“My dear sir, you shell hef a prifate interfiew wid de bridegroom before de ceremony--wid de Queen also, if she will consent to receife you. But I am forgettink. De Count’s broder, de Marquis off Caerleon, iss comink on board at Brindisi wid his femily, to assist et de weddink. If you are not setisfied when you hef seen dem, you shell leafe de ship at once. Now are you confinced off my _bona fides_?” “Quite,” said the clergyman politely. He did not mention that during his theological course at Latimer Hall, he had met Lord Usk two or three times on Sunday evenings at the Principal’s, but the recollection afforded him a distinct gratification. If his host had provided another trap for him, he had at any rate the means of turning the tables. But it was undoubtedly the genuine Usk who came on board at Brindisi with his parents and sister, and showed himself as delighted to meet a fellow-Man (in the Cambridge sense) as Mr Judson was to see him. Thus reassured, the curate was quite satisfied to fall in with the arrangement so unceremoniously made for him. The Chevalier treated his guests with princely hospitality, and the voyage was pleasant and uneventful. The only cloud on the horizon appeared at Larnaka, where the Chevalier found waiting for him at his agent’s some news that perturbed him considerably. He discussed it at length with his secretary and two or three of the chief Jews of the place, then sent off several long telegrams to Damascus, and returned to his guests with his usual cheerfulness restored. “I hef put it all in your broder’s hends, my lord,” he said gleefully to Lord Caerleon, who expressed a hope that he had not received bad news. “I hef thrown it upon his shoulders, and I feel safe. He will not fail me.” The Chevalier’s telegrams were opened by Paschics, who rode into Damascus daily in order to keep the office-work from falling into arrears, and now returned immediately to Brutli with a peremptory demand for Count Mortimer’s presence in the city, since a fresh crisis had arisen with which he alone could deal. Cyril’s disinclination for work was as marked as it had been when his illness began, but he allowed himself to be dragged from his pleasant lotos-eating existence by the ruthless Paschics, and swept with his whole train down to Damascus. The imperious summons was all the more distasteful, since Ernestine was intending to leave Brutli for the city the next day. The house, which had been placed at her disposal by a wealthy German merchant who had married a former deaconess, would not be ready to receive her until the time originally fixed, so that she would be deprived of Cyril’s escort on the journey. Paschics saw, or thought he saw, that he had incurred his leader’s deep displeasure by his persistence in demanding his return, and as soon as the cavalcade was out of sight of the Institution, he pressed forward to Cyril’s side. “Indeed, Excellency, it is absolutely necessary. There is----”