“For the honour of our tribe, cease Aaron” said a female gipsey advancing: “positively I will not hear any more of this flat parody. The friar’s malice I could endure; but this will mar all.”—Whatever the female gipsey might say, Aaron had a certain figure, and countenance which were sufficiently commanding and attractive. He had disengaged himself from his companions; and now approached Calantha, and asked her to allow him to take care of her through the crowd. “This is abominable treachery,” said the female gipsey:—“this conduct is unpardonable: good faith and good fellowship were ever our characteristics.” “You should not exert your power” answered the young man, “against those who seem so little willing to use the same weapons in return. I will answer for it that, though under a thousand masks, the lady you have attacked, would never say an ill natured thing” “Take care of her goodnature then,” said the gipsey archly:—“it may be more fatal.” The gipsey then went off, with the rest of her party; but Aaron remained, and, as if much pleased with the gentleness of Lady Avondale’s behaviour, followed her. “Who are you?” said she. “I will not take the arm of one who is ashamed of his name”—“And yet it is only thus unknown, I can hope to find favour.” “Did I ever see you before?” “I have often had the happiness of seeing you:—but am I then really so altered?” said he turning to her, and looking full in her face, “that you cannot even guess my name?” “Had I ever beheld you before,” answered Lady Avondale, “I could not have forgotten it.” He bowed with a look of conceit, and Lady Avondale coloured at his comprehending the compliment, she had sufficiently intended to make. Smiling at her confusion, he assured her he had a right to her attention—“_Stesso sangue, Stessa sorte_”—said he in a low voice. Calantha could hardly believe it possible:—the words he pronounced were those inscribed on her bracelet. “And are you my cousin?” said she: “is it indeed so? no: I cannot believe it.” Buchanan bowed again. “Yes,” said he; “and a pretty cousin you have proved yourself to me. I had vowed never to forgive you; but you are much too lovely and too dear for me to wish to keep my oath.” A thousand remembrances now crowded on her mind—the days of her infancy—the amusements and occupations of her childhood; and she looked vainly in Buchanan’s face, for the smallest traces of the boy she had known so well. Delighted with her evening’s adventure, and solely occupied with her companion, the masquerade, the heat and all other annoyances were forgotten, till Lady Dartford being fatigued, entreated her to retire.