they call him, who is now making some noise at Bologna. One picture said to be his I have seen, full of grace and beauty, and if he so paint he will soon be famous in all the world--why do you laugh?"

"Because I judge pictures alone brought you not to Padua," replied his companion; "for in good sooth there are few worth seeing here, except St. Anthony preaching to the fishes."

"A very unprofitable waste of good doctrine," said the other; "but let us go--yet, we will choose the dull back streets which the students love not, for I do not wish them to see their late Lord Rector coming amongst them in masquerade."

"Come, then, under the walls," answered the other; and, leading the way, he conducted his friend through several of the low and narrow streets which abutted upon the defences, hardly meeting any one but a labourer and an old woman or two in miserable rags, seeking amongst the piles of rubbish, thrown out here and there in the open spaces between the walls and the houses, for anything that poverty could make valuable. At length they were obliged to turn into one of the larger streets; but ten steps therein brought them to a narrow doorway under one of the arcades, where they entered and mounted a long dirty stair. At the first landing was a door on the left, through which they passed into a little ante-room, where at a table was seated a young man dressed as a servant, but without badge or cognizance, as was usual with the domestics of great families at that period. If one might judge from his face, which was ugly enough to be funny, and funny enough to be beautiful--I do not love paradoxes, but I am driven into one--he was not a personage very much given to grave contemplations. Nevertheless, on the present occasion he was so seriously occupied with the piece of work he had in hand, that for an instant he did not observe the entrance of the two gentlemen we have mentioned. That piece of work was indeed a very important and elaborate one, at least in his opinion--namely, the cutting out, in small blocks of soft wood, a variety of grotesque heads, in which his inventive genius displayed itself by producing noses such as never were seen on any human countenance, eyes of every degree of obliquity, and chins, some retreating, as if afraid of the portentous nasal organ which overshadowed them, and some immeasurably protruded, as if to domineer over the mouth that yawned above. In truth he showed no small skill in sculpture, although his genius had taken rather an eccentric turn; and it was evident that he enjoyed his own performance very much, for his first salutation to his master was a loud laugh, as he contemplated the extraordinary physiognomy he had just carved. Then, awakening to the more sober realities of life, he started up, laying down the knife and wood upon the table, and saying, with a low bow, "Welcome to Padua, noble sir; better late than never; nothing's lost that is not at the bottom of the sea. It is a long lane that has never a turning. A man cannot be too late who has time enough."

"Spare your proverbs, good Master Jute," replied his master, the stranger who had been waiting on the bridge; "I find that, notwithstanding all your promises of reformation and sobriety, you have been setting the whole town in an uproar."

"Not so, indeed, my noble lord; with the best intentions I have not had time to get through more than the French quarter. I hurried here as fast as possible, both to do your will and my own, seeing that I have been pent up like a brawn in a stye for the last three months; but still I have not had time enough. As for promises, although, like pie-crusts, they are made to be broken, and he who vows much performs little, yet, from a silly fondness for a whole skin and clear conscience, I never break mine; and I beseech your lordship to recollect that I only promised to behave well by the shores of Lake Leman."

"Well, well, we will talk more of that hereafter," replied his lord, following the other gentleman towards the inner room. "I find you have obeyed my injunction of not mentioning my name. See that you attend to it still. And now go and order them to bring my supper up, for I have ridden hard and fasted long."

The man made a low bow, and obeyed, while the two gentlemen proceeded into the neighbouring chamber, and the traveller, casting himself into a seat, said, with a sigh, the source of which might be difficult to discover, "So, here I am, once more in Padua."

CHAPTER II.

The room was a little dingy room lined with black oak, carved into panels, with some degree of taste and ornament, the house having formerly belonged to higher personages than those who possessed it at the time; for Padua, even then, like all persons, places, and things, on the face of the earth, had seen its mutations; and Patavium had undergone, since the days of Livy, a thousand different changes, which had rendered fashionable parts of the city unfashionable, turned the houses of nobles into the residences of boors, converted Pagan temples into Christian churches, and, with greater propriety, had converted amphitheatres into slaughter-houses. Amongst later alterations, the house which had formerly been inhabited by one of the mercenary followers of Angelo, had descended to the station of an inn, at first well frequented and in high repute, but gradually sinking lower and lower, till it had now become a sort of lodging-house in ordinary for merchants who visited the town of Padua, and the poorer class of students, on their first arrival. The chamber, however, was lofty; the window which looked into the court, large, and opening all the way down the centre, which was then rare; and the coolness so desirable at that burning season was to be obtained there, which could not be found in many a larger and finer apartment in the city. In this room, with several flasks of fine wine before them, were seated, about half an hour after sunset, John, Earl of Gowrie, and his friend Sir John Hume. There were two wax tapers on the table, some plates of beautiful fruit, perfuming the whole air, and some cakes of a sweet kind of bread, for which Padua was then famous. The rays of the candles were quickly lost in the dark wainscoting around, but they threw sufficient light upon the table and its white cloth, and showed fully the expressions of the two young men's countenances. Both were still gay, and laugh and jest had gone on between them during the meal; but every now and then a look of deep thoughtfulness, almost amounting to melancholy, crossed the face of the earl, passing away again like the shadow of a flying cloud cast momentarily on a fine landscape. They had been speaking of many things while the servant of the earl and some of the people of the inn had been coming and going. The period of Lord Gowrie's sojourn at Padua as a scholar had been referred to, and the high academic honour which had been conferred upon him somewhat more than a year before, by his election to the office of rector, had been commented upon by Hume, who laughingly said, "If I had puzzled my dull brains for seven years, I never could have obtained or merited such a distinction, John."

It was one of Lord Gowrie's graver moments when his friend made this observation, and he replied gloomily, "Those who eat the fruit early, Hume, are left with bare boughs in the autumn. I was elected Lord Provost of Perth before I was fourteen; I fought in a lost battle at fifteen; and I was rector of this university before I was twenty. Blighted hopes, or early death, we often find the fate of those who taste the bitter stream of life so soon."

"Nonsense," replied his friend; "have you studied the sublime art of astrology to so little purpose? It is but that you are born under a fortunate star, and will go on in honour and success until the end."

"Small success at the field of Down," replied the earl; "for a more disastrous rout never befel brave men than there overtook Athol and Montrose."

"But great success to you," answered Hume, laughing; "for you escaped where many a brave man fell, and were pardoned without inquiry, when many were mulcted of half their goods--Still, still your fortunate star was on the ascendant; and the devil, the king, and the popish lords could not get the better of its influence; and now what brings you to Padua?"

"By and by," said the young earl--"we'll talk of that by and by. Tell me, first, all that has happened to you, according to your promise."

"My life, good faith, has been dull enough," replied Sir John Hume, "till within the last week, when I have had a little occupation for my thoughts besides dull problems and hard studies. Do you remember an old man with a gray beard, who used to wander about towards eventide, in a long black gown and a velvet cap? Manucci is his name, a Florentine, who has travelled much in different lands, speaks English like an Englishman, and French like a Frenchman, and used to look like Titian's portrait, only more meagre and somewhat less fresh and lusty."

Lord Gowrie had twice nodded his head in token that he knew the person spoken of; but Hume had still gone on describing, till at length the young earl said, almost impatiently, "Yes, yes, I know him well. What of him?"

"Poor man, he has been in sad trouble," replied his friend; "our reputation for magic here has risen somewhat too high for our security. We have had monitories from the holy office, warning our learned professors against permitting forbidden studies, and enjoining them strictly to seek out and deliver up to justice all those who practise black and damnable arts. Arnesi only laughed, and said that his was a black and white art, for that he dealt in pen and ink, but that he hoped the white would save the black part of the business. A number of the older signors, however, whose wits are rather on the wane, and who still fancy that everything they do not understand themselves is magic, took up the matter far more seriously, and laying their wise heads together in small conclave, determined they would seek out, and hand over to the tender mercies of those who roast the body to save the soul, every poor creature to whom suspicion could attach. Manucci had a long gray beard, a rusty black gown, but small reverence for the learned professors, paid no fees, kept himself apart in solitary studies, seldom spoke with anybody, and had a keen and spirit-searching eye. Here seemed a sorcerer at once, quite ready to their hand. Still such appearances, without proof, would not justify violence; but they judged that the search for proof would; and as I was passing the old man's door, near the Trevisogate, I saw the college beadle and three or four more officers making their way in against the resistance of the poor old woman who waits upon him, and who was assuring them with tears that her master was dying in his bed."

"Dying!" exclaimed Lord Gowrie, with a start.

"Well, I went in with them," continued Hume, not noticing his friend's exclamation; "and a pitiful sight I soon beheld."

"In the name of Heaven, what?" demanded the Earl of Gowrie, with a pale cheek and an eager eye; and then feeling how completely the whole expression of his countenance must have changed, he added, "I was much interested in that old man. I knew him well, loved him well, and was going on a long promise to see him this very night."

"Indeed!" said Hume, before he proceeded to finish his story, musing, as if some intricate problem was placed before him. "Ha! Well, as I was saying, I went in, following the officers--a few steps behind I might be, and then, when we came into the little back room, I saw a bed with a crucifix at the foot, and the old man lying on it, the image of death. His long beard was stretched upon the decently composed bed-clothes, hard to say which was the whitest; his left hand was folded quietly on his breast, and his right was stretched out over the side of the bed, with tightly pressed upon it the lips of the most beautiful girl I ever beheld in my life--with one sole exception," he added.

Lord Gowrie was evidently very uneasy. He played with the hilt of his rapier, clasping and unclasping his hands upon the sheath; he gazed eagerly in his friend's face, as if he would fain have interrupted him, but yet hesitated to do so.

"Well," continued Hume, "the officers at first seemed a little touched, but they are folks not easily moved, and the waters of pity soon subside with them, when agitated for a moment by the unwonted wind. One of them took him by the shoulder, and said, 'Come, signor, you must get up, and deliver all your papers. We are sent to examine everything, by the council of the university, which has strong reason to believe you guilty of magic and sorcery.'

"'My thoughts are there,' said the old man, meekly, pointing towards heaven; but the young girl by his bedside started up, and gazed at the officers with wild and frightened eyes. These men, now, were very zealous Christians; but they thought it a point of piety to interrupt a dying man's preparation to meet his Maker, and to hurry him away to death--for nothing else could have followed--before that preparation was complete."

