“And what happened to his grandfather?” broke out St. John, filling out another bumper.  “Here’s to the greatest monarch England ever saw; here’s to the Englishman that made a kingdom of her.  Our great King came from Huntingdon, not Hanover; our fathers didn’t look for a Dutchman to rule us.  Let him come and we’ll keep him, and we’ll show him Whitehall.  If he’s a traitor let us have him here to deal with him; and then there are spirits here as great as any that have gone before.  There are men here that can look at danger in the face and not be frightened at it.  Traitor! treason! what names are these to scare you and me?  Are all Oliver’s men dead, or his glorious name forgotten in fifty years?  Are there no men equal to him, think you, as good—­ay, as good?  God save the King! and, if the monarchy fails us, God save the British Republic!”

He filled another great bumper, and tossed it up and drained it wildly, just as the noise of rapid carriage-wheels approaching was stopped at our door, and after a hurried knock and a moment’s interval, Mr. Swift came into the hall, ran up stairs to the room we were dining in, and entered it with a perturbed face.  St. John, excited with drink, was making some wild quotation out of Macbeth, but Swift stopped him.

“Drink no more, my lord, for God’s sake!” says he.  “I come with the most dreadful news.”

“Is the Queen dead?” cries out Bolingbroke, seizing on a water-glass.

“No, Duke Hamilton is dead:  he was murdered an hour ago by Mohun and Macartney; they had a quarrel this morning; they gave him not so much time as to write a letter.  He went for a couple of his friends, and he is dead, and Mohun, too, the bloody villain, who was set on him.  They fought in Hyde Park just before sunset; the Duke killed Mohun, and Macartney came up and stabbed him, and the dog is fled.  I have your chariot below; send to every part of the country and apprehend that villain; come to the Duke’s house and see if any life be left in him.”

“Oh, Beatrix, Beatrix,” thought Esmond, “and here ends my poor girl’s ambition!”

CHAPTER VI.

Poor Beatrix.

There had been no need to urge upon Esmond the necessity of a separation between him and Beatrix:  Fate had done that completely; and I think from the very moment poor Beatrix had accepted the Duke’s offer, she began to assume the majestic air of a Duchess, nay, Queen Elect, and to carry herself as one sacred and removed from us common people.  Her mother and kinsman both fell into her ways, the latter scornfully perhaps, and uttering his usual gibes at her vanity and his own.  There was a certain charm about this girl of which neither Colonel Esmond nor his fond mistress could forego the fascination; in spite of her faults and her pride and wilfulness, they were forced to love her; and, indeed, might be set down as the two chief flatterers of the brilliant creature’s court.