“Umme! Oh—hh!” groaned the good Rector—“so she is to remain here, poor lamb! day after day a spectator of all the revolting horrors of a criminal court—and,” sinking his voice to a whisper, “where is she to stand?—for the love of Heaven, not there! in the dock among those loathsome wretches?” Lord Dazzleright looked positively shocked and enraged. “_There!_ You astound me, Reverend sir! Those poor outcasts are in the sheriff’s custody; daily he marshals them from their cells to the dock, and nightly from the dock to their cells. ‘He is king of that goodly company.’ Lady Montressor, sir, is _your_ holy charge; you only are responsible for her appearance, and may make her position as exclusive and as comfortable as you desire.” “Oh, thank heaven! Since it is so then—pray let us find a secluded and—I was going to say pleasant seat—as if such a thing could be found in this place.” “Doubtless, a moderately agreeable one can be found though,” said Lord Dazzleright, cheerfully putting aside his anger, and offering his arm to his client, to conduct her through the crowd. But just as Estelle was about to accept the proffered assistance, she perceived a hurried step approach from behind, and a deep voice speak, at the sound of which, the whole tide of life turned back upon its course, opening her heart, and whelming her senses, in a mist of mingled rapture and anguish. “Permit me, my lord,” the voice said, and gently putting aside the counsel, Lord Montressor took the arm of his bride and drew it within his own. Estelle’s whole being was thrilled with emotion, half ecstacy, half agony, as I said. She turned away her swiftly flushing and paling face, bowed her head and prayed. “Ah, my lord! my lord! is this act of yours well conceived?—is it prudent?—is it politic?” inquired the good Rector, in distress. “It is _right_; beyond that I have not considered whether it was politic, or prudent, reverend sir,” replied his lordship. Then turning his face most tenderly down toward the lady on his arm, he said in a low voice— “Estelle, my beloved, will you not look at me?” She put back her vail, lifted her head, turned up to him a look of profound, unutterable, undying love then dropped her eyes. “Speak to me, dearest Stella.” “Ah, my lord! my lord! what can poor Stella say, but echo what the minister said just now—‘Was this _well_ done, Lord Montressor?’”