The Earl of Gowrie bent his head upon his hands, covering his eyes with his fingers; but his friend could see that he shook violently, either with anger, apprehension, or some other strong emotion. He went on, however, saying, "I thought it best now to interfere, John, knowing that I am somewhat a favourite with the good officers of the university, being too dull or too light to be taken for a conjuror, and too free with my purse for a dealer in the things of darkness. I therefore stepped quietly forward, and representing that the old gentleman was evidently too ill to be moved, suggested that it would be better to make a preliminary examination of the papers, in which I offered to assist. I had some difficulty in prevailing; but at length it was agreed that all suspicious documents should be carried at once before the senate, and those that were plain and straightforward left, while one officer remained in the house, to prevent a man from escaping who could not stir a step. The search was somewhat curious, and certainly there were sundry writings of which I understood not one word; but I pressed the old man's hand, and told him in English to make his mind easy, asking for one word of explanation in regard to the strange tongues I had found there written. 'Some are Armenian,' he answered, 'some Syriac, and some Gaelic, which you, at least, should understand.' Happily I did, for one of the first papers examined was an old song of our own Highlands, describing the hunting of a stag. I could have laughed, had the matter not been serious, to see the puzzled faces of the learned doctors. The Armenian and Syriac they knew at least by the characters, and afraid of showing their brief extent of knowledge, they pronounced them all very innocent; but the Gaelic was in the high road to the Holy Inquisition, though written in the Latin character, when I begged to see the paper, and read aloud and laughed, and read and laughed, and read again, with as strong a twang of the old Erse as I could bring my mouth to utter. A dozen voices called for an explanation of the strange sounds I was pouring forth. On which I assured them that the fancied magic was but a poem in one of the languages of my own land, of which I would give a translation if they would lend an ear. You know that some such songs in the mountain tongue are not of the most cleanly. This was one which soon set the reverend doctors grinning, and I returned in triumph with messages of peace to the poor man's bedside."

"Did he die?" demanded the earl, in a tone subdued almost to a whisper by his eagerness.

"Nay, he is better," replied Hume; "for having saved his life in one way, I now bestirred myself to save it in another. I sat with him through that livelong night; I tried to cheer and comfort him, and finding from the beautiful creature who was the companion of my watch, that of late he had denied himself almost necessary sustenance, what with poverty, what with study, I sent for wine to my own house, and forced it upon him, till the flame of life rose up bright once more above the fresh-trimmed lamp."

A curious change had come over the young earl during the utterance of the last few sentences. "Now I will warrant," he said, with a laugh, strangely contrasting with the deep emotions he had lately displayed, "that the inflammable heart of John Hume has taken fire at this fair girl's bright eyes, and that they have led him every day to the small house near the Treviso gate?"

Hume gazed at him for a moment with a grave look; and then, moving his chair a little nearer, he laid his hand upon that of Gowrie. "I have gone every day," he said, "but not for those bright, dark eyes, for I have not forgotten a pair, blue as the twilight sky, that dwell at Perth; but I have gone out of pity to the old man--pity for the young girl--and affection for John Ruthven."

The earl gazed at him for a moment, then started up, and cast his arms around him, saying, "You have my secret, Hume; but how you learned it I know not; for until this hour it has rested in my own bosom, which I ever fancied the only sure casket for the treasure of one's own thoughts."

"Good faith, my noble lord," answered Hume, "there are other languages than words. Looks and acts, for those who mark them, speak as plainly as the best orator. Here, during the last year of your stay at Padua, each night you stole away in private to visit the house of an old man, learned, indeed, and doubtless full of mighty secrets in nature and art, known for an astrologer, and suspected of practices with things less full of light than the bright stars. Your devotion to knowledge no one doubted, but such regular attendance at her shrine seemed more than natural in a young man of twenty; and I sometimes doubted that you were wooing a fairer and a warmer lady than cool Dame Science. When you went away from this poor place, too, you were wondrous sad, and with a sadness different from that with which we part from the calm pleasures and dull tasks of youth to take part in the eager strifes of manhood. 'Twas a passionate sadness, not a thoughtful one. Well, when I saw her who must have been the companion of many of your hours of study in the old man's house, I easily discovered that they had not been cold ones; and as I knew that you proposed to return, for a time at least, to Italy, I studied, for your sake, to show all kindness to those whom you had loved. Nay, more, I ventured even to seek a confirmation of my fancies; throwing out your name in conversation, as we cast a gilded fly upon the water to see if the shining salmon will spring up to catch it. I said that, to my belief, it would not be long ere you returned to Italy."

"What did she say?--How did she look?" demanded Gowrie, eagerly.

"At the first mention of your name she sighed," replied Hume, "and her cheek turned a shade paler than before; but when I talked of your return, the retreating blood rallied back into her face with double force, conquering the paleness in its turn, and dying the whole with crimson."

"Indeed!" said Gowrie, thoughtfully. "It is strange! I knew not that it was so!"

"Not know it! Not know what, Gowrie?" exclaimed his friend.

"That there was one feeling in her heart towards me," answered the earl, "which would make her heart's pulse beat with a faster stroke, or vary the colour in her cheek a shade. You are mistaken, Hume, in thinking that she was the companion of the hours I spent at old Manucci's house. I seldom saw her; but gradually there came a passion into my heart, which made the chance of one of those rare, short interviews, attraction strong enough to lead me, night after night, to where they might be had. Not that I did not struggle against growing love, restraining myself by prudent worldly thoughts; and I would have quitted Padua sooner, but that my station as Lord Rector held me here. You, who know me, can well judge, I think, that while thus debating with my love in my own heart, I would not do that sweet girl such a wrong as by word or look to seek her love in return."

"You could not hide your own, Gowrie," replied Hume; "yours is not a nature that with a cold exterior can cover over the fiery heart within. Your actions you may rule, and do so often with great power; but your looks and tones refuse such rigid sway."

"It may be so--it may be so," said the earl; and he leaned his head upon his hand, and thought. "And so the old man is better?" continued the earl, after he had remained silent for a few minutes, during which his friend had not ceased to gaze at him without speaking.

"Better, but not well," answered Hume; "what he chiefly needed was strengthening food and wine; but he had a sore disease for which I know no cure--old age, I mean--all other things but that we may fend off or remedy; but that slow creeping sickness of old age may often be hurried, but never delayed. In short, his last attack has shaken him much. He sits up, however; and his appetite has returned. A superstitious notion too has aided to his recovery so far, even when at the worst. He told his grandchild that he was certain he should not die before the morrow of the Assumption."

Lord Gowrie laid his hand upon Sir John Hume's arm, saying, in a marked manner, "Because he expected to see me to-night; and I must go to him, Hume; but before I go, tell me, truly and sincerely, has your own heart remained firm against the beauties and the graces of this fair being with whom you have been so much?"

"See what a thing is love!" said Hume; "you cannot fancy that any one can escape the bow which has wounded you. Have I not said, Gowrie, that I have not forgotten the deep blue eyes in Perth, and never shall forget them? I am as constant as a fixed star."

"What, little Beatrice," exclaimed the earl, "of whom you brought me such a glowing picture two years ago? but she is still a mere child."

"You think her so, because she was one when you left her," answered Hume; "but let me tell you, Gowrie, when I saw her she was a woman, and rich in all a woman's graces. Your mother thought that it would be well to wait a year or two, but nothing now is wanting but your consent. We have stood even the trial of absence, and are both still of the same mind."

Lord Gowrie pressed his hand, replying at once, "My consent is yours, Hume, whenever you choose to claim it. It is strange," he continued, with a smile, "I can but think of Beatrice as the curly-headed child, who, seven years ago, wiped the blood and dust from my brow when I came back from the field of Downcastle. Hark! the clock is striking nine, I must set out."

"I will go with you nearly to the door," replied his friend; "and you had better have your man to wait for you. The streets of Padua have proved somewhat dangerous since you were here; and on the night of a high festival, the excellent Christians of this part of the world think it no crime to put a dagger in a friend's back, if they have saluted the blessed virgin as they passed the church."

"Well, call him in," replied Lord Gowrie; and having rung a small bell that stood upon the table, they were joined immediately by the earl's servant.

"Get your beaver and your cloak, Austin Jute," said the earl; "we are going out into the streets, and you must follow. Take broadsword and dagger too. I know you can use them well upon occasion. Have you them at hand?"

"A good workman never wants tools, my lord," replied the man; "and as to using them, Heaven send the opportunity, and I'll find the means. A man that threads a needle, ought to be able to stitch; and I who have hammered hot iron in my day, should be able to use it cold, though men say practice makes perfect, and I have had but little in your lordship's service. However, what is early learned is long retained; and a hand that is well acquainted with a cudgel remembers its use as well as the back that bears the beating."

The earl and his friend both laughed. "There, there," cried Sir John Hume, "in pity's name, good Austin, content yourself with ready-made proverbs, and do not eke them out with your own manufacture."

"All as old as the King of Spain's wine, worshipful sir," replied the man; "though all old things are not bad, a new doublet is better than a worn cloak, and proverbs, like lenten pie, may get musty by keeping. I shall have my pinking iron on before your worships are down the stairs; and God send you a safe journey to the bottom, as I shall not be there to take care of you."

CHAPTER III.

When the Earl of Gowrie had parted from his friend at the door of Hume's lodging, he walked on, followed by his servant, for some four or five hundred yards farther, till the wider and more fashionable street deviated into a number of narrow and somewhat intricate lanes, each, however, having its arcades on either side, with the three or four upper stories of the houses built over them, so that two people might have shaken hands from window to window. At the last house of one of these lanes, where the street terminated at a canal, with a bridge over it leading to the Treviso gate, the young nobleman stopped, and using a great bar of iron which hung upon the door, knocked three times aloud. He had to wait some time, however, before the door was opened, and was just about to knock again, when an old woman, with a lamp in her hand dangling by a long chain, appeared to give him entrance.

"How are you, Tita?" he said. "I am sorry to hear that Signor Manucci has been so ill. Can he see me to-night?"

"Oh yes, sir; he expects you," replied the woman, "and will go into his own private study to receive you, though the signora thinks it may hurt him."

The young lord's countenance fell at her reply; for he might fancy that the old man had determined upon receiving him alone, and to say sooth, he had come to see another also. He followed the woman, however, up the narrow stairs, telling his servant to wait below; and he was well pleased to find that his guide turned at once to the right; for he was acquainted with every step in the house, and knew that she was conducting him first to a cool little room where Manucci and his grand-daughter usually sat in the vehement heat of summer. He was even more fortunate than he expected to be, for when the door opened, the light within showed him that, for the time, the chamber was tenanted by one person only, and that the one he most desired to see. It is a strange passion, love, often agitating the strong in frame and powerful in mind more than the weak and gentle. It were vain to deny that the young lord was greatly moved as his eye fell again upon the fair being whose society the ordinary principles of worldly prudence had taught him to believe might be dangerous to his peace. Nevertheless, he advanced straight towards her, holding out his hand with eager agitated pleasure. Nor could she meet him without emotion, too plainly visible, notwithstanding all that inherent self-command which is one of the first qualities in a modest, well-regulated woman's heart. The colour varied in her check. The finely chiselled lip quivered in the vain effort to speak; and the dark bright eyes, as if afraid of their own tale, veiled themselves beneath the long lashes, avoiding the glance of tenderness of which she had caught a momentary sight.

