"Poor Alice!" thought Lisle, at the same moment; "how have her fond and misplaced affections been trifled with! Scarcely has this heartless Highlander (full of his mountain pride and bombast) parted with her, before she is forgotten as utterly as if she did not exist." However, they kept these thoughts to themselves, and continued to nurse their minds into a state of hot indignation against each other, indignation mingled with feelings of disappointment and sorrow, especially on the part of Louis Lisle. He had produced from his havresack the remains of his last day’s rations,—a few hard biscuits and some cold meat, on which Ronald, although he had fasted so long, merely made a show of regaling himself: he felt little inclination to eat, but often applied himself to the wine-skin. After a long and confusing sort of pause, during which both had severely taxed their imaginations for somewhat to converse about, "I have heard," observed Ronald, "that your father is again suing for the long dormant peerage,—the title of Lord Lysle." "Yes, it is the case. How heard you of it?" "By a letter from Lochisla. I drink to Sir Allan’s health! I have not seen him since the day I pulled him out of the deep linn at Corrieavon. I wish him every chance of success!" "There is little doubt but we shall carry our point during this session of Parliament: my father’s descent in a direct line from the last lord is now clear beyond a doubt or quibble. He is certain to gain the day." "I am sure I shall be most happy—" "The Earl of Hyndford," continued Louis, in the same cold manner, "is my father’s most particular friend, and has some interest with the law lords. He is on the ministerial side, and—— But what is the matter?" "Nothing, nothing. Is there any more wine in the skin? I feel very faint after my late fatigue, surely," muttered Stuart, making a tremendous mental effort to appear calm. But the name of Hyndford had caused his heart to leap as it were to his very lips, which quivered as a nervous spasm twitched them, while his forehead grew livid and pale. "Ronald, what on earth is the matter?" asked Louis kindly, perceiving the changes of his countenance. "Are you turning faint, or ill?" "Ill,—sick at heart," replied Stuart, scarcely knowing what he said, while he eagerly longed to ask a question—a single question, which he dreaded to hear answered; but the fierce native pride of his race came to his aid, and the inclination was repressed. "For what shall I condescend to mention her name?" thought he. "To ask in a trembling tone after one who has forsaken me thus, becomes me not. Faithless Alice! neither farewell word, token, or letter has she sent me; but—but I will be calm!" and he placed his hand upon the little miniature, which at that moment he imagined was pressing like a load upon his heart.