e most calamitous accident of fortune.

'How thoroughly you must know the world!' exclaimed he at last.

'Ay, sir; in the popular acceptation of the phrase I _do_ know it.
Plenty of good and plenty of bad is there in it, and so mingled and
blended that there is nothing rarer in life than to find any nature
either all lovable or all detestable. There are dark stains in the
fairest marble, so are there in natures the world deems utterly depraved
touches of human sentiment whose tenderness no poet ever dreamed of. And
if I were to give you a lesson, it would be--never be over-sanguine, but
never despair of humanity!'

'As you drew nigh the villa this evening,' said Gerald slowly, and with
all the deliberation of one approaching a theme of interest, 'I chanced
to be in the orangery beneath the terrace. You were speaking to your
companion in confidence, and I heard you say what augured but badly for
the success of my cause. Your words made so deep an impression on me
that I have asked to see and speak with you. Tell me, therefore, in all
frankness, what you know, and in equal candour what you think about this
enterprise.'

'What claim have I upon your forbearance if I say what may be
ungracious? How shall I hope to be forgiven if I tell you what is not
pleasant to hear?'

'The word of one who is well weary of delusions shall be your
guarantee.'

'I accept the pledge.'

He walked three or four times up and down the room, to all seeming in
deep deliberation with himself, and then facing full round in front of
Gerald, said--

'You were educated at the convent of the Jesuits--are you a member of
the order?'

'No.'

'Have they made no advances to you to become such?'

'None.'

'It is as I suspected,' muttered he to himself; then added aloud: 'They
mean to employ _you_ as the French king did your father. You are to be
the menace in times of trouble, and the sacrifice in the day of terms
and accommodations. Be neither!'

With this he waved his hand in farewell, and hastily left the room.

CHAPTER XXI. A FOREST RIDE

Gerald passed a restless, disturbed night. Purcell's words, ever ringing
in his ears, foreboded nothing but failure and disaster, while there
seemed something almost sarcastic in the comparison he drew between the
Prince Charles Edward's rashness and his own waiting, delaying policy.

'Is it fair or just,' thought he, 'to taunt me with this? I was not bred
up to know my station and my claims.