The instant he had entered the room, the wise old woman left him and closed the door; and he stood for an instant silent, with the lady's hand in his. A moment after, he slowly raised her hand, and pressed his lips upon it. It was in those days but an act of ordinary courtesy, implying nothing but friendly regard or reverence; but they each felt that there was a fire in that kiss, and both were more agitated than at first.

"Julia," said the young earl, at length--"Julia, you are much moved; and so am I, indeed--we have been parted long----"

She sank slowly down into her seat again; but she felt that she must speak to welcome him, or let silence confess all; and she answered, "I have had much, very much to agitate me lately. It is not wonderful that I am a good deal moved, in seeing an old friend after a long absence."

"And is that all?" said the earl, almost sadly. "I had hoped it was something more. May I not trust that the agitation of both has the same source--that in absence we have learned to know our own hearts, and to feel that our happiness depends upon each other?"

"Hush! hush!" she said, raising her eyes to his face, with an expression which was answer enough. "I must not hear you. I must not reply upon such subjects--at least not now."

"And why not now?" demanded the earl. "Who can say when the opportunity may present itself again? Who can say what obstacles may intervene between us, if we do not seize the moments which fate has given?--Say, Julia, why not now?"

"Because I have duties to perform," she answered, "from which nothing should estrange me. The time may come--nay," she added, sorrowfully, "it must come, and that but too soon, when I shall have no one to think of but myself, no one to ask or to consult with, in regard to what I should do; but now I would not, if I could help it, take a thought away from him who has bestowed for long years all his thoughts upon me. I have even reproached myself, when I saw him suffering and sinking before my eyes, for having but too often let those thoughts, which should have been all his, wander away to other things."

"And did they seek me in their wanderings?" asked Gowrie, taking her hand again, and gazing into her eyes.

She answered not, but averted her look, while the rose deepened in her cheek; and as they thus sat, the door opened suddenly, and the old man appeared. It made them both start; but Gowrie was strong in honesty of heart and purpose; and advancing frankly, he took Manucci's hand in his, saying, "I have longed much to see you, my old friend, and your dear Julia too. We have been long parted; but my affection for neither has decreased."

Manucci was very feeble; and perhaps with agitation, perhaps with weakness, he tottered on his feet. Lord Gowrie held him firmly by the hand, however, drew forward a chair, and supported him till he was seated.

"I have many things to speak to you about," said the old man; "many things which may agitate me and you. But let us not talk about them just yet. I have been very ill; and the little strength I have left, would soon be expended if I did not economise it carefully."

"I have grieved much to hear of your illness," replied the earl, standing beside his chair and gazing down upon him. "My friend, Sir John Hume, has told me how much you have suffered, and how you have been persecuted."

"The latter is nothing," replied the old man. "Every man, not behind his age in knowledge, and who from that point casts his view farther forward than the rest, judging of the consequences of each fact by experience of the past, corrected by a full acquaintance with the present, will ever seem criminal in the eyes of the fools who disbelieve, and of the knaves who believe and dread. Persecution was to be expected when I held myself aloof from idlers who consumed their time in mere amusement, and from learned busy-bodies, who wasted it in vain and fruitless studies; but that illness was a sturdy, stern, and less conquerable foe. He has battered down the outworks, and the shattered fortress must soon surrender."

"Yet you look better than I expected," replied the earl. "Indeed, at your age, which you have often told me is great, few men look better."

He might, indeed, well say so, for the old man's eye, as he sat there, was clear and bright; and a hue, very like that of returning health, was in his cheek. He was a tall man, and had once, apparently, been a very powerful one. His frame, indeed, was a little bowed. His beard and hair were snowy white; and the skin was wrinkled, except upon the high forehead and the bald crown of the head. All the signs of age, indeed, were there, except that the teeth were fine and apparently undecayed, and that the hand--which, with the exception, perhaps, of the ear, shows the advance of age more distinctly than any other part of the frame--looked not so knotted and bony as it often appears at a late period of life.

The conversation easily and gradually deviated into topics of a calm and tranquil kind. The young earl spoke of many things which had occurred to him since he left Padua. They might afford little matter of amusement to the reader of the present day; but they were interesting to the ears which heard him. The old man, too, had his tale of the changes which had taken place in Padua; but he more frequently referred to the results which had followed his own researches in matters of science. Deeply read, for that period, in natural philosophy--mingled as it was at the time, before the immortal Bacon had established a juster system of investigation, with the dreams of alchymy and judicial astrology--he discussed many subjects familiar to the ears of Lord Gowrie, whose whole family had a strong and unusual taste for inquiry into the secrets of nature. The old man seemed to be revived by his young friend's presence; and he soon recovered that cheerful gaiety which had greatly distinguished him in earlier years. Still, however, the earl remarked, that from time to time his eyelid would drop and his voice become low, as if with fatigue, and at length he said, in a kindly tone, "You are tired, my good old friend. It will be better for me to bid you good night now, and come to talk of other matters with you to-morrow."

"No, no!" cried Manucci; "it must be to-night, or never. I have waited for you, Earl Gowrie, for I told you if you would return on this night, I would read you the scheme of your nativity--point out to you, as clearly as man's voice can show, the course by which you may avoid the perils and secure the advantages of life, and tell you what must absolutely happen--what is still dependent upon courage and conduct. For this I have studied, and pondered, and tried the indications of the stars again and again; but the hour is not yet come, and you must wait till the clock strikes twelve. Then I will speak; for to-morrow, perchance, I shall not have strength to do so."

"Nay, I trust your strength will every day increase," replied the earl; but the old man shook his head, and cast a grave and melancholy glance upon the beautiful girl who sat near him.

"The things of this life are waning away," he said; "and in truth, it is time that I should depart. Eighty years are a heavy load; and the burden is still increasing. There were men, as you have heard, who would fain have eased me of it; but as it contained a few things that are valuable, I was unwilling at that moment to part with it, like all other men, clinging to my treasure though it bent down the shoulders that bore it."

"Methinks a life of study and the calm enjoyment of tranquil thought may well lighten the burden of years," replied the earl; "and but for the apprehension and annoyance caused by these foolish men, your existence, my good friend, has been tranquil and peaceable enough."

The old man smiled sadly. "We always fail," he said, "when we judge of the fate of others. Life is double, Gowrie, an internal and an external life; the latter often open to the eyes of all, the former only seen by the eye of God. Nor is it alone those material things which we conceal from the eyes of others, which often make the apparently splendid lot in reality a dark one, or that which seems sad or solitary, cheerful and light within. Our characters, our spirits operate upon all that fate or accident subjects to them. We transform the events of life for our own uses, be those uses bitter or sweet; and as a piece of gold loses its form and its solidity when dropped into a certain acid, so the hard things of life are resolved by the operations of our own minds into things the least resembling themselves. True, a life of study and of thought may seem to most men a calm and tranquil state of existence. Such pursuits gently excite, and exercise softly and peacefully, the highest faculties of the intellectual soul; but age brings with it indifference even to these enjoyments--nay, it does more, it teaches us the vanity and emptiness of all man's knowledge. We reach the bounds and barriers which God has placed across our path in every branch of science, and we find, with bitter disappointment, at life's extreme close, that when we know all, we know nothing. This I have learned, my young friend, and it is all that I have learned in eighty years, that the only knowledge really worth pursuing is the knowledge of God in his word and his works--the only practical application of that high science, to do good to all God's creatures."

"Still study is not wasted," said the earl, "when it leads to such an elevated result, when it teaches us in the creature to see the Creator, and in the events of existence to behold his will, and surely the fruit of such conclusions must be peaceful."

"Tend to peace they must," replied the old man; "for they must quiet strong passions, moderate vehement desires, teach us to bear afflictions with fortitude, and to temper our anxieties with hope; but yet, noble lord, neither philosophy nor religion can alter the constitution of our minds. We may know that God is good and merciful. We may know that in the end all must be well; but we still see that on this earth there is a world of sorrow, and we may shrink under the anguish ourselves, or tremble at seeing it approach those we love."

"Fear not for me," said the beautiful girl who was seated beside him, seeing his eyes turned with a sad look towards her; "oh, let not one anxiety on my account add to the burden of years, and make your last days cheerless. Though those may deny me who are bound to protect me, thank God, I can render myself independent of them. The education you have given, the arts you have taught, would always enable me with my own hands to win my own bread----" and then she added, in a low tone, catching a look almost reproachful on the earl's face, "should it be needful."

"Which it shall never be," replied the earl at once, "so long as I have a hand and heart to offer, and means----"

"Hush! hush!" exclaimed the old man, turning his eyes almost sternly from the one to the other; "no such rash words. You know not what you speak of. At all events wait till you know what fate maybe before you; and then, with the deliberate forethought of a man, act as becomes a man, and not as a rash boy."

The effect of his words upon Julia were not such as might have been expected, perhaps; for whether the severer part had found an antidote in what her lover had said before, or whether, from some secret source in her own heart, the waters of hope swelled forth anew, she seemed from that moment to cast away the deeper tone of thought and feeling which had characterized her conversation and demeanour during the evening, and to resume the light-hearted spirit of youth which had spread such a charm around her in the first years of her acquaintance with Lord Gowrie.

"Nay," she said, laying her hand upon the old man's arm, "all other things apart, is it not true that I can win my own bread by my own hands? Can I not paint well enough to gain the few scudi that are needful for my little sustenance? Can I not compose music which brings tears at least into your eyes? Can I not write as well as many a one who lives by his pen? Can I not illuminate missals, or embroider, or work baskets, if needs must be? Would I not long ago have done all this for your support as well as mine, if you would but have let me?"

"You would indeed," he answered, "but that I could not have. Not that I hold it degradation in any one, my child, by their own industry to remedy the niggardliness of fortune; but I could not bear to see you labour for me."

"Oh, man's pride!" exclaimed Julia; "what an obstacle it is to peace and happiness. Here," she continued, turning to Lord Gowrie, with a sparkling look--"here has he, for many a year, supported, instructed, educated me; and now he will not let me repay a small portion of the debt I owe him by labouring for him now, although he knows right well that to do so would be my greatest joy, that the object would be happiness and the means amusement. But you look tired," she said, gazing affectionately in the old man's face; "let me go and bring you some refreshment."

