The duke was calm; but Lord Avondale felt with bitterness his injury and his loss. The sovereign who has set his seal to the sentence of death passed upon the traitor who had betrayed him, ofttimes in after-life has turned to regret the friend, the companion he has lost. “She was consigned to me when pure and better than those who now upbraid her. I had the guidance of her; and I led her myself into temptation and ruin. Can a few years have thus spoiled and hardened a noble nature! Where are the friends and flatterers, Calantha, who surrounded thee in an happier hour? I was abandoned for them: where are they now? Is there not one to turn and plead for thee—not one! They are gone in quest of new amusement. Some other is the favourite of the day. The fallen are remembered only by their faults.” CHAPTER XCI. Lord Avondale wrote to Glenarvon, desiring an immediate interview. He followed him to England; and it was some months before he could find where he was. He sought him in every place of public resort, amidst the gay troop of companions who were accustomed to surround him, and in the haunts of his most lonely retirement. At length he heard that he was expected to return to Ireland, after a short cruize. Lord Avondale waited the moment of his arrival; watched on the eve of his return, and traced him to the very spot, where, alas! he had so often met his erring partner. It was the last evening in June. Glenarvon stood upon the high cliff; and Lord Avondale approached and passed him twice. “Glenarvon,” at length he cried, “do you know me, or are you resolved to appear ignorant of my intentions?” “I presume that it is Lord Avondale whom I have the honour of addressing.” “You see a wretch before you, who has neither title, nor country, nor fame, nor parentage. You know my wrongs. My heart is bleeding. Defend yourself; for one of us must die.” “Avondale,” said Lord Glenarvon, “I will never defend myself against you. You are the only man who dares with impunity address me in this tone and language. I accept not this challenge. Remember that I stand before you defenceless. My arm shall never be raised against yours.” “Take this, and defend yourself,” cried Lord Avondale in violent agitation. “I know you a traitor to every feeling of manly principle, honour and integrity. I know you; and your mock generosity, and lofty language shall not save you.” “Is it come to this?” said Glenarvon, smiling with bitterness. “Then take thy will. I stand prepared. ’Tis well to risk so much for such a virtuous wife! She is an honourable lady—a most chaste and loving wife. I hope she greeted thee on thy return with much tenderness: I counselled her so to do; and when we have settled this affair, after the most approved fashion, then bear from me my best remembrances and love. Aye, my love, Avondale: ’tis a light charge to carry, and will not burthen thee.”