her
mother, sadly, "nor to speak ill of your father."

Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her flurry, for she
blushed crimson: "I have learnt to honour the king," says she, drawing up,
"and 'twere as well that others suspected neither his Majesty nor me."

"If you respected your mother a little more," Frank said, "'Trix, you
would do yourself no hurt."

"I am no child," says she, turning round on him; "we have lived very well
these five years without the benefit of your advice or example, and I
intend to take neither now. Why does not the head of the house speak?" she
went on; "he rules everything here. When his chaplain has done singing the
psalms, will his lordship deliver the sermon? I am tired of the psalms."
The prince had used almost the very same words, in regard to Colonel
Esmond, that the imprudent girl repeated in her wrath.

"You show yourself a very apt scholar, madam," says the colonel; and,
turning to his mistress, "Did your guest use these words in your
ladyship's hearing, or was it to Beatrix in private that he was pleased to
impart his opinion regarding my tiresome sermon?"

"Have you seen him alone?" cries my lord, starting up with an oath: "by
God, have you seen him alone?"

"Were he here, you wouldn't dare so to insult me; no, you would not dare!"
cries Frank's sister. "Keep your oaths, my lord, for your wife; we are not
used here to such language. 'Till you came, there used to be kindness
between me and mamma, and I cared for her when you never did, when you
were away for years with your horses, and your mistress, and your Popish
wife."

"By ----," says my lord, rapping out another oath, "Clotilda is an angel;
how dare you say a word against Clotilda?"

Colonel Esmond could not refrain from a smile, to see how easy Frank's
attack was drawn off by that feint:--"I fancy Clotilda is not the subject
in hand," says Mr. Esmond, rather scornfully; "her ladyship is at Paris, a
hundred leagues off, preparing baby-linen. It is about my Lord
Castlewood's sister, and not his wife, the question is."

"He is not my Lord Castlewood," says Beatrix, "and he knows he is not; he
is Colonel Francis Esmond's son, and no more, and he wears a false title;
and he lives on another man's land, and he knows it." Here was another
desperate sally of the poor beleaguered garrison, and an _alerte_ in
another quarter. "Again, I beg your pardon," says Esmond. "If there are no
proofs of my claim, I have no c