Dashleigh arose and paced slowly the length of the room, but returned with a more rapid step. The name of Aumerle had suddenly suggested to him a course by which he could fling from himself the opprobrium which attaches to the name of a coward. He grasped at the new idea with the energy of a drowning wretch. The world should have no cause to laugh at the man whose nerves had failed him on the heights of a mountain; he would do that which should from henceforth effectually silence such reproach. Taking up writing materials, Dashleigh with rapid hand traced the following note to Augustine:— “DEAR AUMERLE,—You mentioned to me that a balloon is to ascend from your grounds on the 12th. I should feel greatly obliged by your reserving a place for me in the car, as it is my particular wish to make one in the excursion.—Ever yours, “DASHLEIGH.” The brief note written and despatched to Aspendale, the nobleman breathed more freely. He could meet the eye of his fellow-men. Pride rendered the effort needful; pride roused his spirit to make it, and Dashleigh would not now pause to consider how great that effort might be to one of his nervous frame. He felt that his honour was at stake. The earl was somewhat in the position of the knight of old, whose lady flung her glove into the arena where a fierce lion and tiger were contending, and before a circle of noble spectators, bade him bring it back to her hand. The knight dreaded the laugh of the audience more than the yells of the furious beasts, and Dashleigh shrank from the sneer of the world more than the untried perils of the air. Annabella had put her husband on his mettle; she had incited him to wrestle down nature; but it remained to be seen whether she had cause to triumph in the effect produced by her satirical pen. CHAPTER XVI. PLEADING. “Then be the question asked, the answer given, As in the presence of the God of heaven; All prejudice subdued, all pride laid low,— ‘Whence have I come, and whither will I go?’ _Whence have I come?_ what wandering steps have led To this the painful desert that I tread? From what neglected duties have I fled Am I the sufferer from others’ sin, Or bear my most insidious foe within? _And whither would I go?_ where have I sought Refuge from secret gloom and bitter thought? Deep in the barren wilderness of pride? Some crosses are from heaven sent, And some we fashion of our own; By envy, pride, and discontent What thorns across our path are strown! Not these the thorns that form the crown, Not this the cross that lifts on high,— Our sharpest trials we lay down When sin and self we crucify!”