"Call Tita," replied the old man; "she will bring it; and now let us speak of ordinary things."

A small tray was soon brought in, with some fruits, and bread, and wine; and the conversation was renewed in a gayer spirit, Julia striving by her light and happy tone to cheer the old man, and banish the gloom which seemed to hang about him. The time thus passed rapidly; and some few minutes before midnight the old man rose, saying to the earl, "I go before for a moment. Follow me speedily. She will show you the way, but remember, in the meantime, no rash words."

When he was gone, the earl and Julia stood for a moment gazing at each other; and then Gowrie took her hand, saying, "Notwithstanding his prohibition, thus far, at least, I must speak----"

But she laid her left hand on his shoulder, lifting her bright eyes swimming in tears to his, and interrupted him. "Not now, Gowrie," she said; "I am no dissembler, nor are you. My heart is open to you, and yours to me. If we were to speak for years we could say no more, and anything like promises are vain at this moment, for nothing shall ever part me from him but death. Now come. His lamp is lighted by this time; and I fear to trust myself with you here alone, not from doubt of you, but of my own firmness; and a few more words would make me weep. I see the dark day coming, Gowrie; and, as I said before, I would not, for the joy of heaven, rob him of one thought or care, so long as his life shall last."

As she spoke she led the way to the door without withdrawing her hand from her lover; and thus, hand in hand, they went along the corridor which led to the old man's study. There Julia left him, and the earl went in.

CHAPTER IV.

The room which the Earl of Gowrie entered was a small one of an octagonal shape, having tall lancet windows on every side but one. It had probably, at some period long past, been the interior of one of those small projecting turrets which we still occasionally see ornamenting the angles of the ancient castellated houses of the Italian nobility. The bridge leading towards the Treviso gate, and the small canal were underneath; the city walls rose up black beyond; but the turret was high above, and through the windows, on every side but that next to the city, were seen twinkling the bright and multitudinous stars of heaven. In the centre of the room was a large oaken table bearing a lamp, the flame of which was peculiarly bright and perfectly white in colour, and over the rest of the table were cast in strange confusion a number of curious objects. There were books--some closed, but some open, and displaying characters with which the young earl was perfectly unacquainted. One page was covered all over with cyphers alternately of red and blue; and one was traced with many mathematical figures, which, although the earl was well versed in that science, seemed to him strange and new. Another manuscript lay near, which he saw at once was written in Hebrew, but there were others in which the lines ran from corner to corner of the page, with such a multitude of strokes and flourishes, that the letters themselves could hardly be distinguished. Scientific instruments were there too, tossed about amongst the papers, with the uses of many of which the young lord was unacquainted. There were triangular glasses filled with sand, and glass globes, connected together by a tube of the same substance, half filled with mercury. Squares and triangles of brass covered over with curious signs were there likewise; and round about the room, beneath shelves loaded with ponderous volumes, were several globes, and instruments of a rude construction for observing the stars. In one corner stood a small furnace, with crucibles and retorts, and various other implements of chemical or alchemical science; and on a small pedestal of black marble between two of the windows was raised a crucifix of ebony and ivory, supported by two heads of cherubim, exquisitely sculptured in white marble, the one looking up towards the cross with a bright smile, the other with the eyes bent down, as if weeping, and the whole expression sad. At the foot of the crucifix lay a human skull.

At the moment the earl entered, the old man, Manucci, was seated on the side of the table opposite to the door, with a reading desk bearing up a large vellum-covered book before him, and a paper covered with a strange-looking diagram on the table. He had a pen in one hand, and a pair of compasses in the other; and without noticing, even by a look, the young earl's entrance, he turned his eyes from time to time to the book and then to the paper again, and once or twice inscribed a figure of a curious form at the side of the diagram. Twice he paused and listened, as if in expectation of some sound, and then laying down the pen, he leaned his head upon his hand, and remained in silent meditation.

At length the large bell of the Franciscan church of St. Antony struck the hour of midnight, and all the other clocks in the city proclaimed that a day was ending and beginning.

"Now," said Manucci, addressing the earl, "come hither, and sit beside me. Here is the scheme of your nativity, drawn out carefully according to the dates that you have given me. Of the past I will not speak; for, as you have often told me the events which have occurred to you at various periods of your life, perhaps in drawing deductions from the aspect of the stars, my judgment might be somewhat guided by the knowledge I already possessed. It is sufficient, however, that to any one who is acquainted, even superficially, with this science, it would plainly appear, that the aspect of the stars in the month of October, 1593, menaced you with great danger, and that in '94, towards the end of the year, you were clearly destined to quit your native land. Of the future, however, I must speak more strongly; for times of great trial to you are coming. Look at these menacing aspects, and judge for yourself."

"I know so little of the science," replied the earl, "that I cannot pretend to form a just opinion; but it seems to me, from the little I do know, that here," and he laid his finger on a part of the diagram, "is the promise of much happiness, honour, and peace, and love."

"Ay," said Manucci, "but look farther. Here is honour, and peace, and love, but hardly has the sun of next year touched his extreme point north, when see what menacing aspects appear. Almost every planet is in opposition in your house. Do you not see?"

"I do, indeed," answered the earl; "but yet it is nearly unintelligible to me. I beseech you read it, according to your skill."

"It is dark and yet clear," said the old man. "This, however, I can tell with certainty, that the greatest point of peril in your whole life, lies between the end of June next year and the anniversary of this day. The danger shall come upon you in the midst of peace and tranquillity, when all things seem to promise fair. If you escape that period, the rest of existence shall be bright and happy, your life shall be long and prosperous, and fortune shall smile upon you to the end; but there is great peril there."

"But how shall I avoid it?" asked the earl. "Can you give me no indication for my guidance? Can you not tell me what is the nature of the peril, from whom or whence it comes?"

Manucci mused. "It is not war," he said, "for Mars is low down. I should say that policy had to do with it, that the danger is more of conspiracy than of war."

The young earl smiled; but Manucci went on, in the same sort of musing way. "Love, too," he said, "has a share in the evil, though indirect; but conspiracy assuredly, from the menacing aspect of Saturn. Avoid, I beseech you, avoid all meddling with the politics of your native land; scrupulously and carefully eschew treason, or anything that may be so construed; listen not even to the words of conspirators, take no part in their counsels, drive them forth from your presence if they seek to tempt you, and so I trust you may escape the peril; but if not, you will certainly fall, for the anger of a king evidently threatens you; and the cause of danger is conspiracy, goaded on by love."

"Safely and surely can I promise," answered the earl, "for I have long made up my mind to avoid all plots, and to take no share of any kind in aught but the ordinary business of the day. My family have suffered too much already from their dealings with that foul fiend, Policy, which ever proves the ruin of those who give themselves up to her, who soothes them with hopes but to deceive them, and raises them up but to dash them down. Neither have I ever seen or heard of one benefit procured for the country by the blood of all the patriots who have fallen in defending their fellow citizens' rights, still less by that of those who have suffered base personal ambition to lead them into schemes of treason and disloyalty under the pretence of redressing grievances. There comes a pitch of tyranny sometimes, it is true, when it is necessary to dare all and to risk all for security, liberty, and repose; but it very, very seldom happens, in the ordinary course of events, that anything can be gained by revolt, which can compensate even for a few days of turbulence, anarchy, or civil war. Nothing of the kind exists at present, or is likely to exist, to justify anything like conspiracy or rebellion. Make your mind easy then, as far as I am concerned; for I can safely promise to avoid everything which can afford even a reasonable cause of suspicion."

"Thank God that it is so," answered Manucci, solemnly; "but ever keep in mind what I have said. Think of it every day. Remember it on every occasion; for I have told you that the peril will come suddenly, and probably, therefore, the temptation also. If you attend to my warning, and thus escape the danger, you will have to thank me for long years afterwards. Therefore now sit down here in my seat, and copy accurately that which is there written. Keep it constantly about you, refer to it often, and thus will you ever be upon your guard."

"If your warning prove effectual," replied Lord Gowrie, "I shall owe you, my dear friend, much indeed; and I only wish you would tell me how I can repay the service."

"Perhaps I may--perhaps I may," said the old man; "but copy that quickly, then we will talk more."

Lord Gowrie sat down to copy the paper; but it occupied him during a longer time than he had imagined, and in the meantime, a little scene had taken place in the kitchen of the house, which ultimately took a direction towards the same subjects which closed his conference with Manucci.

Left alone in the dark, worthy Austin Jute waited with exemplary patience till the old woman who had opened the door, returned with a lamp, and invited him to come and take some supper with her in the kitchen.

"One cannot have too much of a good thing," said the Englishman, for such he was, in his own tongue; "but then again, another proverb says, 'Enough is as good as a feast;' and to speak the truth, I have supped; but 'a full bag is better than an empty sack;' and, for that matter, no one knows when he has had enough, and therefore I cannot be supposed to be a judge in a case of conscience."

This reasoning was addressed to himself rather than to the old lady who stood by his side, listening to all he had to say with an air of the most perfect unconsciousness, waiting for the time when it should be his pleasure to explain himself in Italian.

"Well, ma'am, I will come," he replied, in the latter language, which, by the way, he spoke remarkably well. "My stomach says it would not object to any reasonable quantity of good food, and still less to a cup or two of good wine. I will follow you, and if----"

But the servant, accustomed to see many strange people, and to hear many foreign languages, seemed to comprehend his meaning as much by his looks as his words, and beckoning him to come on before he had ended his sentence, she led the way towards her refectory. The fare she spread before him was not very abundant nor very rich, but it was refreshing, for fruit was ever cheap at Padua, and of such consisted the principal part of their meal. Austin Jute was a man to make himself easily at home wherever he came, and though, to say truth, he might have been well pleased if his companion had been younger and prettier, nevertheless he was soon in full talk with the old woman; and when a little bell rang above for refreshments there, he helped her to arrange the dishes and place the glasses with their long stalks, as willingly and cheerily as if she had been sixteen.

"There now, Tita," he said, as she lifted the tray, "put the other side with the bottles next to you. Always, in life and on a tray, place the load where it is easiest borne. Two hands are enough when we know how to use them, but four are better when work is plenty: so I'll go and open the doors for you, for there seem many in your house."

As may well be supposed, Master Austin was now in high favour with the good dame; for age receives as a boon what youth exacts as a tribute; and when she rejoined him after carrying in the supper, she said, in a low voice, "Well, your lord is certainly one of the handsomest, noblest-looking cavaliers I ever saw; and so frank and friendly in his way. He always speaks to me as if I were an old friend, and not a poor servant."

