“At a time when my cravings after knowledge were likely much to mislead, and perhaps undo me, I chanced on some poems that suddenly affected my whole mind, and led me up into purer air; and I was told that these poems were written in youth, by one who had beauty and genius—one who was in her grave—a relation of my own, and her familiar name was Nora—” “Ah!” again ejaculated Lord L’Estrange, and his arm pressed heavily upon Leonard’s. “So, somehow or other,” continued the young author, falteringly, “I wished that if ever I won to a poet’s fame, it might be to my own heart, at least, associated with this name of Nora—with her whom death had robbed of the fame that she might otherwise have won—with her who—” He paused, greatly agitated. Harley was no less so. But as if by a sudden impulse, the soldier bent down his manly head and kissed the poet’s brow; then he hastened to the gate, flung himself on his horse, and rode away. Chapter XVII. Lord L’Estrange did not proceed at once to Riccabocca’s house. He was under the influence of a remembrance too deep and too strong to yield easily to the lukewarm claim of friendship. He rode fast and far; and impossible it would be to define the feelings that passed through a mind so acutely sensitive, and so rootedly tenacious of all affections. When he once more, recalling his duty to the Italian, retraced his road to Norwood, the slow pace of his horse was significant of his own exhausted spirits; a deep dejection had succeeded to feverish excitement. “Vain task,” he murmured, “to wean myself from the dead! Yet I am now betrothed to another; and she, with all her virtues is not the one to—” He stopped short in generous self-rebuke. “Too late to think of that! Now, all that should remain to me is to insure the happiness of the life to which I have pledged my own. But—” He sighed as he so murmured. On reaching the vicinity of Riccabocca’s house, he put up his horse at a little inn, and proceeded on foot across the heath-land toward the dull square building, which Leonard’s description had sufficed to indicate as the exile’s new home. It was long before any one answered his summons at the gate. Not till he had thrice rung did he hear a heavy step on the gravel walk within; then the wicket within the gate was partially drawn aside, a dark eye gleamed out, and a voice in imperfect English asked who was there. “Lord L’Estrange; and if I am right as to the person I seek, that name will at once admit me.” The door flew open as did that of the mystic cavern at the sound of “Open Sesame;” and Giacomo, almost weeping with joyous emotion, exclaimed in Italian, “The good Lord! Holy San Giacomo! thou hast heard me at last! We are safe now.” And dropping the blunderbuss with which he had taken the precaution to arm himself, he lifted Harley’s hand to his lips, in the affectionate greeting familiar to his countrymen. “And the Padrone?” asked Harley, as he entered the jealous precincts.