“Not so, Mary Destraix,” was the answer of him she addressed—the bitterness of his feelings rising paramount to the usual joyousness of his tones when he spoke to her—“Are you not the daughter of a peer of France, called to fulfil a bright and envied destiny? Would you so forget your illustrious ancestry, as to forego their claims upon you as their descendant, to follow the fortunes of one, who was even cast from the ocean as unworthy to tenant its caves?”—and the boy laughed in his agony. “Look there!” he continued, addressing the stranger {497} who had followed his niece—“Look at yon cradle of storms!” and he enforced his words, by pointing out towards the quiet waters, which lay steeped in the phosphorescent tintings of a summer's eve. “Where were the vassals of your house that they stepped not in to the rescue of their master? Will the great deep give up its prey for gold? Though the blood of Charlemagne runs in your veins, that act—that crowning act, of offering lucre in exchange for life—would sink you to a level with the veriest serf!”—and drawing up his form, now moulded into the fair proportions of nineteen summers, he gave back the haughty glance of the Frenchman with one equally fierce, and turned to the weeping maiden. The result of their conference was such as lovers' conferences usually are. The mind of Mary was open to the fact, that her feelings towards her preserver were merged in a fonder tie than a sister's, and a promise of constancy, immutable to time and circumstance—an interchange of tokens—a kiss, the first that ever consecrated their mutual affections, and _Harry Harwood_ sought his couch that night—so late boiling with the fiercest passions—now calm and full of hope— Congenial hope! thy passion-kindling flower, How bright—how strong in youth's confiding hour! The going down of the succeeding sun found Harry weeping upon the beach alone. CHAP. II.—CONSTANCY. “Mulier cupido, quod dicit amanti In vento, et rapida scribere oportet aqua.”—_Catullus_. There were banquetting, and revelry within the princely halls of Versailles, and the dulcet sounds of woman's voice accorded well with the rich breathings of lute and harp. The effulgence of a thousand lights streamed upon the beauties of the court of Louis, as they stood ranged in their dream-like loveliness at the footstool of the queenly Austrian. The rich swell of vocal melody—the tread of the dancers, as they moved in the stately _Pavon_, or lascivious waltz—the laugh of the witty, as jest and repartee rang through the lofty dome—_all_ typifyed an epoch of pleasure, and absence from cares such as _then_ existed in the _converzaziones_ of Maria Antoinette, but which too soon gave way before the ruthless onset of revolutionary reformation, covenanted in the destruction of these very halls, and sealed in the blood of royalty.