ithout the circumambient charm
of youth adding fresh lustre to all that was bright and fair, and a
keener relish to every combination of enjoyment. The moonbeam fell
upon his mother's monument, a tablet on the cloister wall that
recorded the birth and death of KATHERINE CADURCIS. His thoughts flew
to his ancestry. They had conquered in France and Palestine, and left
a memorable name to the annalist of his country. Those days were past,
and yet Cadurcis felt within him the desire, perhaps the power, of
emulating them; but what remained? What career was open in this
mechanical age to the chivalric genius of his race? Was he misplaced
then in life? The applause of nations, there was something grand and
exciting in such a possession. To be the marvel of mankind what would
he not hazard? Dreams, dreams! If his ancestors were valiant and
celebrated it remained for him to rival, to excel them, at least in
one respect. Their coronet had never rested on a brow fairer than
the one for which he destined it. Venetia then, independently of his
passionate love, was the only apparent object worth his pursuit, the
only thing in this world that had realised his dreams, dreams sacred
to his own musing soul, that even she had never shared or guessed. And
she, she was to be his. He could not doubt it: but to-morrow would
decide; to-morrow would seal his triumph.

His sleep was short and restless; he had almost out-watched the stars,
and yet he rose with the early morn. His first thought was of Venetia;
he was impatient for the interview, the interview she promised and
even proposed. The fresh air was grateful to him; he bounded along to
Cherbury, and brushed the dew in his progress from the tall grass and
shrubs. In sight of the hall, he for a moment paused. He was before
his accustomed hour; and yet he was always too soon. Not to-day,
though, not to-day; suddenly he rushes forward and springs down the
green vista, for Venetia is on the terrace, and alone!

Always kind, this morning she greeted him with unusual affection.
Never had she seemed to him so exquisitely beautiful. Perhaps her
countenance to-day was more pale than wont. There seemed a softness in
her eyes usually so brilliant and even dazzling; the accents of her
salutation were suppressed and tender.

'I thought you would be here early,' she remarked, 'and therefore I
rose to meet you.'

Was he to infer from this artless confession that his image had
haunted her in her drea