"Sir Harry, Sir Harry!" cried a voice from the terrace above; "his Majesty wishes to speak with you. You must give judgment between him and the Ambassador from Florence, on a passage in Dante, which his Excellency pretends he can translate into English better than his Majesty." "Now, heaven defend me!" exclaimed the old knight. "Would that the moon had not lighted them to look for me. But I must leave the lady under your charge, Seymour," and away he sped, while Arabella stood hesitating for a moment, whether to accompany him or not. But woman's heart is always willing to leave a door open for reconciliation, and though she said, "I think we had better follow to the terrace," she took no step that way. "As you please, lady," replied Seymour, without moving in that direction. Arabella turned round to go; but love conquered, and pausing suddenly, she said, "No! The opportunity may never come again, and it shall not be said, that I resented the first unkindness of a rash man. We will go the other way." "Unkindness, Arabella!" cried Seymour. "'Tis not I am unkind." "Then you would say, it is I?" exclaimed Arabella. "Nay," replied Seymour, in a sad tone, "I do not say so. I have no title to charge you with unkindness. What right have I to expect that you should remember me through several long years; that you should neglect happier men with fairer fortunes, for the sake of one whom you once condescended--may I say it now-a-days?--to love." "What right?" said Arabella. "Oh, Seymour, do you ask me what right? I might as well inquire of my own heart what right I have to feel this anguish, when I see him to whom all my thoughts have been given for years--for whose return I have looked with anxious hope and longing, till delay did, indeed, make the heart sick, come back at length cold and indifferent as if we had scarcely ever met. But I make no such foolish inquiries. I have a right, the right of true affection, the right of pledged and plighted faith, the right, if you will, of sorrow and suffering--and by that right, I ask you, William Seymour, what is it that has changed you thus?" "Nay, Arabella," he replied, "'tis not I am changed--'tis you." "Hush," she said, "here are people coming near;" but the other group passed without noticing them; and she then added, "I will be coarse with you, Seymour, and speak boldly, what no man, I think, would dare to say, that you tell a falsehood. I am not changed." "Oh, prove it to me!" cried Seymour, "and I will say it is the sweetest insult ever I received. Is it not true, then, that you encourage this minion of the King, this raw untutored Scot, whose woman face and glittering apparel has turned all heads, it seems, and perverted all hearts.