a morning break with brighter hopes; and see already, scarcely an hour
past the noon, and they are all gone--wafted to the winds.'

'No, no, MacNiel,' said O'Sullivan gravely; 'you are wrong, believe me.
These butterflies knew well that it was only a gleam of sunshine, not a
summer. The hopes of the Stuarts are gone for ever.'

'Why are you here, then, if you think so?' cried the other impetuously.

'For that very reason, sir. I feel, as you and all these gentlemen here
do, that fidelity is a contract made for life.'

'They were the luckiest that closed that account first,' muttered one of
the lairds, half aloud. 'By my saul, Culloden wasn't colder lying than
the Campagna.'

'Come along, we may as well follow the rest,' said MacNiel, rising.
'Will you dine with us, O'Sullivan? Mac-Allister and Brane are coming.'

'No, MacNiel. I have made this anniversary a day of fasting for many a
year back. I took a vow never to taste meat or wine on this festival,
till I should do so beneath the king's roof, in his own land.'

'Ye 're like to keep a black Lent o' it, then,' muttered the old laird,
with a dry laugh, and shuffled along after his chieftain, as he led the
way toward the door.

O'Sullivan waited till they had gone; and then, with a sad glance around
him, as if like a leave-taking, left the palace and turned homeward.

CHAPTER III. THE ALTIERI PALACE

In a large and splendid chamber, whose only light was a small lamp
within a globe of alabaster, Charles Edward lay, full-dressed, upon his
bed. His eyes were closed, but his features did not betoken sleep: on
the contrary, his flushed cheek told of intemperance, and the table,
covered with wine-decanters and glasses, beside him, confirmed the
impression. His breathing was thick and laboured, and occasionally
broken by a dry, short cough. There was, indeed, little to remind one of
the handsome chevalier in the bloated face, the heavy, hanging jaws, and
the ungainly figure of him who, looking far older than his real age,
now lay there. Though dressed with peculiar care, and covered with the
insignia of several orders, his embroidered vest was unbuttoned, and
showed the rich lace of his jabot, stained and discoloured by wine. A
splendidly ornamented sword lay beside him, on which one hand rested,
the fingers tremulously touching the richly embossed hilt. Near the foot
of the bed, on a low, well-cushioned chair, sat another figure, whose
easy air of jocularity an