was the suit of armor which another Tristram Guiscard had worn
at Agincourt. What little chaps they had been in those days in
comparison with himself and his six feet two inches! But they had been
great lords, his ancestors, and he, too, would be worthy of the race.
There were no wars just now to go to and fight for his country--but he
would fight for his order, with his uncle, the Duke, that splendid, old
specimen of the hereditary legislator. Francis Markrute who was a good
judge had said that he had made some decent speeches in the House of
Lords already, and he would go on and do his best, and Zara would help
him. He wondered if she liked reading and poetry. He was such a
magnificently healthy sportsman he had always been a little shy of
letting people know his inner and gentler tastes. He hoped so much she
would care for the books he did. There was a deep strain of romance in
his nature, undreamed of by such women as Laura Highford, and these
evenings--alone, musing and growing in love with a phantom--drew it
forth.

His plan was to go to Paris--to the Ritz--for the honeymoon. Zara who
did not know England would probably hate the solemn servants staring at
her in those early days if he took her to Orton, one of the Duke's
places which he had offered him for the blissful week. Paris was much
better--they could go to the theater there--because he knew it would not
all be plain sailing by any means! And every time he thought of that
aspect, his keen, blue eyes sparkled with the instinct of the chase and
he looked the image of the Baron Tancred who, carved in stone, with his
Crusader's crossed feet, reposed in state in the church of Wrayth.

A lissom, wiry, splendid English aristocrat, in perfect condition and
health, was Tristram Guiscard, twenty-fourth Baron Tancred, as he
lounged in his chair before the fire and dreamed of his lady and his
fate.

And when they were used to one another--at the end of the week--there
would be the party at Montfitchet where he would have the joy and pride
of showing his beautiful wife--and Laura would be there;--he suddenly
thought of her. Poor old Laura! she had been awfully nice about it and
had written him the sweetest letter. He would not have believed her
capable of it--and he felt so kindly disposed towards her--little as she
deserved it if he had only known!

Then when these gayeties were over, he and Zara would come here to
Wrayth! And he could not help picturing how he wo