"But whom can the exile possibly have seen of birth and fortunes to render him a fitting spouse for his daughter? Whom, my lord, except yourself?" "Me!" exclaimed Harley, angrily, and changing colour. "I worthy of such a creature? I--with my habits! I--silken egotist that I am! And you, a poet, to form such an estimate of one who might be the queen of a poet's dream!" "My lord, when we sate the other night round Riccabocca's hearth--when I heard her speak, and observed you listen, I said to myself, from such knowledge of human nature as comes, we know not how, to us poets--I said, 'Harley L'Estrange has looked long and wistfully on the heavens, and he now hears the murmur of the wings that can waft him towards them.' And then I sighed, for I thought how the world rules us all in spite of ourselves. And I said, 'What pity for both, that the exile's daughter is not the worldly equal of the peer's son!' And you too sighed, as I thus thought; and I fancied that, while you listened to the music of the wing, you felt the iron of the chain. But the exile's daughter _is_ your equal in birth, and you are hers in heart and in soul." "My poor Leonard, you rave," answered Harley, calmly. "And if Violante is not to be some young prince's bride, she should be some young poet's." "Poet's! O, no!" said Leonard, with a gentle laugh. "Poets need repose where _they_ love!" Harley was struck by the answer, and mused over it in silence. "I comprehend," thought he; "it is a new light that dawns on me. What is needed by the man, whose whole life is one strain after glory--whose soul sinks, in fatigue, to the companionship of earth--is not the love of a nature like his own. He is right--it is repose! While I, it is true! Boy that he is, his intuitions are wiser than all my experience! It _is_ excitement--energy--elevation, that Love should bestow on me. But I have chosen; and, at least, with Helen my life will be calm, and my hearth sacred. Let the rest sleep in the same grave as my youth." "But," said Leonard, wishing kindly to arouse his noble friend from a reverie which he felt was mournful, though he did not divine its true cause--"but you have not yet told me the name of the Signora's suitor. May I know?" "Probably one you never heard of. Randal Leslie--a placeman. You refused a place;--you were right." "Randal Leslie? Heaven forbid!" cried Leonard, revealing his surprise at the name. "Amen! But what do you know of him?" Leonard related the story of Burley's pamphlet. Harley seemed delighted to hear his suspicions of Randal confirmed. "The paltry pretender!--and yet I fancied that he might be formidable! However, we must dismiss him for the present;--we are approaching Madame di Negra's house. Prepare yourself, and remember your promise." CHAPTER XIII.