kingdom were assembled to accompany the Prince of Wales, who might have
been the acknowledged heir of the throne, or the possessor of it by this
time, had your Majesty not chosen to take the air. We were ready; there
was only one person that failed us, your Majesty's gracious--"

"Morbleu, Monsieur, you give me too much Majesty," said the Prince, who
had now risen up and seemed to be looking to one of us to help him to
his coat. But neither stirred.

"We shall take care," says Esmond, "not much oftener to offend in that
particular."

"What mean you, my lord?" says the Prince, and muttered something about
a guet-a-pens, which Esmond caught up.

"The snare, Sir," said he, "was not of our laying; it is not we that
invited you. We came to avenge, and not to compass, the dishonor of our
family."

"Dishonor! Morbleu, there has been no dishonor," says the Prince,
turning scarlet, "only a little harmless playing."

"That was meant to end seriously."

"I swear," the Prince broke out impetuously, "upon the honor of a
gentleman, my lords--"

"That we arrived in time. No wrong hath been done, Frank," says Colonel
Esmond, turning round to young Castlewood, who stood at the door as the
talk was going on. "See! here is a paper whereon his Majesty has deigned
to commence some verses in honor, or dishonor, of Beatrix. Here is
'Madame' and 'Flamme,' 'Cruelle' and 'Rebelle,' and 'Amour' and 'Jour'
in the Royal writing and spelling. Had the Gracious lover been happy,
he had not passed his time in sighing." In fact, and actually as he was
speaking, Esmond cast his eyes down towards the table, and saw a paper
on which my young Prince had been scrawling a madrigal, that was to
finish his charmer on the morrow.

"Sir," says the Prince, burning with rage (he had assumed his Royal coat
unassisted by this time), "did I come here to receive insults?"

"To confer them, may it please your Majesty," says the Colonel, with a
very low bow, "and the gentlemen of our family are come to thank you."

"Malediction!" says the young man, tears starting into his eyes with
helpless rage and mortification. "What will you with me, gentlemen?"

"If your Majesty will please to enter the next apartment," says Esmond,
preserving his grave tone, "I have some papers there which I would
gladly submit to you, and by your permission I will lead the way;"
and, taking the taper up, and backing before the Prince with very great
ceremony, Mr. Esmond passed into the little Chaplain's room, through
which we had just entered into the house:--"Please to set a chair for
his Majesty, Frank," says the Colonel to his companion, who wondered
almost as much at this scene, and was as much puzzled by it, as the
other actor in it. Then going to the crypt over the mantel-piece, the
Colonel opened it, and drew thence the papers which so long had lain
there.

"Here, may it please your Majesty," says he, "is the Patent of Marquis
sent over by your Royal Father at St. Germains to Viscount Castlewood,
my father: here is the witnessed certificate of my father's marriage
to my mother, and of my birth and christening; I was christened of that
religion of which your sainted sire gave all through life so shining
example. These are my titles, dear Frank, and this what I do with them:
here go Baptism and Marriage, and here the Marquisate and the August
Sign-Manual, with which your predecessor was pleased to honor our race."
And as Esmond spoke he set the papers burning in the brazier. "You will
please, sir, to remember," he continued, "that our family hath ruined
itself by fidelity to yours: that my grandfather spent his estate, and
gave his blood and his son to die for your service; that my dear lord's
grandfather (for lord you are now, Frank, by right and title too) died
for the same cause; that my poor kinswoman, my father's second wife,
after giving away her honor to your wicked perjured race, sent all her
wealth to the King; and got in return, that precious title that lies in
ashes, and this inestimable yard of blue ribbon. I lay this at your feet
and stamp upon it: I draw this sword, and break it and deny you; and,
had you completed the wrong you designed us, by heaven I would have
driven it through your heart, and no more pardoned you than your father
pardoned Monmouth. Frank will do the same, won't you, cousin?"

Frank, who had been looking on with a stupid air at the papers, as they
flamed in the old brazier, took out his sword and broke it, holding his
head down:--"I go with my cousin," says he, giving Esmond a grasp of
the hand. "Marquis or not, by ---, I stand by him any day. I beg your
Majesty's pardon for swearing; that is--that is--I'm for the Elector of
Hanover. It's all your Majesty's own fault. The Queen's dead most likely
by this time. And you might have been King if you hadn't come dangling
after Trix."

"Thus to lose a crown," says the young Prince, starting up, and speaking
French in his eager way; "to lose the loveliest woman in the world; to
lose the loyalty of such hearts as yours, is not this, my lords, enough
of humiliation?--Marquis, if I go on my knees will you pardon me?--No,
I can't do that, but I can offer you reparation, that of honor, that
of gentlemen. Favor me by crossing the sword with mine: yours is
broke--see, yonder in the armoire are two;" and the Prince took them out
as eager as a boy, and held them towards Esmond:--"Ah! you will? Merci,
monsieur, merci!"

