fall of the showering spray into the basin of the fountain, where scarlet roses swayed into the lilyladen waters. She gave a weary, restless sigh as she thrust back the bright masses of her hair farther from her temples, and, leaning her cheek on her hand, gazed absently into the glancing surface. There was something of release, something of regret, something of self-reproach in her attitude and in her thoughts; though these were checked by and mingled with a careless ironic triumph, and a royal habit of command and of disdain.

"Have I done more wrong?" she said, half aloud, while her proud head fell. "Greater wrong than ever! He is loyal and lion-hearted-a brave chivalrous gentleman: he should not come amongst us! The others can play at diamond cut diamond; the others are fairly armed, and have but their weapons turned against them. But he is of different mould: he will suffer-he will suffer terribly!"

CHAPTER XI.

FAIRY-GOLD.

In the full noon heat of the next day-heat that brooded on the hills and glistened on the sea, in which the leaves and the flowers drooped, and the sails of the feluccas hung stirless-Idalia moved slowly and thoughtfully up and down her receptionroom, the sunlight straying in chequered rays through the chinks of the shutters, and falling fitfully across her. The wolf-hound followed her step for step; there was not a sound except the falling of the fountains and the buzzing of a little hummingbird tangled among the flowers. There was a certain shadow on her, but it was not that of grief, still less was it that of any tremulous effeminate sorrow; it was haughty, unrestful, with much of doubt, much of rebellion, much of disdain in it-the shadow that was on the Reine Blanche in the fetters of Fotheringay, on Marie Antoinette in the presence of Mirabeau. There was an intense scorn in the dark

soft lustre of her eyes-the eyes of a Georgian or a Greek. She was netted closely in, in a net of partially her own past weaving: self-reproach was not the least keen of many regrets that were heavy upon her, and the world was against her; but she was not vanquished nor intimidated.

She came and paused before an open cabinet, on whose writing-stand lay a pile of letters. Her eyes rested on the one that lay uppermost, and read its lines for the second time with disdain, revulsion, pity, impatience, and loathing all mingled in her glance.

"He always wants money! He would give his soul for money; and yet he throws it away as idly as the winds!" she thought, while her hand absently caressed the great head of the hound. "Well! he can have it. I will always give him that. I would give it him all-down to the very diamonds-if he would leave me free, if he would cut away every link of the past, if he would go and never let me see his face again."

Yet still, though there was much of profound dejection and heart-sickness at her life upon her, there was no fear in it, and no sadness that had not as much disdain. She laid both hands on the dog's broad forehead, and looked down into his eyes.

VOL. I.

8

"Oh, Sulla! when one life is chosen, is there no escape into another? If we accept error in blindness once, is there no laying it down? Plutarch has written, 'When we see the dishonour of a thing, then is it time to renounce it.' But what can we do if we cannot-if it stay with us, and will not forsake us? How can I be free from it?"

But bondage was not submission; and she was like the Palmyran or Icenian queens-made a slave, but all a sovereign still.

A humming-bird flew against her, and, frightened, tangled itself among her lace. She put her hand over it, and caught it, stroked smooth the little ruffled wings, laid her lips gently on its bright head, and, opening one of the lattices, loosed it, and let it fly into the sunny air.

"Liberty! Liberty! It is worth any sacrifice," she said, half aloud, as she watched the bird's flight through the gardens and outward to the sea.

At that moment a Nubian slave threw open the broad double doors of jasper at the end of the chamber, the hangings before it were flung aside, and Erceldoune entered her presence.

She had said it would be best that he should remain absent; yet he was not in error when he thought that the smile she had given him last night

was scarcely so sweet as that she gave him now. He seemed half her own by title of that death-hour in which she had felt for the faint beatings of his heart, and had watched beside him in the loneliness of the Carpathians. She could not forget that this man's strong life would have perished but for her.

He owed her a debt-the debt of faith, at the least. Whatever she might be to others, to him she had been as the angel of life. Moreover, there was in Idalia, overlying the proud earnestness that was in her nature, a certain nonchalance-a certain languid carelessness-that made her look little beyond the present hour, and change her temperament as immediate influences prevailed. The tradition of birth gave her some blood of the Commneni in her veins; and the insouciance of an epicurean, with the haughty power of imperial pride, were blent in her as they had been in Manuel. Therefore, since he had chosen to put aside her first warning, she allowed him now to come as he would.

As for him, life was a paradise-a delirium; and he gave himself up to it. The earth had eternal summer for him, and wore an eternal smile. He sat near her in the shaded light and sweet incense of the chamber, while they spoke of things that