“For those who degraded your father to a point lower yet than that from which he had raised himself, cannot deny that you are the daughter of Charlotte, Princess of Tarentum, or that one of your ancestresses was Adela (or Edila), Countess of Flanders, whose name you bear.” Ethel’s mind was running on quite other things. “Father, you misjudge the noble Ordener.” “Noble, my daughter! What do you mean by that? I have made men noble who proved themselves very vile.” “I do not mean, sir, that his nobility is of the kind conferred by man.” “Do you know that he is descended from some ‘jarl’ or ‘hersa’?”[14] “I know as little of his descent as you do, father. He may be,” she added, with downcast eyes, “the son of a vassal or a serf. Alas! crowns and lyres may be painted upon the velvet covering of a footstool. I only mean that, judged by your own standard, my revered sire, he has a noble heart.” Of all the men whom she had seen, Ordener was the one whom Ethel knew at once best and least. He had dawned upon her destiny, like one of those angels who visited the first men, wrapped alike in mystery and in radiant light. Their mere presence revealed their nature, and they were at once adored. Thus Ordener had shown Ethel what men usually conceal, his heart; he had been silent concerning that of which they usually make boast, his country and his family. His look was enough for Ethel, and she had faith in his words. She loved him, she had given him her life, she was intimate with his soul, and she did not know his name. “A noble heart!” repeated the old man; “a noble heart! Such nobility is higher than any in the gift of kings; it is the gift of God. He is less lavish with it than are they.” The prisoner raised his eyes to his shattered escutcheon as he added: “And he never withdraws it.” “Then, father,” said the girl, “he who retains the one should be easily consoled for the loss of the other.” These words startled her father and restored his courage. He replied in a firm voice:-- “You are right, girl. But you do not know that the disgrace held by the world to be unjust is sometimes confirmed by our secret conscience. Such is our poor nature; once unhappy, countless voices which slumbered in the time of our prosperity wake within us and accuse us of faults and errors before unnoted.” “Say not so, illustrious father,” said Ethel, deeply moved; for by the old man’s altered voice, she felt that he had allowed the secret source of one of his greatest sorrows to escape him. She raised her eyes to his face, and kissing his pallid, withered hand, she added gently: “You are severe in your judgment of two noble men, Lord Ordener and yourself, my revered father.” “You decide lightly, Ethel. One would say that you did not know that life is a serious matter.” “Am I wrong then, sir, to do justice to the generous Ordener?” Schumacker frowned, with a dissatisfied air.