ows, it hath been a miserable one for me
and mine. Like a coward, I clung to that respite which Holt gave me. I
kept the truth from Rachel and you. I tried to win money of Mohun, and
only plunged deeper into debt; I scarce dared look thee in the face when
I saw thee. This sword hath been hanging over my head these two years. I
swear I felt happy when Mohun's blade entered my side."

After lying ten months in the Tower, Holt, against whom nothing could
be found except that he was a Jesuit priest, known to be in King James's
interest, was put on shipboard by the incorrigible forgiveness of King
William, who promised him, however, a hanging if ever he should again
set foot on English shore. More than once, whilst he was in prison
himself, Esmond had thought where those papers could be, which the
Jesuit had shown to his patron, and which had such an interest for
himself. They were not found on Mr. Holt's person when that Father was
apprehended, for had such been the case my Lords of the Council had seen
them, and this family history had long since been made public. However,
Esmond cared not to seek the papers. His resolution being taken; his
poor mother dead; what matter to him that documents existed proving his
right to a title which he was determined not to claim, and of which he
vowed never to deprive that family which he loved best in the world?
Perhaps he took a greater pride out of his sacrifice than he would have
had in those honors which he was resolved to forego. Again, as long as
these titles were not forthcoming, Esmond's kinsman, dear young Francis,
was the honorable and undisputed owner of the Castlewood estate and
title. The mere word of a Jesuit could not overset Frank's right of
occupancy, and so Esmond's mind felt actually at ease to think the
papers were missing, and in their absence his dear mistress and her son
the lawful Lady and Lord of Castlewood.

Very soon after his liberation, Mr. Esmond made it his business to ride
to that village of Ealing where he had passed his earliest years in
this country, and to see if his old guardians were still alive and
inhabitants of that place. But the only relique which he found of old
M. Pastoureau was a stone in the churchyard, which told that Athanasius
Pastoureau, a native of Flanders, lay there buried, aged 87 years. The
old man's cottage, which Esmond perfectly recollected, and the garden
(where in his childhood he had passed many hours of play and reverie,
an