“Oh! that is what you deplore,” said the prince. “The Count of Ferroll and I shall have to contend for many things more precious than golden helms before we die.” “I believe he is a very overrated man,” said Endymion. “Why?” said the prince. “I detest him,” said Endymion. “That is certainly a reason why _you_ should not overrate him,” said the prince. “There seems a general conspiracy to run him up,” said Endymion with pique. “The Count of Ferroll is the man of the future,” said the prince calmly. “That is what Mr. Neuchatel said to me yesterday. I suppose he caught it from you.” “It is an advantage, a great advantage, for me to observe the Count of Ferroll in this intimate society,” said the prince, speaking slowly, “perhaps even to fathom him. But I am not come to that yet. He is a man neither to love nor to detest. He has himself an intelligence superior to all passion, I might say all feeling; and if, in dealing with such a being, we ourselves have either, we give him an advantage.” “Well, all the same, I hope you will win the golden helm to-morrow,” said Endymion, looking a little perplexed. “The golden casque that I am ordained to win,” said the prince, “is not at Montfort Castle. This, after all, is but Mambrino’s helmet.” A knot of young dandies were discussing the chances of the morrow as Endymion was passing by, and as he knew most of them he joined the group. “I hope to heaven,” said one, “that the Count of Ferroll will beat that foreign chap to-morrow; I hate foreigners.” “So do I,” said a second, and there was a general murmur of assent. “The Count of Ferroll is as much a foreigner as the prince,” said Endymion rather sharply. “Oh! I don’t call him a foreigner at all,” said the first speaker. “He is a great favourite at White’s; no one rides cross country like him, and he is a deuced fine shot in the bargain.” “I will back Prince Florestan against him either in field or cover,” said Endymion. “Well, I don’t know your friend,” said the young gentleman contemptuously, “so I cannot bet.” “I am sure your friend, Lady Montfort, my dear Dymy, will back the Count of Ferroll,” lisped a third young gentleman. This completed the programme of mortification, and Endymion, hot and then cold, and then both at the same time, bereft of repartee, and wishing the earth would open and Montfort Castle disappear in its convulsed bosom, stole silently away as soon as practicable, and wandered as far as possible from the music and the bursts of revelry.