"Like master, like man, my dear," replied Austin Jute; "birds of a feather flock together. Like sticks to like. That is the reason my master and I are so fond of each other; but I hope there is somebody else fond of him too, for I saw, as you came out, such a beautiful pair of eyes outshining the lamp, that I now understand very well why my lord came back to Padua, and why he used to come hither almost every night when he was here before, with that dull-looking fellow, Martini, after him, like an ill-conditioned cur running at the heels of a fine horse."

"I never liked that man," said the old woman, seating herself on her stool in the kitchen. "I am glad your lord has not brought him to-night."

"He could not bring him if he had wished it," replied Austin; "he would have tumbled to pieces by the way. He was hanged two months ago at Geneva, for robbing a gentleman who was in the same inn with us. My master would never believe he was a rogue till he saw him hanging, though, when he fell out of the ferry-boat into the Po, and floated like a bad egg, I told the noble earl, that he who is born to be hanged will never be drowned. They hanged him at last, however, and made the proverb good."

"I dare say they were quite right," said the old woman, in a moralizing mood; "though people who are set to do justice, often do great injustice. Do you know, they came and wanted to drag my good old master away, who is as honest a man and as good a Christian as any in Padua; and they would have done it, too, and most likely put him to the rack, if it had not been for the courage and kindness of one of your countrymen, a student here, called Hume, and the wit and lightness of the Signora Julia."

"Yes, I heard of all that Signor Hume did," replied Jute, "for he told my master while I was sitting in the ante-room, with nothing but a thin door between; for you know, Tita, though everything is made for one purpose, most of them will serve two. But what did the young lady do?"

"The moment she heard the noise," replied the old woman, "she ran and shut the door across the passage which leads to the study. So they found nothing but some scraps of old papers that were in the room where my poor master was ill in bed; for that door shuts so close that no one can tell it from the wainscot, and having no keyhole, but a spring lock, they thought the passage ended there. If they had got into the study there would have been fine to do, for there are all manner of strange things there, which are as innocent and as holy as the bambino, I will vow; but nobody understands them but my master, and everything people don't understand they think wicked."

This sage and just observation did not lead Austin Jute from the track he was following; for, to say sooth, curiosity was one of his failings, and the sight of so beautiful a face as he had seen in the room above, had stimulated that very ticklish quality till he could not resist it. "Ah, she is a charming creature, I am sure," he said; "it is true, all is not gold that glitters; and handsome is who handsome does. The devil will take an angel's form at times. The frock does not make the monk; but still she looked so sweet and sad, I am sure she is very amiable. Many a one, Donna Tita, looks gay and cheerful, and many a one looks pleasant and merry, and is but a sour devil after all; but it is a good heart that looks sad for other people's sorrows. Besides, my master would not be so fond of her if she were not an angel. But who is she? Is she the old signor's daughter?"

"And is your master so fond of her, then?" said the old woman, without answering his question. "Are you sure he has never been straying after other women, all this long time while he has been away?"

"Not once, upon my word," replied Austin, with a solemn air, laying his hand upon his left breast. "Lord bless you, since he knew the signora, he has become as discreet as a bell-wether. Why, he sent me out of Genoa for six weeks, just for pinching the cheek of Ninette Bar, the daughter of the innkeeper, and putting my lips too near those of Rosalie, the smith's niece. It is true that I had to break the head of Jerome, and whack Rosalie's lover in self-defence; for it came to crabstick. But as for my lord, he passed all his time at the house of an old gentleman called Beza, where fewer women got in than get into a monkery--though he used to have as gay a heart as the gayest once on a time."

"Then why did he go away, and stay away so long, if he is so fond of her?" asked the old lady, who had her own share of curiosity as well as Austin Jute.

"Nay! gads my life! you must ask that of the earl himself," replied the man, "for I am not his father confessor. Perhaps the lady was cold, for you women will have your whimsies. Dear creatures, you would not be half so charming without."

The compliment oblique is almost always sure to go deeper than the direct; and good Tita, though she had long lost any external claims to the title of a charming creature, included herself comfortably in the general category, and felt her heart open towards her companion. "No, no," she answered, "she is not cold--to him, at least; and how should she be, when she scarcely ever saw a young man before? He is not so bad looking either, and a kind heart too; and as for whimsies, dear child, she has none, and never had. She lay in my arms when she was two years old, and that is sixteen years since."

"Upon my life, the old gentleman must have taken to matrimony late in life, to have a daughter of eighteen, when he is eighty," said Austin Jute, laughing.

The shot took effect.

"His daughter, you foolish knave!" cried the old lady, "she is not his daughter!--His daughter's daughter, if you will."

"Well, there would be no great harm in it, if she were his daughter," answered Jute; "so you need not look so angry, my dear; many a man marries at sixty for the consolation of life, or at least of the little bit of life that remains. Better late than never, men say. I would rather come in at the end of the dinner than see no dinner at all. It is never too dark to see one's way, if one has but a lantern; and if we have gone on wrong from the beginning, why should we not try to get right at the end?--And so the young lady's name is not Manucci, after all?"

"Her mother's was," answered Tita. "Poor thing, I remember her well. When she gave the child into my hands," she said, "Take care of her, Tita, for she will soon have no mother to do so, and no father has she ever known."

"Oh, ho!" said Austin Jute, with a peculiar expression of countenance; but the old woman's black eyes flashed fire. "Out, knave!" she said, without allowing him to finish the sentence; "would you slander a saint in heaven?"

The next moment, however, her face resumed its ordinary expression, and she said, "I spoke foolishly. I should have told you, the babe's father died on the day that she was born. The mother never held her head up after; and she kept her word with me too truly; for scarcely four months were gone by, ere we laid her in Campo Santo."

"Poor thing!" said Austin Jute, in so natural a tone of pity, that all remains of anger were banished from Tita's heart. "How did the lady's husband die? Was it in battle or of disease?"

"By the axe, young man--by the axe," replied Tita, sharply; "a plaything with which people in your country sport even more than we do here in Italy--at least I have heard so; for I know nothing of any other land but my own; but I have heard the Signor say that there has been sufficient innocent blood shed upon the scaffold in England and Scotland to bring down a curse upon the country."

"Upon my life, he said true," replied Austin Jute; "for I have seen a few heads roll in my own day, and have always thought it a pity that people cannot find some other means of putting those out of the way who stand in their light, but by cutting them on the back of the neck. Were men's heads no better than turnips, we could not treat them more carelessly than we do in our little island. Poor child, her misfortunes came early; and I hope and trust that she got over them all at once. People must eat black bread, they say, at one time of their life; and it is better to swallow it before we have tasted any other, than to eat the white bread first, and then have the other after."

"God send that it be so with her," said the old woman, "for a dearer, sweeter girl never lived."

"And, after all, what is her name?" said Austin Jute, in that quiet sort of easy tone which so often leads on confidence; but good old Tita answered quietly, with a shrewd glance of the eye, "Julia, to be sure--the Lady Julia. That has been enough for me all my life; and it should be enough for you too, I think."

"Enough is as good as a feast," answered Austin Jute; but as he saw he could gain no more information he dropped the subject, and began to wonder at the length of his lord's visit.

CHAPTER V.

"It is done," said the earl, "and, I think, accurately."

The old man bent over the paper, and examined every line. "Saturn is wanting in the third house," he replied; "and you have left out the sextile there."

Lord Gowrie corrected the error, then folded the paper carefully, and put it in his bosom. When he had done so, he turned his eyes to Manucci's face, and saw that the old man was very pale, while a dropping heaviness of the eyelid and a quivering of the lip seemed to the young lord to indicate great weariness.

"I wish much to speak to you, my good old friend," he said, "upon matters of great moment; but I see that you are weary, and I must not begin now, for our conversation might be long."

"We must begin now and end now, Gowrie," said the old man, looking at him gravely; "for who shall say what a day will bring forth? I have learned this in eighty years, if nothing else, that the present only is ours, the past is gone beyond our recall, the future is in the hand of God. Then let no man think that he can command to-morrow, for health or sickness, strength or weakness, fortune or adversity, are all as unstable as the wind, changing how and why we know not. I have much to say to you too, and on the same subject, I believe. You would speak of Julia, is it not so?"

"It is," answered Lord Gowrie.

"And you love her. I have seen it before this night. I have caught your eyes watching her anxiously, as if you loved, yet hesitated; as if the thoughts of the world's opinion, and friends' advice, and courtly favour, and ambitious dreams perchance, came like dull vapours from the earth, clouding the star of love. You went away; and I let you go, without one word to stay you; for no man can be worthy of her, so long as one such doubt remains in his bosom. Are they all gone now?"

"All that I have ever entertained," replied Lord Gowrie, in a tone of some mortification; "but you have done me some wrong, my good friend, in your own fancies. Very few of such considerations as those you imagined have had influence with me. I loved, but I saw no surety of being loved in return. I knew not how strong my love was till I went away; and I judged that it was but right to her to make myself sure--before I strove to win her affection--that my own was durable and true. I had often heard of boyish passion soon forgot, of love that waxes and wanes in a few short months, and if I have learned no other point of philosophy, I have learned to doubt the human heart till it is tried. As for worldly considerations, you do me wrong. No thoughts of court favour, of ambition, of avarice, ever crossed my mind. I am wealthy enough, powerful enough, high enough in station to set such things at nought: nor did the world's opinion influence me; but I thought it might be wiser and better too, if, ere I acted decidedly in any way, I opened my heart to my own dear mother, one of royal race, but who has withal a royal heart, and knows that the true wealth is the wealth of the mind, the highest nobility that of the spirit. Such were the only worldly feelings I bore with me when I went away; but I will not deny that long before that, when I found passion rising in my heart towards her, I did struggle against my growing love, though I struggled in vain. I am candid with you, my old friend--I tell you all; but now that I have the hope of being loved in return, every other consideration is cast away."

"Every other?" asked the old man, gazing at him thoughtfully.

"All, all!" replied the earl. "This is no time to ponder or to pause, no time to seek either consent or counsel. You have been very ill, nearly at the gates of death, were threatened with persecution, might have been torn from her in a moment, and she left desolate, friendless, defenceless. What should I have thought of myself--how should I have felt, if, when I returned, I had found you dead or in prison, and this dear girl cast upon the world? This must never be again, my old friend--if she will give me her heart, share my station and my fortune, and trust to this arm for her defence."

