"A poor foreigner! some d----d impostor! and the sooner you send him back to his accursed country the better. I know something of Italians; by the Lord, I was near attempted to be stilettoed by such another villain for nothing. I know I pitched that miscreant into the Arno: he found to his cost the difference of an English soldier and one of his cowardly race. And if you took my advice, Wentworth, you would give this chap a ducking too, and let him begone. I'll stake anything he is after mischief; I don't like his looks, by G--!" "Nonsense, Captain, he is alone and a stranger here; he is too gentle looking, I am sure, for anything so bad. Look at him, how frightened he looks at your glance," said Lady Arranmore. "I'd make him look a bit more so, had I my will; but never mind, let him play. Gad's name, what a come down from the old Romans--the haughty conquerors to a rascally musician!" The look of the two was striking--the bold, martial mien of the Captain, who stood twirling a cane, and staring as if he could annihilate the poor foreigner by his very glance; the half suppliant, half fearful gaze of the other, who stood with folded arms, his lyre on the ground, and his dark eye suffused with tears. "Let him play! let him play! take him home to the Towers; make him your page. I warrant he will be a sharp one, a trusty messenger to lady's bower, and will not flinch at stabbing with bloodthirsty dagger." "You wrong him, I am sure," said the Earl; "he is descended from a good family he told me; his parents have fallen victims to the wretched government of his country, and he seeks the pittance his own land denies him, on a foreign strand. What part of Italy come you from, my boy?" "From Napoli, Milord Inglese." "Know the Villa Reale?" "Si, signore, on the summit of the olive grove--it looks to Vesuvius." "Right; there is truth on his face--he tells me facts I am sure." "Do you believe him?" said the Captain, walking away. "Now we are all prepared," said the Earl; "do you know the new dance--the waltz?" "Si, signore." Seating himself on the mossy stone, he commenced tuning his instrument, and first played a wild Italian air, in which fire and melancholy were strangely mingled. The applause of the company seemed to reinspirit him, and, dashing away a tear from his eye, he struck up the waltz measure. The Earl, taking Ellen's hand, stepped forth and led the dance; then, each selecting his partner, the rest followed--all save two, the Captain and L'Estrange, who stood beneath the darkening shadow of the fir-trees, and looked on; the former with a scornful smile, as if he despised all who joined in the dance; the latter with a sad expression of countenance, as if he would too willingly have mingled in the happy throng, could he have danced with the lady of his love. "I'll bet my best hunter against your riding whip," said the Captain, "that the deed is done." "What deed is done?"