t all others for him and reign alone.

"I will not play with love," he said to his mother once as they talked
intimately to each other. "I have thought of it--that which should come
to a man and be himself, not a part of his being but the very life of
him. If it comes not, a man must go unsatisfied to his grave. If it
comes--You know," he said, and turned and kissed her hand impulsively,
"It came to my father and to you."

"Pray Heaven it may come to you, dear one," she said; "you would know
bliss then."

"Yes," he answered, "I should know rapture that would make life Heaven.
I do not know what it is I wait for--but when I see it in some woman's
eyes I shall know, and so will she."

His mother kissed his ringed hair, smiling softly.

"Till then you wait and think of other things."

"There are so many things for a man to do," he said, "if he would not
sit idle. But when that comes it will be first and greatest of all."

At this period all the world talked of the wondrous and splendid
Churchill, who, having fought brilliantly for the Stuarts and been made
by them first Lord Churchill of Eyemouth, and next Baron Churchill of
Sandridge, having, after receiving these advancements, the cold
astuteness to see the royal fortunes waver perilously, deserted James
the Second with stately readiness and transferred his services to
William of Orange. He was rewarded with an earldom and such favour as
made him the most shining figure both at the Court of England and in
the foreign countries which had learned to regard his almost
supernatural powers with somewhat approaching awe.

This man inspired Roxholm with a singular feeling; he in fact exercised
over him the fascination he exercised over so many others, but in the
case of the young Marquess, wonder and admiration were mixed with other
emotions. There were stories so brilliant to be heard of him on all
sides, stories of other actions so marvellously ruthless and of things
so wondrously mean. Upon a bargain so shameless he had built so
wondrous a career--a faithfulness of service so magnificent he had
closed with a treachery so base. All greatness and all littleness, all
heroism and all crimes, seemed to combine themselves in this one
strange being. Having shamelessly sold his youth to a King's mistress,
he devoted his splendid maturity to a tender, faithful passion for a
beauteous virago, whose displeasure was the sole thing on earth which
moved him to pain or fear. In tr