"Is it thus the land lies," he said to himself, "and shall I spoil sport by a loveless wooing--I, whose heart, or whatever remnant of heart is left, belongs to another? Better let youth and true love have their own way--unless Herrick is fortune-hunting. But I know him too well to suspect him of any sordid motive. He is a better man than I, though we have lived the same bad lives together." He gave a little cough, and walked towards that central space where the lovers sat in front of the harpsichord. They started, and moved farther apart at the sound of his footsteps, and Lady Tredgold opened her eyes and blinked at the company like an owl, exclaiming, "Can I really have been asleep? That ballad of Rameau's is the sweetest thing I have heard for an age, Irene. Lord Lavendale, you must positively hear it: I know you love old French music." "All melody from such lips is entrancing, and such lips can speak only music," said his lordship, bowing to Irene, who had risen, rosy red in her confusion, and who acknowledged his compliment with a low curtsy. END OF VOL. I. End of Project Gutenberg's Mohawks, Volume 1 of 3, by Mary Elizabeth Braddon