Castlewood, taking her son's hand,
and looking towards Colonel Esmond with a bow and a great tremor of the
voice; "the Marquis of Esmond will have the honor of serving the King."

"I shall have the honor of waiting on his Royal Highness," says Colonel
Esmond, filling a cup of wine, and, as the fashion of that day was, he
presented it to the King on his knee.

"I drink to my hostess and her family," says the Prince, with no very
well-pleased air; but the cloud passed immediately off his face, and he
talked to the ladies in a lively, rattling strain, quite undisturbed
by poor Mr. Esmond's yellow countenance, that, I dare say, looked very
glum.

When the time came to take leave, Esmond marched homewards to his
lodgings, and met Mr. Addison on the road that night, walking to a
cottage he had at Fulham, the moon shining on his handsome serene
face:--"What cheer, brother?" says Addison, laughing: "I thought it was
a footpad advancing in the dark, and behold 'tis an old friend. We
may shake hands, Colonel, in the dark, 'tis better than fighting by
daylight. Why should we quarrel, because I am a Whig and thou art
a Tory? Turn thy steps and walk with me to Fulham, where there is a
nightingale still singing in the garden, and a cool bottle in a cave I
know of; you shall drink to the Pretender if you like, and I will drink
my liquor my own way: I have had enough of good liquor?--no, never!
There is no such word as enough as a stopper for good wine. Thou wilt
not come? Come any day, come soon. You know I remember Simois and the
Sigeia tellus, and the praelia mixta mero, mixta mero," he repeated,
with ever so slight a touch of merum in his voice, and walked back a
little way on the road with Esmond, bidding the other remember he was
always his friend, and indebted to him for his aid in the "Campaign"
poem. And very likely Mr. Under-Secretary would have stepped in and
taken t'other bottle at the Colonel's lodging, had the latter invited
him, but Esmond's mood was none of the gayest, and he bade his friend an
inhospitable good-night at the door.

"I have done the deed," thought he, sleepless, and looking out into the
night; "he is here, and I have brought him; he and Beatrix are sleeping
under the same roof now. Whom did I mean to serve in bringing him? Was
it the Prince? was it Henry Esmond? Had I not best have joined the manly
creed of Addison yonder, that scouts the old doctrine of right
divine, that boldly declares that Parlia