This was the woman who had enslaved many men, but for whom independence was too dear a treasure to be bartered lightly. She had been the slave of an old man's caprices, and had endured her slavery with all womanly patience and gentleness; but having won her freedom, she was not inclined to accept any new bondage. Her friends declared that she had refused more than one brilliant proposal within the few years of her widowhood, and she had already acquired the reputation of a widow who would never choose a second husband. This was the woman whose fascinations were acknowledged by all who came within her influence, but amongst whose victims there were very few so utterly helpless, so entirely hopeless, as William Crawford. He had begun by being grateful to her for that early recognition of his genius which had borne witness to her taste. He had allowed himself to be beguiled into a friendship for her, which speedily became the chief delight of his life. He had wondered at her; he had admired her; he had ended by adoring her. Whether she was fully aware of his weakness, or utterly ignorant of it, was one of the great perplexities of his existence. No word of his had ever declared his passion. He was content to be her friend and guest on sufferance. A word, and he might have been expelled from her presence for ever. There were times when he grew desperate, and was inclined to make the declaration which, as he thought, must inevitably banish him from the smiles of his enchantress, and thus make an end of his love and his despair. There were times when he made a solemn vow that he would abstain from her society, as a drunkard vows that he will abstain from the fiery spirit that destroys him, and, like the drunkard, broke his pledge, before it was many days old. The idea that any other result than disgrace and banishment could follow the declaration of his love for Mrs. Champernowne never entered the painter's mind. Her grace, her fashion, her wealth, constituted a kind of royalty, which separated her from William Crawford as completely as if she had been a queen. Sometimes, as he worked alone in his painting-room, he thought of all the men who had been bewitched by the light of royal beauty's glances, and had suffered the penalty of their presumption. He thought of the legendary knight who loved Queen Guinevere, of Rizzio and Chastelard, wild Buckingham and fated Konigsmark, foolish Rohan and devoted Fersen. Fanciful, as the man who lives by the cultivation of his fancy must naturally be, the painter tried in vain to shut the image of his enchantress from his thoughts. The simplicity of his life, the singleness of his ambition, had preserved the freshness of his youth. He was as romantic as a lad fresh from college, and his worship of his divinity was pure and unselfish as the love of sentimental youth.