of pity.  The thing he thought of was that which, when his eyes met my Lady Dunstanwolde’s, made the blood pulse through his veins; ’twas that he had known he should some day see in some woman’s eyes, and had told himself would be answer to the question his being asked; ’twas that he had prayed God he might see, ay, and had believed and sworn to himself he should see—­in this woman’s when he came back to stand face to face with her as lover, if she would.  Well, he had come and seen it, and ’twas in the eyes and soul of her who was to be his kinsman’s wife.  And never since he had been man born had he beheld the faintest glimmering of its glow in any woman’s eyes, though they had been like pools of love or stars of Heaven, never yet!  Moreover, he knew well that he never should again behold it in any hour to come.  Before its fire his soul shook and his body trembled; ’twas a thing which drew him with a power no human being could explain the strength of or describe; had he been weak or evil, and she evil, too, it would have dragged him to her side through crime and hell; he could not have withstood it.

He saw again the sudden pallor of his mother’s sweet face, the sudden foreboding in her eyes.

“If you loved her ’twould drive you mad and make you forget what you must be.”

“Yes,” he cried, putting his hand suddenly to his brow, feeling it damp, “it has driven me mad, I think—­mad.  I am not the same man!  The torture is too great.  I could—­I could—­nay! nay!” with half a shudder.  “Let me not forget, mother; let me not forget.”

Through this visit he must be a gracious host; a score of other guests would aid him by sharing his attentions; her ladyship, as new wedded bride, would be the central figure of the company.  Her lord’s love for him and unconsciousness of any suspicion of the truth would put him to the test many a time, but he would keep his word to himself, the vow he made to avoid nearness to her when ’twas to be done with any graciousness, and her eyes he would not meet in more than passing gaze if he could be master of his own.

“If I look straightly at her my own gaze will speak, and she, who is so shrewd of wit and has seen such worship in men’s faces, will read and understand, and disdain me, or—­disdain me not.  God knows which would be worse.”

The visit over, he would visit other of his estates, engage himself with friends to be their guests in Scotland, Ireland, and Wales, at their chateaux in France or Spain—­everywhere.  When he was not thus absorbed he would give himself to a statesman’s work at the settling of great questions—­the more involved and difficult the better; party enmity would be good for him, the unravelling of webs of intrigue, the baffling of cabals would keep his thoughts in action, and leave him no time for dreams.  Yes, to mark out his days thus clearly would help him to stand steady upon his feet—­in time might aid in deadening the burning of the wound which would