This was all. On the same day they travelled to Pendarvoch, and on that night Eustace slept in the picturesque castle that sheltered Helen and her father. All was harmony and affection. The invalid gained strength rapidly, and spent his evenings in a long, panelled saloon, with his father and his two friends. He told them now, for the first time, the story of that walk which had so nearly cost him his life: how, finding the tide gaining upon him as he neared the inlet of the cliffs, he had sought there some means of reaching the heights above, and, finding none, had essayed to clamber to the Saint’s Cave. This feat he had achieved, thanks to his experience as a gymnast; but in the last desperate scramble into the mouth of the cave he had broken his arm, and from the pain of this injury he had fainted. Of the two nights and days which he had spent in that narrow retreat, he remembered nothing distinctly. He had only a vague sense of having suffered cold and hunger, and of being tormented, almost to madness, by the perpetual roar of the waves, which had seemed to thunder at the very mouth of the cavern, and to be for ever threatening his destruction. For a month Eustace stayed at Pendarvoch, and during this time the great poem appeared, and won from the press such speedy recognition and kindly appreciation as would scarcely have been accorded to the work of an unknown poet, if Daniel Mayfield and Mr. Jerningham had not both exerted their utmost influence in its behalf. Daniel did, indeed, with his own hand, write more than one of the notices which elevated his nephew to a high rank among the younger poets. There remained now only the grand question of the new-found son’s legitimation; but here Mr. Jerningham found himself obstinately opposed. “I will accept your affection with all filial gratitude,” said Eustace; “but I will take no pecuniary benefit from your hands, neither will I accept a name which you refused to my mother.” “That is to make your wrongs irreparable.” “All such wrongs are irreparable.” Long, and often repeated, were the arguments held between the father and son upon this subject. But Eustace was not to be moved by argument. From this new-found father, he would receive nothing. For the rest, his literary career had opened brightly, and the fruits of his poem enabled him to enter himself at the Temple as a student of law. One day in June, Eustace came to Greenlands to renew his suit with M. de Bergerac, by Mr. Jerningham’s advice, and this time found his suit prosper. “Jerningham advises me to consult only my daughter’s heart,” said the exile, “and that is yours.”