In this state were matters, when, on a fine evening, Ethelston strolled alone into his favourite orange–grove, to look out upon the ocean, and, in the enjoyment of its refreshing breeze, to ruminate on his strange captivity, and revolve various plans of escape. Captain L’Estrange had paid a visit to his home on the preceding day, and finding his prisoner so completely restored to health and strength, had said to him, jokingly, “Indeed, fair sir, I think I must put you on your parole, or in chains; for, after the character given of you by my son, I cannot allow so dangerous a person to be at large during the continuance of hostilities between our respective nations.” Ethelston answered, half in earnest, and half in jest, “Nay, sir, then I must wear the chains, for assuredly I cannot give my parole; if an American vessel were to come in sight, or any other means of flight to offer itself, depend upon it, in spite of the kindness and hospitality I have met with here, I should weigh anchor in a moment.” “Well, that is a fair warning,” said the old Commodore; “nevertheless I will not lock you up just yet, for I do not think it very likely that any strange sail will come under the guns of our fort; and I will run the risk of your flying away on the back of a sea–gull.” Thus had they parted; and the old gentleman was again absent on a cruise. Ethelston was, as we have said, reclining listlessly under an orange–tree, inhaling the cool breeze, laden with the fragrance of its blossoms, now devising impossible plans of escape, and now musing on a vision of Lucy’s graceful figure, gliding among the deep woods around Mooshanne. As these thoughts passed through his mind, they imparted a melancholy shade to his brow, and a deep sigh escaped from his lips. It was echoed by one yet deeper, close to his ear; and starting from his reverie, he beheld Nina, who had approached him unawares, and who, leaning on her guitar, had been for the last few minutes gazing on his countenance with an absorbed intensity, more fond and riveted than that with which the miser regards his treasure, or the widowed mother her only child. When she found herself perceived, she came forward, and covering her emotion under an assumed gaiety, she said, “What is my kind instructor thinking of? He seems more grave and sad than usual.” “He is thinking,” said Ethelston, good–humouredly, “that he ought to scold a certain young lady very severely for coming upon him slily, and witnessing that gravity and sadness in which a captive must sometimes indulge, but which her presence has already dissipated.” “Nay,” said Nina, still holding her guitar, and sitting down on the bank near him; “you know that I am only obeying papa’s orders in watching you; for he says you would not give your parole, and I am sure you were thinking of your escape from Guadaloupe.” “Perhaps you might have guessed more wide of the mark, Mademoiselle Nina,” said Ethelston.