"Spoken nobly, and like yourself," replied the old man. "That she loves you, I doubt not; for, though unconsciously, perhaps, yet you did seek her love. That you love her well and truly, I am very sure; otherwise you would not be here to-night, Gowrie, for you came not alone to learn your fate from me. But yet I must think both for you and for her; and I will place the greatest trust in you that ever was placed in man, because I know you to be full of honour, and that she is firm in honesty and purity of heart. Yet I will exact some promises from you both--promises which, solemnly given, you will not dare to break."

"I never yet broke one knowingly," replied Lord Gowrie; "and I never will. Where her fate is concerned, believe me, my good friend, a promise given would be but the more sacred."

"And you are then resolved to marry her?" said Manucci.

"If she can give me her whole heart," replied the earl.

"Do you ask no question as to her birth, her station, her family?" said the old man.

"None," replied the earl. "Love, they say, my good friend, is blind; but mine has not been so. Before my feelings towards her deserved that name, I had many opportunities of observing; and my eyes were then, at least, open. Small traits, which might have escaped many, told me great secrets of her heart and character. Her love and her devotion to yourself, seeming to merge all feelings in her duty towards you; her prompt obedience to your lightest wish, flying before command, and seeming to divine your unspoken thoughts; her tenderness towards all, even towards the wicked and the cruel, censure losing itself in pity for those who are not happy enough to be good; that true modesty which is without vain affectation, and, ignorant of evil, places no watchful guard against false appearances. All these, and many more things of the kind, I marked, and often thought, these are the qualities which will only have greater scope and shed brighter lustre in a wife; and when to these was added, each day, the perception of some new grace of person or of mind, was it possible not to love, Manucci?"

"You have, indeed, watched closely, and judged well," replied the old man; "and, with one who can so justly estimate, I have no fear of my dear child's happiness. Now listen; and, though weary, I will tell you sufficient to show you that, even according to the world's usual judgment, you have not chosen so far amiss. By the side both of father and of mother, she is your equal in rank. Though an exile from my native city, I am of a race which can count its generations back almost to the days of ancient Rome. That she is the child of my only daughter you know, for you have often heard me say so; and, by the father's side, she is descended from a race, if not royal, as you have said of your mother, often more powerful than the kings they served. They, too, are of your own land; and their blood has mingled with that of your own ancestors. Your family and hers have fought, and plotted, and achieved, and sat together on many a field, in many a cabinet, at many a council board. Her father, indeed, she never knew, for he died by the hand of the executioner on the day when she was born; his lands were confiscated and given to another; and I fled from Scotland with her mother and herself, trusting that, at some future time, and by a more wise and just sovereign, that portion which was secretly settled on my poor child, as her dowry, and which no confiscation could touch by law, might be restored to its true owner. These papers, which I will give to you, will tell the rest and prove the whole; and now listen to me, Lord Gowrie--you must soon return to your own land----"

"Not to leave her here," replied the earl, interrupting him; "that I cannot do, my friend."

"Peace, peace," said the old man; "you must hear before you can understand. She shall go with you--but not as your wife, impatient boy--under the charge of your honour, and under your solemn promise to me, not even to seek to wed her till one of two things has come to pass. You shall endeavour, to the utmost of your power, to restore to her the estates which were reft from her and from her mother by the hand of oppression. The papers I am about to give you will prove her title, and all that she demands is justice. If you succeed, then in God's name, if you so will, make her your wife; but if not, you shall wait patiently till after the last day of September in the next year. Then the danger will be over."

"But what will become of you, my good friend?" demanded the earl. "I should never desire Julia to make such a sacrifice as that: nor would she, I am sure, accede, even if I were to demand it."

"Before that time," replied the old man, "my head will rest upon an earthy pillow. The blood is freezing in these wintry veins, and it will soon cease to flow. You said you were going farther on--to Rome, to Bologna, to Florence. Go on; and by the time you return, she may need protection and support. I know that I shall die within these two months; and although the precise period I know not, yet depend upon it, you will be still in Italy when that event happens. Then take her away at once from scenes which must have their bitterness, place her in honourable ward with your mother, who, if I know her right--and I remember her well--will be zealous in the cause of the orphan daughter of her husband's friend; and when her rights are established, or the day of danger for yourself is passed, then be to her as fond and true a husband as your noble father was to Dorothea Stuart. Will you promise me all I demand?"

"I will," answered the earl. "I do most solemnly; but as yet, my good friend--" and a slight shade of doubt came upon his face, "I am not sure that she herself will consent. I think--I trust she will; but there is no promise between us, no assurance upon her part, that she can love me as I love her. I must see her, I must ask her, before my heart is fully at ease. I will come to-morrow, for doubtless she has retired to rest ere now."

"See her at once," said the old man, with a smile. "Her answer will soon be given, or I know her not. Nor will she seek her pillow while I am waking. See her now. It were better, I think, that you proceeded on your journey to-morrow, so that when the hour comes, you may be ready to act at once."

"My journey can be postponed, or given up altogether," replied the earl. "It would be one full of care and anxiety, if I thought that she might be left here suddenly, without friends or support. I speak plainly, because, my noble friend, I know that you fear not death, and are prepared for its coming. Were I to follow out the plan I had proposed, she might be left here for weeks without comfort or assistance."

"No, no," answered Manucci, "I will not have it said, that your love for this dear child made you linger on here when you had other objects before you. As to her fate, fear not for that. I see what you dread; but there you are misled. I am very poor, it is true; but I have made myself poorer than I am, in order that she may be richer when the moment comes. In that cabinet are two thousand golden ducats, saved from my small means by the utmost parsimony. That will be sufficient, and more than sufficient, till she is under the protection of your mother. She must not go back to her native land altogether as a beggar; and she must hire one or more maidens to attend upon her by the way. Neither must she, my good lord, be dependent upon you; for that might give occasion for busy tongues to bruit about rash suspicions. Let her pay her own servants; let her defray her own expenses; there will be still enough and to spare. Now go and speak with her. I will wait you here."

The young earl rose with a faint smile, and moved towards the door; but ere he reached it he turned, and approaching the old man, grasped his hand, saying, "Many, very many thanks for all your confidence; but yet there is one more boon which I must ask, and I shall not be satisfied unless you grant it. My friend, Sir John Hume, whom you already know well, the affianced husband of my young sister Beatrice, will remain here for a fortnight longer. Should need be, Julia must trust in him, till I can reach her. He is the soul of honour, and kindly and gentle in feeling. But I must also leave a servant here, who shall attend every day at your house, and if events should require it, will either stay to assist his master's promised bride or seek and find me, with wit and diligence such as few can show. His character is a very mixed one, with faults and virtues in excess; but he has proved his devotion to me many a time, and of his honesty I am well assured. Say you agree to this! Then I shall go in peace."

"Well, so be it," answered the old man.

And leaving him for the time, the young earl hurried away towards the room whither he had been first conducted. His first steps along the passage were eager and impetuous. It seemed as if he could not too soon hear the words which were to decide his fate; but as he approached the door, his feet relaxed their speed; and he paused thoughtfully, with his hand lifted towards the lock. What was it that made him hesitate? Let his own words answer. "No, no, studied speech is vain," he said at length. "I will pour my heart into hers, and if the feelings within it but find voice, no eloquence can match them."

Thus saying, or rather thinking, he opened the door and went in. Julia was seated at the table with a book before her, on which her eyes rested not, with the lamp casting its pale light on the fair white forehead, the jetty hair, the long fringed eyelids, and the sweeping arch of the mouth. Her eyes were turned away, gazing on vacancy; but the first step of her lover in the room roused her from her reverie, and with a start, sudden but graceful, she rose, exclaiming, "Where is he?--Is he ill?"

"No, dearest Julia," replied the earl; "but I have come from him to you, to speak a few words, which, with your answer, must decide our fate for life."

As he spoke he took her hand, and led her back towards the chair from which she had risen; but she shook her head mournfully, without resuming her seat, and said, "Have I not answered already? I have told you that I cannot, that I must not speak now."

"Nay, listen to me," said the earl, "for I seek not to take you from him, nor even to bind you to quit him; but he and I have now spoken of all; and we have made promises to each other, which it remains but for you to ratify; for upon you depends the execution of his plans, as well as the fulfilment of my hopes."

She bowed her head in silence and with tearful eyes, looking like a flower bent down with heavy dew, and the earl gazed at her tenderly--almost sadly, for a moment. "I am about to leave you again, dear Julia," he said, at length; "but I go this time with very different feelings from those which I experienced when last we parted. I then knew not all that was in my own heart; I knew nothing of yours. I felt love without being aware how powerful it was, and without even hoping it was returned. But now I comprehend all the strength of my own attachment; and I do entertain hopes which it is for you to confirm or to destroy. Painful as it is, I must mingle sad images even with the expression of my brightest hopes. A time must come, Julia, and you yourself see that it is coming fast, when you will be left alone, bereft of kindred support. I have offered, I have promised, to supply to you the place of him whom death may soon, and must eventually, take away. Nothing that you can now say can make that promise void. It shall be executed fully, sincerely, with my whole heart and my whole energies; but it is you who must decide how it is to be executed by me--whether as the promised husband, plighted to you till death, with mournful happiness soothing your sorrows, sharing your grief, and with a right indefeasible to protect and comfort you, till your lot is blended by the marriage vow with his----"

The colour had come warmly up into her cheek as he spoke; and Gowrie paused an instant, doubting what were the emotions in which the blush had its source; "Or--" he added, "or as the true and sincere friend, fulfilling towards you the promise made to one loved, esteemed, and mourned by both; but, with deep and bitter disappointment in his heart, pouring shadow and darkness over his whole afterlife."

Julia started, gazed at him for an instant, and then exclaimed, "Oh no, Gowrie, no!--Can you have doubted?--Can you really have painted such a picture to your own fancy?--Can you think me so ungrateful--so base?" And she let her forehead fall upon his shoulder, while his arm stole round her waist.

"Thanks, dearest girl, thanks!" he said; "but tell me--tell me, Julia, is it with your whole heart?"

She looked up, with her cheek burning, and replied, in a voice hardly audible, "Do not doubt it! When he is gone, there will be none to share with you;" and Gowrie pressed her tenderly to his bosom.

"Enough, enough," he said; "now I shall be quite happy."

Oh, vain words! Oh, rash anticipations! What mortal has ever had the right to infer that he shall be happy, even for an hour? Any man may learn, how much stronger hope is than fear in the human heart, by examining whether his expectations of joy, or his apprehensions of sorrow, have been most frequently disappointed.

CHAPTER VI.

