"Spare your thanks to me, Eugenie," cried her companion, "till we have reached the end of our journey. I will then try to hear them with patience. But now, I dare say, you will think it strange that I have not taken you to my own house, instead of bringing you here. But I have three sufficient reasons for not doing so. First, because on many accounts they might suspect you of flying to me; secondly, because we are here much nearer to the gate, and, thirdly, for a reason, Eugenie, that you would scarcely suspect, which is, that I did not choose any of the gossiping fraternity should say they had seen two gay-looking youths enter the house of Beatrice of Ferrara at night, and remain there till morning shone. So you see, Eugenie, that I, even I, am not without fears of scandal; I who have not scrupled, when my purpose served, to go disguised as I am now, and live disguised in the house of a strange man. Ay, Eugenie I do not look so horrified, for I was as safe there as in my own chamber. I was surrounded by own attendants, whom I had contrived by one means or another to force into his service. He was too simple and unsuspicious to suspect me, and even had he discovered me, was too noble-minded to have misused his advantage." "You do not mean," exclaimed Eugenie, "you do not mean surely the----" "Not the Count d'Aubin!" exclaimed Beatrice, with a blush that spread like lightning over her cheek, and forehead, and temples; "not the Count d'Aubin! I would not have trusted myself within his gates in this guise for millions of kingdoms. No, not to have obtained a century of the brightest happiness that ever yet shone upon the path of mortal!" "I did not mean him," replied Eugenie, smiling; "I meant the Marquis of St. Real."