Extremely touched by this immense mark of condescension and repentance
for wrong done, Colonel Esmond bowed down so low as almost to kiss the
gracious young hand that conferred on him such an honor, and took his
guard in silence. The swords were no sooner met, than Castlewood knocked
up Esmond's with the blade of his own, which he had broke off short at
the shell; and the Colonel falling back a step dropped his point with
another very low bow, and declared himself perfectly satisfied.

"Eh bien, Vicomte!" says the young Prince, who was a boy, and a French
boy, "il ne nous reste qu'une chose a faire:" he placed his sword upon
the table, and the fingers of his two hands upon his breast:--"We have
one more thing to do," says he; "you do not divine it?" He stretched out
his arms:--"Embrassons nous!"

The talk was scarce over when Beatrix entered the room:--What came she
to seek there? She started and turned pale at the sight of her
brother and kinsman, drawn swords, broken sword-blades, and papers yet
smouldering in the brazier.

"Charming Beatrix," says the Prince, with a blush which became him very
well, "these lords have come a-horseback from London, where my sister
lies in a despaired state, and where her successor makes himself
desired. Pardon me for my escapade of last evening. I had been so long a
prisoner, that I seized the occasion of a promenade on horseback, and my
horse naturally bore me towards you. I found you a Queen in your little
court, where you deigned to entertain me. Present my homages to your
maids of honor. I sighed as you slept, under the window of your chamber,
and then retired to seek rest in my own. It was there that these
gentlemen agreeably roused me. Yes, milords, for that is a happy day
that makes a Prince acquainted, at whatever cost to his vanity, with
such a noble heart as that of the Marquis of Esmond. Mademoiselle,
may we take your coach to town? I saw it in the hangar, and this poor
Marquis must be dropping with sleep."

"Will it please the King to breakfast before he goes?" was all Beatrix
could say. The roses had shuddered out of her cheeks; her eyes were
glaring; she looked quite old. She came up to Esmond and hissed out a
word or two:--"If I did not love you before, cousin," says she, "think
how I love you now." If words could stab, no doubt she would have killed
Esmond; she looked at him as if she could.

But her keen words gave no wound to Mr. Esmond; his heart was too hard.
As he looked at her, he wondered that he could ever have loved her.
His love of ten years was over; it fell down dead on the spot, at
the Kensington Tavern, where Frank brought him the note out of "Eikon
Basilike." The Prince blushed and bowed low, as she gazed at him, and
quitted the chamber. I have never seen her from that day.

Horses were fetched and put to the chariot presently. My lord rode
outside, and as for Esmond he was so tired that he was no sooner in the
carriage than he fell asleep, and never woke till night, as the coach
came into Alton.

As we drove to the "Bell" Inn comes a mitred coach with our old friend
Lockwood beside the coachman. My Lady Castlewood and the Bishop were
inside; she gave a little scream when she saw us. The two coaches
entered the inn almost together; the landlord and people coming out with
lights to welcome the visitors.

We in our coach sprang out of it, as soon as ever we saw the dear lady,
and above all, the Doctor in his cassock. What was the news? Was there
yet time? Was the Queen alive? These questions were put hurriedly, as
Boniface stood waiting before his noble guests to bow them up the stair.

"Is she safe?" was what Lady Castlewood whispered in a flutter to
Esmond.

"All's well, thank God," says he, as the fond lady took his hand
and kissed it, and called him her preserver and her dear. SHE wasn't
thinking of Queens and crowns.

The Bishop's news was reassuring: at least all was not lost; the Queen
yet breathed, or was alive when they left London, six hours since. ("It
was Lady Castlewood who insisted on coming," the Doctor said.) Argyle
had marched up regiments from Portsmouth, and sent abroad for more; the
Whigs were on the alert, a pest on them, (I am not sure but the Bishop
swore as he spoke,) and so too were our people. And all might be saved,
if only the Prince could be at London in time. We called for horses,
instantly to return to London. We never went up poor crestfallen
Boniface's stairs, but into our coaches again. The Prince and his Prime
Minister in one, Esmond in the other, with only his dear mistress as a
companion.

Castlewood galloped forwards on horseback to gather the Prince's friends
and warn them of his coming. We travelled through the night. Esmond
discoursing to his mistress of the events of the last twenty-four hours;
of Castlewood's ride and his; of the Prince's generous behavior and
their reconciliation. The night seemed short enough; and the starlit
hours passed away serenely in that fond company.

So we came along the road; the Bishop's coach heading ours; and, with
some delays in procuring horses, we got to Hammersmith about four
o'clock on Sunday morning, the first of August, and half an hour after,
it being then bright day, we rode by my Lady Warwick's house, and so
down the street of Kensington.

Early as the hour was, there was a bustle in the street and many people
moving to and fro. Round the gate leading to the Palace, where the
guard is, there was especially a great crowd. And the coach ahead of us
stopped, and the Bishop's man got down to know what the concourse meant?

There presently came from out of the gate--Horse Guards with their
trumpets, and a company of heralds with their tabards. The trumpets
blew, and the herald-at-arms came forward and proclaimed GEORGE, by the
Grace of God, of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, King, Defender of
the Faith. And the people shouted God save the King!

