Gondimar unfortunately called at the moment when Calantha was most impatient and irritable. “You expected another,” he said sarcastically; “but I care not. I came not here in the hope of pleasing Lady Avondale. I came to inform her.”—“I cannot attend now.” “Read this letter,” said Gondimar. Calantha looked carelessly upon it—it was from himself:—it contained an avowal of attachment and of interest for her; in proof of which he asked permission to offer her a gift, which he said he was commissioned to bring her from Italy. Lady Avondale returned the letter coldly, and with little affectation of dignity, declined the intended present. It is so easy to behave well, when it is our pleasure to do so, as well as our duty. Gondimar, however, gave her but little credit for her conduct. “You like me not?” he said. “Do you doubt my virtue?” she replied eagerly. “Aye, Lady—or, at all events, your power of preserving it.” Whilst Gondimar yet spoke, Buchanan galopped by the window, and stopped at the door of the house. His hands were decorated with rings, and a gold chain and half-concealed picture hung around his neck:—his height, his mustachios, the hussar trappings of his horse, the high colour in his cheek, and his dark flowing locks, gave an air of savage wildness to his countenance and figure, which much delighted Calantha. He entered with familiar ease; talked much of himself, and more of some of his military friends; stared at Gondimar, and then shook hands with him. After which, he began a vehement explanation of his conduct respecting Alice; assuring Calantha upon his honour—upon his soul, that he had no hand in her elopement. He then talked of Ireland; described the dreadful, the exaggerated accounts of what had occurred there; and ended by assuring Gondimar that the young Glenarvon was not dead, but was at this time at Belfont, concealed there with no other view than that of heading the rebels. The accounts which the Duke of Altamonte had received in part corroborated Buchanan’s statement. Calantha listened, however, with more interest to the accounts Buchanan now gave; and as he said he was but just returned from Dublin, even Gondimar thought the news which he brought worthy of some attention. “Send that damned Italian away,” said Buchanan in a loud whisper—“I have a million of things to tell you. If you keep him here, I shall go:—my remaining will be of no use.” Unaccustomed to curb herself in the least wish, Calantha now whispered to Gondimar, that she wished him to leave her, as she had something very particular to say to her cousin; but he only smiled contemptuously upon him, and sternly asking her, since when this amazing intimacy had arisen—placed himself near the pianoforte, striking its chords with accompaniments till the annoyance was past bearing.