Edward Langdale was impatient. Strength was returning fast: when he coughed, his handkerchief came from his lips unstained with blood; his wound was nearly healed, and he longed to pursue his career of active exertion. But he did not know that the Duke of Savoy had been out to kill deer in the mountains, and that Lord Montagu was forced to wait his return. In the mean time, however, he rose earlier each day. He went out; he roamed round the abbey; he visited the city; and the only thing which retarded his complete recovery was his impatience. He was eager to get on,--too eager. He had always been too eager; but there was a great difference between his eagerness now and that of former years. Hitherto he had been moved only by the vague, aspiring hope of youth,--so often disappointed till the frost of age and the chill of adversity have withered the plant and blighted the flower and destroyed the fruit under the bud,--the hope of doing something great in life. Now he had a more definite object, a clearer purpose. It was Lucette. CHAPTER XXX. The expression of Lord Montagu's face when he at length rejoined his page at Aix was calm and well satisfied, cheerful, but not particularly gay. Yet Edward, who had enjoyed many opportunities of witnessing the effect of various emotions upon him, clearly perceived that he returned with full success. Had his mood been merrier, the page might have doubted; had he been full of the playful wit or the light jest which distinguished the cavaliers of those days, the youth might have supposed there was disappointment under the levity; but that quiet and composed demeanor he knew meant success. Their first meeting was at the inn where Montagu had lodged while previously at Aix; for the youth had gone down each evening for the last two or three days to watch for his arrival: but on the night in question his lord had ridden into the town some half-hour before the time he was expected; and when Edward entered his chamber he was sitting with a book in one hand and a spoon in the other, lightly running over the pages, and from time to time taking a spoonful of soup flavored with those delicious truffles of Savoy which have often kept kingly couriers running between Paris and Turin. "Ah, Ned!" he exclaimed, as soon as he saw the lad. "You have recovered wonderfully soon: a little pale still; but that is natural. How say you? can you ride forward three days hence?" "Whenever your lordship pleases," answered Edward. "I am only eager to get on; and this inactivity does me more harm than all the exercise in the world. I am quite well, my lord, and only a little weak." "Do not be impatient," answered Montagu, with a smile. "We cannot go on just yet. Oakingham is ill now, poor fellow! I have ridden too fast for him; and he broke down during the last stage, and has gone to bed. So I am without any one to write my letters for me to-night." "Can your lordship trust the task to me?" asked the young man.