e was about to proceed, her eye
fell upon the child. It was standing in the very centre of that slanting
column of light which the sun poured into the chamber; and the rays
seemed to surround it as a halo, and settled, crown-like, on the gold
of its shining hair. In its small shape, so exquisitely modelled, in its
large, steady, tranquil eyes, there was something that awed, while it
charmed the mother's pride. It gazed on Glyndon as he spoke, with a
look which almost might have seemed disdain, and which Viola, at least,
interpreted as a defence of the Absent, stronger than her own lips could
frame.

Glyndon broke the pause.

"Thou wouldst stay, for what? To betray a mother's duty! If any evil
happen to thee here, what becomes of thine infant? Shall it be brought
up an orphan, in a country that has desecrated thy religion, and where
human charity exists no more? Ah, weep, and clasp it to thy bosom; but
tears do not protect and save."

"Thou hast conquered, my friend, I will fly with thee."

"To-morrow night, then, be prepared. I will bring thee the necessary
disguises."

And Glyndon then proceeded to sketch rapidly the outline of the path
they were to take, and the story they were to tell. Viola listened, but
scarcely comprehended; he pressed her hand to his heart and departed.

CHAPTER 7.V.

Van seco pur anco
Sdegno ed Amor, quasi due Veltri al fianco.
"Ger. Lib." cant. xx. cxvii.

(There went with him still Disdain and Love, like two greyhounds
side by side.)

Glyndon did not perceive, as he hurried from the house, two forms
crouching by the angle of the wall. He saw still the spectre gliding by
his side; but he beheld not the yet more poisonous eyes of human envy
and woman's jealousy that glared on his retreating footsteps.

Nicot advanced to the house; Fillide followed him in silence. The
painter, an old sans-culotte, knew well what language to assume to the
porter. He beckoned the latter from his lodge, "How is this, citizen?
Thou harbourest a 'suspect.'"

"Citizen, you terrify me!--if so, name him."

"It is not a man; a refugee, an Italian woman, lodges here."

"Yes, au troisieme,--the door to the left. But what of her?--she cannot
be dangerous, poor child!"

"Citizen, beware! Dost thou dare to pity her?"

"I? No, no, indeed. But--"

"Speak the truth! Who visits her?"

"No one but an Englishman."

"That is it,--an Englishman, a spy of Pitt and Coburg."

"Just