Sir Herbert Glendower had known—as his fellow soldier said—the heiress of Torbay castle in childhood; for his own father dying, the Earl of Torbay had filled the place of guardian to the young orphan. At the age of fourteen, Glendower had joined the army, but even at that early period he had imbibed a passion for the young Isabel of which he was not himself fully conscious, until years of watching, strife and absence had convinced him that she was, after all, nearer to his heart than aught beside. During a separation of ten years from Isabel, his bosom companion had been her reckless cousin, and perhaps the conversation of the two young soldiers had often turned on the young heiress and thus insensibly deepened the passion felt for her by Glendower. Certain it is, that when the young knight met her on his return to England, and saw that she had grown up more beautiful than he had imagined her even in his dreams, he felt his passion for her increased to such an extremity that her love became thenceforth necessary to his very being. Yet, like too many who love devotedly, the very depth of his passion prevented his success, by filling him with uncalled for doubts and fears. Usually frank and daring, he became reserved and timorous. The slightest appearance of coldness, although unintentional, was sufficient to overthrow all his hope. At such times he would throw himself on his pride, and affect a reserve to Isabel, the consequence of which would be a coldness on her part. Such had been the case on the morning in question. For a few minutes he mused silently, and then said to himself: “He may be right after all; and if so, am I not a fool? I will watch Isabel narrowly to-day, and if I see the least glimmering of hope, I will know all. If not, or if she refuses me”—he paused and added sadly, “why then a foreign service and a foreign grave will be mine.”