“And if I had,” burst she forth, “am I credulous enough to fancy that your word can reconcile every difference of rank and fortune,--that you can control destiny, and even coerce affection? No, no, Eustace; I have outlived all that!” “Then were you wiser when you believed it,” said he, gravely. “Now for his name.” There was a tone of almost commanding influence in which these last few words were uttered, and his dark full eyes were steadily fixed on her as he spoke them. She hesitated to answer, and seemed to reflect. “I ask no forced confession, Lola,” said he, proudly, and rising at the same time from his seat “In all the unreserve of our old affection, I told you _my_ secret; _yours_ is with yourself.” “But can you--” She stopped. “I can, and I will aid you,” said he, finishing her sentence. “There is the name, then!” cried she, as, with a passionate gesture, she drew a sealed letter from her bosom, and showed him the superscription. D'Esmonde almost started; but, recovering himself in an instant, he said,---- “The address is not correct, Lola. It should be thus--” And taking a pen, he drew it across the last line on the cover, and wrote, instead, “Dewanpore Barracks, Calcutta.” “We must talk together this evening,” said he, restoring the letter, and, without more, withdrew. CHAPTER X. D'ESMONDE'S LETTER It will spare the reader a somewhat lengthy digression if we give him a peep at an extract from a letter written at this period by the Abbé D'Esmonde to a friend and fellow priest in Ireland. It was written on the very evening whose events we have just mentioned, and when fresh from the scenes of which he speaks. The name or circumstances of the Abbe's confidant have no interest for us; nor need we allude to him more particularly than by stating that he was one who took a prominent part in his country's politics, and was a well-known agitator, both in print and on the platform. The present moment might not be inopportune to show the injustice of that sneer so often passed upon men of this stamp, and which assumes that their whole lives are spent in the agitation of small and irritating questions of mere local interest,--the petty intrigues of a village or a hamlet,--and without knowledge or interest for those greater themes which stir the heart of all Europe. We must not, however, be led away from our purpose, but, leaving these inferences to our reader's appreciation, keep to the sober business of our task.