ecting to make light of her captivity.
She asked whether she might have leave to visit Mrs. Tusher, or to walk
beyond the court and the garden wall. She gave news of the peacocks,
and a fawn she had there. She bade her mother send her certain gowns
and smocks by old Lockwood; she sent her duty to a certain Person, if
certain other persons permitted her to take such a freedom; how that,
as she was not able to play cards with him, she hoped he would read good
books, such as Doctor Atterbury's sermons and "Eikon Basilike:" she was
going to read good books; she thought her pretty mamma would like to
know she was not crying her eyes out.

"Who is in the house besides you, Lockwood?" says the Colonel.

"There be the laundry-maid, and the kitchen-maid, Madam Beatrix's maid,
the man from London, and that be all; and he sleepeth in my lodge away
from the maids," says old Lockwood.

Esmond scribbled a line with a pencil on the note, giving it to the old
man, and bidding him go on to his lady. We knew why Beatrix had been
so dutiful on a sudden, and why she spoke of "Eikon Basilike." She writ
this letter to put the Prince on the scent, and the porter out of the
way.

"We have a fine moonlight night for riding on," says Esmond; "Frank, we
may reach Castlewood in time yet." All the way along they made inquiries
at the post-houses, when a tall young gentleman in a gray suit, with a
light brown periwig, just the color of my lord's, had been seen to pass.
He had set off at six that morning, and we at three in the afternoon. He
rode almost as quickly as we had done; he was seven hours a-head of us
still when we reached the last stage.

We rode over Castlewood Downs before the breaking of dawn. We passed the
very spot where the car was upset fourteen years since, and Mohun lay.
The village was not up yet, nor the forge lighted, as we rode through
it, passing by the elms, where the rooks were still roosting, and by
the church, and over the bridge. We got off our horses at the bridge and
walked up to the gate.

"If she is safe," says Frank, trembling, and his honest eyes filling
with tears, "a silver statue to Our Lady!" He was going to rattle at
the great iron knocker on the oak gate; but Esmond stopped his kinsman's
hand. He had his own fears, his own hopes, his own despairs and griefs,
too; but he spoke not a word of these to his companion, or showed any
signs of emotion.

He went and tapped at the little window at the porter's