It was a dull and heavy day in the month of September. The sky had been covered each evening, for the last week, with dark flocculent clouds, high up in air, but still leaden and lowering, and now the rain descended in the city of the ten colleges in a perfect deluge. The country round Padua rejoiced, for the summer had been very dry and hot, and the land yearned for the dew of heaven; but the streets of the town were almost impassable, except under the arcades on the west side--where any street was fortunate enough to have a west side--for there was a strong wind blowing, which drifted the large drops under the arches to the east, and a torrent flowed down the middle of each street, increased every two or three yards by a gushing spout projecting from the house top.

There was, however, sunshine in one of the dwellings of the town, for Julia's heart was happier than she almost liked to own. She sat with a letter before her from Gowrie, announcing that he would be speedily back in Padua; and she herself was writing to him, telling him part of the feelings which arose in her own bosom--for she had not yet taken courage to tell him all--and conveying to him the glad tidings that her aged relation had entirely recovered from his late serious illness, and was looking better than she had seen him for many a month.

Manucci himself was sitting beside her, busy with some abstruse problem, and from time to time raising his eyes to watch her write, or to mark the varied expressions which passed over her beautiful face, with that calm and heavenly satisfaction which spreads through the breast of age--when the mind is well regulated and the heart generous--at witnessing the hopes of youth and the joys which no longer can be shared.

Julia wrote on. The old man bent his head over the papers; and a few minutes after Tita entered to tell her master that a man with sea-fish was at the door, and to ask if he would purchase any. She spoke to him, but he did not answer; and Julia suddenly turned round and gazed at him. He was very pale, and his head rested upon one of the great wings of the chair. Starting up with a low cry of fear, his grandchild ran round, and raised his head. The eyes were closed, but he still breathed hard and noisily. His limbs, however, were motionless, and he was evidently insensible. Assistance was called, and he was removed to his room and laid upon his bed. Tita ran away at once, first for a physician and then a priest; and both came nearly at the same time. The man of art applied the remedies usual in those days, while the good priest watched narrowly to take advantage of the first return of consciousness to perform his functions likewise. Extreme unction was given while he was still insensible; and about two hours after the attack Manucci opened his eyes for a moment, and the priest eagerly advanced the crucifix towards him. Whether the motion was voluntary or involuntary who can tell? but old Manucci raised his hand, and it fell upon the cross. It was the last effort of expiring life. The next moment a sharp shudder passed over his frame, and he was a corpse.

"He has died like a good Catholic," said the priest, who was a man of a kindly and a liberal heart.

Julia wept, but replied not; and the old man, coming round to the side of the bed where she stood, tried to comfort her to the utmost of his power. She pressed his hand gratefully, but still remained in silent tears; and the priest, drawing the physician apart, they conferred together for several minutes in a low tone.

"The sooner the better," said the physician, "lest the suspicions that have been abroad should make them stop it."

"You're a witness he died as a good Catholic, with his hand upon the cross," rejoined the priest.

"I am," answered the physician; "but it will be better to say as little, either of his death or anything else, as possible, till the funeral is over, otherwise we shall have a scandal, and perhaps a disturbance."

"You are right, you are right," said the priest. "My dear child," he continued aloud, turning towards Julia, who was kneeling by the dead man's bedside, while Tita stood weeping at the foot, "you had better come with me into another room. There is nothing here but the clay. The spirit which you loved has departed in peace to our Father which is in heaven. There are sad duties to be performed; but trouble not yourself with them. I and your friend here, Signor Anelli, together with good Tita, will care for all that;" and approaching her side, he took her hand and gently led her away.

The funeral was performed as secretly as possible and as speedily; and it is always speedy in Italy; and Julia sat alone in the little room, where she had been writing when the old man was struck by the hand of death. The two letters were still open upon the table; and, as her eye fell upon the very last sentence she had been writing, in which she spoke of Manucci's recovered health, the tears flowed fast and long.

"I must write him another tale now," she said, tearing the letter; and then rising, she inquired whether Austin Jute, whom Gowrie had left to assist her in case of need, was in the house, for Hume had by this time left Padua.

The man was in her presence in a moment, and Julia told him that she wished him to set out immediately to seek his lord at Bologna, and tell him what had occurred.

"Disobedience is a great sin, dear lady," replied Austin Jute; "but I must either disobey you or my lord. He told me to leave you on no account whatever; and to say sooth, I believe, as things go, I can be of better service here than at Bologna, for Sir John Hume has gone to join my master, and there is no one but me to take care of you. If you will write a few lines, however, dear lady, I will see that it goes by a sure messenger."

Nor was Austin Jute wrong in his conclusions, though at that moment he did not choose to tell the lady all he had heard. Rumour had been busy in Padua, and of course from the moment it was generally known that old Signor Manucci was dead, some one of her hundred tongues was busied in manufacturing a new falsehood every instant. Citizens and shopkeepers talked. Tutors and professors laid their heads together. The heads of the colleges met and consulted, and thought fit to call in the advice of a commissary of the holy office. They had made such a bustle about it, however, before that secret and discreet functionary had anything to do with the matter, that a report of what was going on had spread far and wide. Austin Jute had his ears and his eyes open; and, as he knew many of the servants of the colleges, he soon learned much that was taking place, and determined to watch all the more eagerly over her who had been committed, in some degree, to his charge. Such were the motives of his answer to Julia; and ere evening he had cause to rejoice that he had not undertaken her mission, for one oversight, or rather act of neglect, on the part of the inquisitor, afforded him an opportunity of turning his stay in Padua to the greatest advantage. Some one suggested, in the meeting of the heads of colleges, that it would be expedient, before proceeding further, to examine the priest who had attended Manucci on his death bed. The commissary of the holy office was either tired, hungry, or busy; and he left the worthy doctors of the university to make that investigation themselves. Had the good father been examined by the inquisitor, he would have dared as soon chop off his right hand as give any intimation of what was likely to take place. For the mere scholastic dignitaries he had no such fear or reverence; and the moment he quitted them, he hastened to the house near the Treviso gate. The first person he saw was Tita, but immediately behind her stood Austin Jute; and a short conference was held by the three, so brief, indeed, that the old servant did not catch half of the good priest's meaning, for he was too much alarmed to remain more than a few moments.

As soon as he was gone, Austin laid his hand upon the old woman's arm, saying, "Not an instant is to be lost. We must take Time by the forelock. We shall never catch him if he once gets on. I must go and prepare means. You go and bring the young lady down into the garden, and by the steps to the gate. Tell her to take whatever money she has, gold, or jewels, or anything else, and as few clothes as possible, packed in a small space. Lock and bar the door of the house as soon as I am gone, but keep the garden gate upon the latch, and mind you do not open the front door, whatever knocking or hammering you may hear."

"But what is it, what is it?" exclaimed Tita. "I did not understand what the good father meant."

"That your sweet lady will be handed over to the inquisition within half an hour, if you do not do as I tell you, and quickly," replied Austin. "Remember, a minute lost is never regained. Time and tide wait for no man.--Haste, haste, Tita. But stay! It were well if the lady had some disguise. Where could one get a novice's gown and veil?"

"Not nearer than at the stall by St. Antony's," replied the old woman; "but I've got my festa gown and a large black hood, that would cover her head and shoulders. The gown is too big, but no matter for that, it'll go on the easier."

"Away, then. Dress her in it, and bring her down. But mind, lock and bar the door, and open to no one." Thus saying, he set out at full speed.

With trembling hands Tita fulfilled his directions in regard to securing the front entrance of the house. As soon as that was accomplished she hastened to her young mistress, whom she found writing a few sad lines to Gowrie. The agitation and terror in the woman's face at once caught Julia's attention; and she started up, exclaiming, "What is it now? What new misfortune has happened?"

"Oh, dear lady, you must fly!" said Tita. "Austin Jute, my young lord's man, says there is not a moment to be lost; and he understands what the good father said better than I do. I only heard him say they were coming here immediately to search; but Austin says you must get all the money you have, and everything that is valuable, and put on some disguise, and come down as fast as possible to the garden gate, where he will join us; they will put you in the inquisition else."

The beautiful girl seemed to comprehend her danger at once; and the thought of being deprived of liberty, and cut off from all power of communicating with the only being on earth whom she now sincerely loved, brought a look of terror into her face.

"A disguise!" she exclaimed. "Where shall I find a disguise? I have none but my ordinary clothes."

"Never mind that. I will bring that in a minute," replied Tita; "only you get ready without delay. Get the money and the jewels, and all that is worth carrying, and don't open the door on any account till I come down, however they may knock."

Thus saying, she ran away to her own room, and soon descended with her gala dress, which was that of a Lombard peasant. By this time her naturally sharp wits had recovered from the first effect of fear and agitation, and now she was all promptness and decision. Throwing the dress she had brought over her young mistress, she fastened the bodice as tight as she could, and gathered together the large folds of the petticoat. But before she covered her head with the black hood, which she had likewise brought, she could not forbear gazing at her for an instant, and kissing her cheek, saying, "Bless thee, my child. Thou art as beautiful a little peasant as any in all the Veronese." The rest of the preparations were soon made. Some few articles of dress were packed in a small bundle; the money taken from the drawer in which it had been placed; and a heart cut in red cornelian, and set round with large diamonds--the only trinket which Julia possessed, with the exception of the gold pins for her hair, and a brooch to clasp her mantle--was taken from a casket and placed in her fair bosom. All this being arranged, they hurried down the stairs towards a door leading into the garden, their steps being accelerated by a considerable noise in the usually quiet street. In the passage of the house, however, Tita stopped, saying, "I had better take the key," and approaching the door, she drew the key forth quietly, and hastened after her mistress, who was by this time at the small door leading into the garden.

I should, perhaps, have mentioned before, some particulars respecting the situation of the house, in explanation of the directions which Austin Jute had given. It was, as I have said before, the last house in the street, and close to the bridge which led over the little canal, towards the Place d'armes within the Treviso gate. As that gate had been one of much importance in former times, a good deal of pains had been taken to strengthen it against an enemy, and at the side of the canal, a work of earth, faced with masonry, with a regular platform and parapet, had been formed, commanding the bridge on one side, and the Place d'armes on the other. As quieter times had come, this work, abutting upon the house of Signor Manucci, had been neglected; and the space within, had been cultivated by him as a little garden. The whole level was considerably higher than that of the water, and a short flight of steps arched over, descended from the garden to a small sally port in the wall, which led to a narrow path not more than two feet wide, by the side of the canal, at a spot distant some sixty or seventy yards from the bridge. The house itself was, in fact, included in the fortification; and the turret, in which the poor old man's study had been placed, overlooked the wall and the country round, and had probably, in former times, served the purpose of a watch tower. The little garden, however, except at one point, was only visible from the turret when a person stretched his head far out of the windows in the massy walls; neither could the steps be seen which led to the sally port.

