d day.

And then the crash came? The blow was sudden, overwhelming and utterly
destructive.

The shock of the fall of Lone was felt from one end of the kingdom to the
other.

For the last time a crowd gathered around Castle Lone. But they came not
as festive guests but as a flock of vultures around a carcass, bent on
prey. For the last time artists and reporters came not to illustrate the
triumphs, but to record the downfall of the great ducal house of
Scott-Hereward; to make sketches, take photographs and write descriptions
of the magnificent and splendid halls and chambers, picture-galleries and
museums, before they should be dismantled by the rapacious purchasers who
flocked to the vendue of Lone, to profit by the ruin of the proprietor.

And for the last time illustrations of Lone and its glories went forth
over every part of the world where the English language is spoken, or the
English mails penetrate.

Another heavy blow fell upon the doomed duke. Even while the grand vendue
was still in progress the duchess died of grief.

When all was over, and the good duchess was laid in the family vault, the
duke and the young marquis disappeared from Lone and none knew whither
they went. Some said that they had gone to Australia; some that they were
in America; some that they were on the Continent. Others declared that
they had hidden themselves in the wilderness of London, where they were
living in great poverty and obscurity, and even under assumed names.

Opinions and rumors differed also concerning the character and conduct of
the young marquis. Many called him a devoted son, filled with the spirit
of heroic self-sacrifice. Many others affirmed that he was a hypocrite
and a villain, addicted to drinking, gambling, and other vices and even
cited times, places, and occasions of his sinning.

There never lived a man of whom so much good and so much evil was
said as of the young Marquis of Arondelle. A stranger coming into the
neighborhood of Lone, would hear these opposite reports and never be able
to decide whether the absent and self-exiled young nobleman was a model
of virtue or a monster of vice.

But there was one whose faith in him was firm as her faith in Heaven.

Rose Cameron was the daughter of a Highland shepherd, living about ten
miles north of Ben Lone. No court lady in the land was fairer than this
rustic Highland beauty. Her form was tall, fine, and commanding. Her step
was stately and graceful as