Among the crowd shouting and waving their hats, I caught sight of one
sad face, which I had known all my life, and seen under many disguises.
It was no other than poor Mr. Holt's, who had slipped over to England
to witness the triumph of the good cause; and now beheld its enemies
victorious, amidst the acclamations of the English people. The poor
fellow had forgot to huzzah or to take his hat off, until his neighbors
in the crowd remarked his want of loyalty, and cursed him for a Jesuit
in disguise, when he ruefully uncovered and began to cheer. Sure he
was the most unlucky of men: he never played a game but he lost it; or
engaged in a conspiracy but 'twas certain to end in defeat. I saw him in
Flanders after this, whence he went to Rome to the head-quarters of his
Order; and actually reappeared among us in America, very old, and
busy, and hopeful. I am not sure that he did not assume the hatchet and
moccasins there; and, attired in a blanket and war-paint, skulk about
a missionary amongst the Indians. He lies buried in our neighboring
province of Maryland now, with a cross over him, and a mound of earth
above him; under which that unquiet spirit is for ever at peace.

With the sound of King George's trumpets, all the vain hopes of the weak
and foolish young Pretender were blown away; and with that music, too, I
may say, the drama of my own life was ended. That happiness, which hath
subsequently crowned it, cannot be written in words; 'tis of its nature
sacred and secret, and not to be spoken of, though the heart be ever so
full of thankfulness, save to Heaven and the One Ear alone--to one fond
being, the truest and tenderest and purest wife ever man was blessed
with. As I think of the immense happiness which was in store for me, and
of the depth and intensity of that love which, for so many years, hath
blessed me, I own to a transport of wonder and gratitude for such a
boon--nay, am thankful to have been endowed with a heart capable of
feeling and knowing the immense beauty and value of the gift which God
hath bestowed upon me. Sure, love vincit omnia; is immeasurably above
all ambition, more precious than wealth, more noble than name. He knows
not life who knows not that: he hath not felt the highest faculty of
the soul who hath not enjoyed it. In the name of my wife I write the
completion of hope, and the summit of happiness. To have such a love is
the one blessing, in comparison of which all earthly joy is of no value;
and to think of her, is to praise God.

It was at Bruxelles, whither we retreated after the failure of our
plot--our Whig friends advising us to keep out of the way--that the
great joy of my life was bestowed upon me, and that my dear mistress
became my wife. We had been so accustomed to an extreme intimacy and
confidence, and had lived so long and tenderly together, that we
might have gone on to the end without thinking of a closer tie; but
circumstances brought about that event which so prodigiously multiplied
my happiness and hers (for which I humbly thank Heaven), although a
calamity befell us, which, I blush to think, hath occurred more than
once in our house. I know not what infatuation of ambition urged the
beautiful and wayward woman, whose name hath occupied so many of these
pages, and who was served by me with ten years of such constant fidelity
and passion; but ever after that day at Castlewood, when we rescued her,
she persisted in holding all her family as her enemies, and left us, and
escaped to France, to what a fate I disdain to tell. Nor was her son's
house a home for my dear mistress; my poor Frank was weak, as perhaps
all our race hath been, and led by women. Those around him were
imperious, and in a terror of his mother's influence over him, lest
he should recant, and deny the creed which he had adopted by their
persuasion. The difference of their religion separated the son and the
mother: my dearest mistress felt that she was severed from her children
and alone in the world--alone but for one constant servant on whose
fidelity, praised be Heaven, she could count. 'Twas after a scene of
ignoble quarrel on the part of Frank's wife and mother (for the poor lad
had been made to marry the whole of that German family with whom he had
connected himself), that I found my mistress one day in tears, and then
besought her to confide herself to the care and devotion of one who,
by God's help, would never forsake her. And then the tender matron, as
beautiful in her Autumn, and as pure as virgins in their spring, with
blushes of love and "eyes of meek surrender," yielded to my respectful
importunity, and consented to share my home. Let the last words I write
thank her, and bless her who hath blessed it.

By the kindness of Mr. Addison, all danger of prosecution, and every
obstacle against our return to England, was removed; and my son Frank's
gallantry in Scotland made his peace with the King's government. But we
two cared no longer to live in England: and Frank formally and joyfully
yielded over to us the possession of that estate which we now occupy,
far away from Europe and its troubles, on the beautiful banks of the
Potomac, where we have built a new Castlewood, and think with grateful
hearts of our old home. In our Transatlantic country we have a season,
the calmest and most delightful of the year, which we call the Indian
summer: I often say the autumn of our life resembles that happy and
serene weather, and am thankful for its rest and its sweet sunshine.
Heaven hath blessed us with a child, which each parent loves for her
resemblance to the other. Our diamonds are turned into ploughs and axes
for our plantations; and into negroes, the happiest and merriest, I
think, in all this country: and the only jewel by which my wife sets
any store, and from which she hath never parted, is that gold button she
took from my arm on the day when she visited me in prison, and which she
wore ever after, as she told me, on the tenderest heart in the world.