With all these particulars Austin Jute, whose disposition was naturally inquisitive, had made himself thoroughly acquainted; but he had forgotten to warn the fugitives not to cross that one part of the garden which was visible from the windows above; and Julia, as soon as she had passed the door, was running straight across, when Tita stopped her, calling, "Under the wall, my dear--under the wall, and behind the fig tree and the mulberries.--I will lock this door though.--Heaven! we are not a minute too soon. They are knocking in the street there, as if they would have the door down. Well, let them try. It will take them some time, I warrant, for it is good strong oak, clasped with iron."

With this reflection she followed her young mistress, and keeping amongst the shrubs as much as possible, they reached the top of the steps, and descended to the sally port. That was soon unlocked, and there they remained for nearly a quarter of an hour in a sort of semi-darkness, hearing faint and dull the sound of heavy blows proceeding from the street, as the officers of the university and the holy office, when they found that no gentler means were effectual in obtaining admission, had recourse to sledge-hammers to effect an entrance. At the end of that time a loud crash was heard, and Tita whispered, "They've got in now."

Julia trembled very much, but a comparative silence succeeded, which lasted some five minutes more, and Tita tried to cheer her, saying, "Perhaps, after all, they wont find their way to the study this time either. I pulled to the door in the passage as I came along, and the spring's not easily seen."

Hardly had the words been pronounced, however, when the sound of voices coming through the windows above showed that her hope was fallacious; and Julia said, in a low tone, "Had we not better go out to the bank of the canal?"

"No, no," replied Tita; "we shall hear them if they come into the garden, for they must knock that door down, too, or force the lock."

A moment after the latch of the sally port was lifted, and the door opened. "Come out! come out!" said the voice of Austin Jute; and, like lightning, Julia darted through the door, and stood beside her lover's servant on the bank of the canal.

"I'll lock this door, too," said Tita, taking out the key and placing it on the other side.

"Safe bind, safe find," said Austin; "but the proverb is not true at the other side of the house, for they've dashed the door in, and the whole street is filled with a mob. So much the better for us. There will be fewer people in the other places."

"But which way shall we take?" asked Tita; "if we go to the bridge, we must cross the end of the street; and all the neighbours know me right well."

"That would never do," replied Austin. "Take the other way to the bridge higher up. Then we can cross there, and come back to the gate from the other side. It's longer; but it cannot be helped. The farthest about is sometimes the nearest way home. I have bought three asses, and they have just gone through the gates, to wait for us at the little wine-shop half a mile on."

Tita took a few steps in the direction which he indicated, leading the way, for the path was not wide enough to admit of two abreast; but then she stopped suddenly, saying, "I think two asses would do, Signor Austin."

"How do you mean?" asked the man.

"Why, I mean that it will be much better for me not to go away from the city," said Tita; "if they find us all gone, and should afterwards catch the Signorina, they will be sure to say that she ran away because she knew she was guilty of something. Now, a plan is come into my head, and as soon as I've seen you out of the gates, I'll just go round by the market, buy a basketful of things, and go back with the key, as if I knew nothing that has happened."

"But, Tita, they may shut you up in prison," cried Julia.

"No, my dear, they wont," replied the old woman, calmly; "they'd only have to feed me there if they did, so they'll know better. I can tell them, with a safe conscience, that you were gone before they ever came to the house; and if they ask where, I'll say you took the Treviso way. The truth is, my child, I am not fit now for running anywhere in a hurry; and if I were to go with you, I should only delay you, and perhaps lead to your being found out, for many people all round know old Tita, and there is scarcely any one in the town has ever seen you. I know you will think of me when you are away; and when you are safe and happy again, perhaps you may send for the old woman who nursed you in your youth."

"That I will, Tita," replied Julia; "but I am terrified to leave you with these people."

"No fear, no fear, my child," answered the old woman. "They can say nothing against me, for I went to confession every week. But you would never go, you know, my child, because neither you nor the signor thought it did any good; and, indeed, I don't think you had anything to confess. They can't hurt me; and they wont, I'm sure, for I'm neither too wise for them nor too good for them, and have always done what the priest told me; said my prayers, and counted my beads; and if that is not being a good catholic, I don't know what is."

"But you must have some of this money, at least," said Julia, as Tita was walking on again.

"Give me two ducats," said the old woman; "that'll keep me a long while."

But Julia insisted on her taking much more; and when that was settled, they proceeded on their way, without difficulty or obstruction. It was not without some tears that Julia parted with her faithful old servant, nor without much emotion that she went forward on an untried path of life, protected by a man whom she had known only a few weeks; but there seemed no other course before her, and she strove not to show any doubt or dread. The asses were found ready at the spot where they had been appointed, and telling the man who brought them, that "the other girl" would not come, Austin Jute placed his fair companion on the pad with which one of them was furnished, bestrode the other himself, and led the way for about a mile farther on the Treviso road. Then, however, he turned to the left, and, circling round the city, endeavoured to regain the highway to Bologna.

In the meantime good Tita re-entered the town by one of the other gates, bought herself a new basket as she went along, and leisurely took her way to the market, where she stopped at several of the stalls, and, as the following day was a fast-day, bought herself a portion of fish and vegetables sufficient for the frugal meal of one person, and no more. She laid the key between the articles of food and the side of the basket, and was, with the same calm, deliberate step, proceeding homeward, when a man, who was passing through, exclaimed, with looks of wonder and surprise, "Ha, Tita, you take matters wonderfully quietly! Do you not know that they have broken into your house, upon a charge of sorcery against your old master, and are now seeking for proofs amongst his papers, I understand. Orders have been given, they say, to apprehend your young lady, for all men admit that she never came to confession or absolution, and some would have one believe that she is but, after all, a familiar spirit, which your master consented to have dealings with, in order to get at unheard-of treasures."

"I had her in my arms when she was two years old," said Tita, sturdily; "and she was more like flesh than spirit, and good Christian flesh, too."

This answer seemed irrefragable to the good townsman, who replied, "Well, you know best; I never saw her."

And Tita replied, with a toss of the head and a scornful air, "Unheard-of treasures, forsooth, when the poor old man died as poor as a rat! Sorcery must be a poor trade I trow, and the devil be very uncivil to his friends and acquaintances."

With this answer, she walked quickly homeward, as if she had heard, for the first time, of what had occurred. When she reached the door of the house, she found the whole passage filled with people, many of whom were anxious to get up the stairs, and see the inside of a sorcerer's dwelling, in good company; but the officers of the inquisition, the beadles and servants of the university, and some half-dozen of the company of soldiers to which the garrison of Padua was now reduced, kept back the people with brandished partizans and staves, till at length a shout was raised by some one who knew her, of "Here is old Tita! here is old Tita! A fagot and a tar-barrel for the old witch!"

Now Tita had sufficient experience in the ways of the world to know that the attacking party always has a certain advantage; and, consequently, making her way through the crowd as best she could, she assailed the officers, high and low, with great volubility. Could they not wait for her coming back, she said, when she had only gone out for half an hour? What was the need of breaking down the door, when they had only to wait a minute or two, and it would have been opened for them? But they must needs be making work for the smith and the carpenter.

She insisted, as if it was a right she demanded, instead of a fate that was certain to befall her, to be carried immediately before the illustrissimi up stairs; and even when in their presence, she assumed all the airs of towering passion, and poured forth, upon the commissary of the inquisition himself, such a torrent of vituperation, that for a moment or two he was utterly confounded. As he recovered himself, however, he reprehended her with dignity, and demanded how they could tell she would ever come back at all. To which Tita adroitly rejoined, "What right had you to suppose I would not? Had not I got the key with me?" and she instantly produced it from the basket which she carried on her arm.

Whether logic was not in its most palmy state in Padua at the time, or whether the functionaries of the holy office were not accustomed to deal in the most logical manner with questions brought before them, I know not; but assuredly, the commissary regarded the anger, the apostrophe, and the key, as very convincing proofs of Tita's ignorance and innocence. He nevertheless proceeded to question her in regard to the departure of the Signora Julia, who, he informed her, was gravely suspected of having aided her late grandfather in unlawful studies, of which pursuits, on his part, they had discovered irrefragable proofs.

"Lord bless you, illustrious signor," replied the old woman, with a very skilful sort of double dealing, not exactly falsifying the matter of fact, but giving it a colour altogether different from that which it naturally bore, "my young lady went out before I did. Why, she set off on the road to Treviso some time ago; and she is gone to see a gentleman to whom she is to be married, I understand; but I don't know much about the matter, for she does not talk to me greatly about such things; and all I know is, that a better young lady or a better Christian does not live. As to my poor master's dealing in magic, I don't believe a word of it; for I never saw a ghost or a spirit about the house, and I am sure it would have frightened me out of my wits if I had. I'll tell everything I know, and show every cranny about the house for that matter, for I've swept it every bit from end to end many a time, and I never saw anything about the place except what I've heard gentlemen call philosophy, which I thought was something they taught at the university, God forgive me!"

This reply produced an unwilling smile, and the great readiness which Tita expressed to tell all she knew perhaps saved her from many after questions, for but a few more were asked; and then the commissary and those who were joined with him departed, sweeping away all the papers, and many of the instruments of poor Manucci, Tita following them to the very street, and teazing them vociferously to have the door mended.

CHAPTER VII.

It was a sultry autumnal day--one of those days of early autumn when the summer seems to return and make a fierce struggle to resume its reign, when the leaves are yet green, or just tinted with the yellow hue of decay, when the grape is still ruddy on the bough, and the fig looks purple amongst its broad green leaves. The air had seemed languid and loaded all the day, as if a sirocco had been blowing, though the wind was in the west, and a hazy whiteness spread over the wide plains through which wander the Po, the Mincio, and the Adige. The silver gray cattle strayed lazily through the fields, sometimes lifting their heads, and bellowing as if for fresh cool air, sometimes plunging amongst the sedges, or actually swimming in the streams. Not a bird was seen winging its way through the air, the very beccaficos were still amongst the vines, and the horses of a large party of travellers who were approaching the banks of the Po, hung their heads, and wearily wended on, oppressed more by the languid heat of the day than by the length of the way they had travelled.

The travellers themselves, however, seemed gay and full of high spirits: the three gentlemen who rode in front jesting lightly with each other, though one was an elderly man of a staid, though somewhat feeble looking countenance: and the servants behind chattering in various languages with no very reverent lowness of tone.

"Do you remember, Hume," said one of the former, as they rode on, "our first journey by night through these plains?"

"Yes," replied the other, "and your plunging your horse into the Mincio, vowing we had all got off the high road."