d that Father Holt was a very kind man
to him, and a very learned man, and Harry supposed would tell him none
of his secrets if he had any. He was about eleven years old at this
time, and looked as innocent as boys of his age.

The family were away more than six months, and when they returned
they were in the deepest state of dejection, for King James had been
banished, the Prince of Orange was on the throne, and the direst
persecutions of those of the Catholic faith were apprehended by my
lady, who said she did not believe that there was a word of truth in the
promises of toleration that Dutch monster made, or in a single word the
perjured wretch said. My lord and lady were in a manner prisoners in
their own house; so her ladyship gave the little page to know, who was
by this time growing of an age to understand what was passing about him,
and something of the characters of the people he lived with.

"We are prisoners," says she; "in everything but chains, we are
prisoners. Let them come, let them consign me to dungeons, or strike off
my head from this poor little throat" (and she clasped it in her long
fingers). "The blood of the Esmonds will always flow freely for their
kings. We are not like the Churchills--the Judases, who kiss their
master and betray him. We know how to suffer, how even to forgive in the
royal cause" (no doubt it was to that fatal business of losing the place
of Groom of the Posset to which her ladyship alluded, as she did half
a dozen times in the day). "Let the tyrant of Orange bring his rack and
his odious Dutch tortures--the beast! the wretch! I spit upon him and
defy him. Cheerfully will I lay this head upon the block; cheerfully
will I accompany my lord to the scaffold: we will cry 'God save
King James!' with our dying breath, and smile in the face of the
executioner." And she told her page, a hundred times at least, of the
particulars of the last interview which she had with his Majesty.

"I flung myself before my liege's feet," she said, "at Salisbury.
I devoted myself--my husband--my house, to his cause. Perhaps he
remembered old times, when Isabella Esmond was young and fair; perhaps
he recalled the day when 'twas not I that knelt--at least he spoke to me
with a voice that reminded ME of days gone by. 'Egad!' said his Majesty,
'you should go to the Prince of Orange; if you want anything.' 'No,
sire,' I replied, 'I would not kneel to a Usurper; the Esmond that would
have served your Maj