him such perfections had been given to their name and house.  From that time, at all special assemblies given by his kinsman he was present, the observed of all observers.  He was a man of whom ’twas said that he was the most magnificent gentleman in Europe; that there was none to compare with him in the combination of gifts given both by Nature and Fortune.  His beauty both of feature and carriage was of the greatest, his mind was of the highest, and his education far beyond that of the age he lived in.  It was not the fashion of the day that men of his rank should devote themselves to the cultivation of their intellects instead of to a life of pleasure; but this he had done from his earliest youth, and now, in his perfect though early maturity, he had no equal in polished knowledge and charm of bearing.  He was the patron of literature and art; men of genius were not kept waiting in his antechamber, but were received by him with courtesy and honour.  At the Court ’twas well known there was no man who stood so near the throne in favour, and that there was no union so exalted that he might not have made his suit as rather that of a superior than an equal.  The Queen both loved and honoured him, and condescended to avow as much with gracious frankness.  She knew no other man, she deigned to say, who was so worthy of honour and affection, and that he had not married must be because there was no woman who could meet him on ground that was equal.  If there were no scandals about him—­and there were none—­’twas not because he was cold of heart or imagination.  No man or woman could look into his deep eye and not know that when love came to him ’twould be a burning passion, and an evil fate if it went ill instead of happily.

“Being past his callow, youthful days, ’tis time he made some woman a duchess,” Dunstanwolde said reflectively once to his wife. “’Twould be more fitting that he should; and it is his way to honour his house in all things, and bear himself without fault as the head of it.  Methinks it strange he makes no move to do it.”

“No, ’tis not strange,” said my lady, looking under her black-fringed lids at the glow of the fire, as though reflecting also.  “There is no strangeness in it.”

“Why not?” her lord asked.

“There is no mate for him,” she answered slowly.  “A man like him must mate as well as marry, or he will break his heart with silent raging at the weakness of the thing he is tied to.  He is too strong and splendid for a common woman.  If he married one, ’twould be as if a lion had taken to himself for mate a jackal or a sheep.  Ah!” with a long drawn breath—­“he would go mad—­mad with misery;” and her hands, which lay upon her knee, wrung themselves hard together, though none could see it.

“He should have a goddess, were they not so rare,” said Dunstanwolde, gently smiling.  “He should hold a bitter grudge against me, that I, his unworthy kinsman, have been given the only one.”