his Royal
Highness is distinguished for the utter absence of all that denotes
ostentation or display. I entered the great gallery, therefore, with
something of curiosity, to know what this might betoken. The company was
all ranged in a great circle, at one part of which a little group was
gathered, in which I had no difficulty in detecting the thin, sickly
face of the Cardinal York, looking fully twenty years beyond his
age, his frail figure bent nearly double. I could mark, besides, that
presentations were being made, as different persons came up, made their
reverence and were detained, some more, some less time in conversation,
who then retired, backing out as from a royal presence. While I stood
thus in wonderment, Don Caesare, the brother of the Cardinal Abbezi, came
up, and taking me by the arm, led me forward, saying--

'"Caro Natzio," so he now calls me, "you must not be the last to make
your homage here."

'"And to whom am I to offer it?" asked I eagerly.

'"To whom but to him it is best due. To the Prince who ought to be
King."

'"I am but a sorry expounder of riddles, Don Caesare," said I, somewhat
hurt,' as you can well imagine, by a speech so offensive to my loyalty.

'"There is less question here," replied he, "of partisanship than of the
courteous deference which every gentleman ungrudgingly accords to those
of royal birth. This is the Prince of Wales, at least till he be called
the King. He is the son of Charles Edward, and the last of the Stuarts."

'Ere I had rallied from the astonishment of this strange announcement,
the crowd separated in front of me, and I found myself in the presence
of a tall and sickly-looking youth, whose marvellous resemblance to the
Pretender actually overcame me. Nor was any artifice of costume omitted
that could help out the likeness, for he wore a sash of Stuart tartan
over his suit of maroon velvet, and a curiously elaborate claymore hung
by his side. Mistaking me for the Prince D'Arco, he said, in the low,
soft voice of his race--

'"How have you left the Princess; or is she at Rome?"

'"This is the Chevalier de Seymour, may it please your Royal Highness,"
whispered the Cardinal Gualterio, "a gentleman of good and honourable
name, though allied with a cause that is not ours."

'"Methinks all Englishmen might be friends of mine," said the Prince,
smiling sadly; "at all events they need not be my enemies." He held out
his hand as he spoke: and so much of dignity wa