t thou any heart!" He leaned his face against the gate,
and sobbed heavily. "What poison," cried he, in a voice of
bitterness,--"what poison there must be in unholy passion, when it can
move a heart like mine, after years and years of time! To think that not
all the glory of a great cause, all the pride of successful ambition,
striving for rewards the very highest,--all that I possess of power and
influence,--all, all should give way to the grief for a half-forgotten,
unreturned love! How poor a thing the heart is, when we fancy its
desires to be noblest and highest!"

This burst of passionate grief over, he slowly returned to the carriage
and pursued his way to Florence; and, entering the city, he drove for
the house of Racca Morlache. The Jew was not at home, but was to return
by eleven o'clock, at which hour he had ordered supper for a guest and
himself. D'Esmonde lay down on a sofa, and fell asleep. Wearied as he
was, his watchfulness soon detected the approach of footsteps; and,
as he listened, he heard the voice of a stranger in colloquy with the
servant. The door opened at the same time, and Lord Norwood entered.
D'Esmonde only waited for the servant to retire, when he sprang forward
to salute him.

"Oh! I thought you were at the camp, or at Vienna, or somewhere to the
north'ard," said the Viscount, coolly.

"I was so, my Lord; and there I should have remained, if a pressing duty
had not recalled me to Florence."

"You have always so many irons in the fire, Abbe, that it requires some
skill to keep them all hot."

"You are right, my Lord; some skill, and some practice too."

"And do you never burn your fingers?" said the other, sarcastically.

"Very rarely, my Lord; for when I meddle with fire, I generally make use
of my friends' hands."

"By Jove, it's not a bad plan!" cried the Viscount, laughing; for,
as the priest well knew, he had a most lively appreciation for every
species of knavery, and entertained real respect for all who practised
it. "You _are_ a very downy cove, Master D'Esmonde," said he, gazing at
him; "and you 'd have made a very shining figure on the Turf, had your
fortune thrown you in that direction."

"Perhaps so, my Lord," said the Abbe, carelessly. "My own notion is,
that fair natural gifts are equal to any exigencies ever demanded of us;
and that the man of average talent, if he have only energy and a strong
will, has no superior to dread."

"That may do well enough," said Norwo