“As I slept, I dreamt I was Within a temple made of glass, In which there were more images Of gold standing in sundry stages, In more rich tabernacles, And with jewels more pinnacles; And more curious portraitures And quaint maniere of figures Of gold work than I saw ever. There saw I on either side, Straight down to the door wide, From the dais many a pillar Of metal that shone out full clear. · · · · · Then gan I look about I see That there came entering in the hall, A right great company withal, And that of sundry regions, Of all kinds of conditions, That dwell on earth beneath the moon, Poor and rich. Such a great congregation Of folks as I saw roam about, Some within, and some without, Was never seen, nor shall be no more.” THE SECRET OF STOKE MANOR: A FAMILY HISTORY. PART IV. CHAPTER VI.—CHARLEMONT. “La vertu, dans le monde, est toujours poursuivie.”—MOLIERE. The people swayed and hummed in the road, with strange burnished chequers cast over their very visages as they pressed against the gorgeous gates, thrown open towards each other, so as to form a double impromptu palisade across the highway, and locked as well as steadied by inward props; through the bars of each side-wicket could be seen a scarlet-clothed Swiss sentinel, his musket shouldered, as he paced to and fro, grimly though carelessly contemplating all. But scarce was there time to take in the scene ere a louder trumpet-note sounded from among the trees, and two mounted trumpeters in orange liveries were seen to rise at speed on the brow of the avenue; till, amidst sudden silence, the whole array of a brilliant _cortège_ rose up beyond them from a slope, glittering, indeed, yet pale and almost tarnished amidst the rich evening light, as it emerged through the cool forest chase. It was indeed the royal stag-hunt returning to Marly from the woods. Swiftly they came onward—the troop of chivalrous-looking gardes-du-corps, in sky-blue and gold, scarlet velvet breeches and white-plumed black hats, with ringing scabbards and glossy foam-necked horses,—the carriages and riders, the sledge with the slain stag, and the chasseurs and stag-hounds. But the procession appeared to go across in visionary swiftness between the reversed gates: there was but one glimpse of that single face, with its unfixed and solitary glance, its inscrutable air of calm, ere it had gone past, to a doubtful murmur of _Vive le Roi_,