“How can you say that? Talk of prudence to the man who has no fortune, no family, not even a name,--no!” cried he, fiercely; “for by the first Maitland I met I might be challenged to say from what stock I came. He could have saved me from all this. Nothing was ever easier. You yourself asked,--ay, begged this. You told me you begged it on your knees; and I own, if I never forgave him for refusing, I have never forgiven you for the entreaty.” “And I would do it again to-day!” cried she, passionately. “Let him but acknowledge you, Norman, and he may turn me out upon the world houseless and a beggar, and I will bless him for it!” “What a curse is on the bastard,” broke he ont, in a savage vehemence, “if it robs him of every rightful sentiment, and poisons even a mother's love! Do not talk to me this way, or you will drive me mad!” “Oh, Norman! my dear, dear Norman!” cried she, passionately; “it is not yet too late.” “Too late for what?” “Not too late to gain back his favor. When he saw the letter in the King's hand, calling you Count of Amalfi, he said: 'This looks ill for the monarchy. I have a Scotch earldom myself in my family granted by another king the day after he had lost his own crown.' Try, then, if you cannot rally to the cause those men who are so much under your influence that as you have often told me they only wanted to be assured of your devotion to pledge their own. If _he_ could believe the cause triumphant, there is nothing he would not do to uphold it.” “Yes,” said he, thoughtfully, “there never lived the man who more worshipped success! The indulgences that he heaped upon myself were merely offerings to a career of insolent triumph.” “You never loved him, Norman,” said she, sadly. “Love had no share in the compact between us. He wanted to maintain a cause which, if successful, must exclude from power in England the men who had insulted him, and turned him out of office. I wanted some one who could afford to pay my debts, and leave me free to contract more. But why talk to you about these intrigues?--Once more, will he see me?” She shook her bead slowly in dissent. “Could you not write to him, Norman?” said she at last. “I will not write to a man under the same roof as myself. I have some news for him,” added be, “if he cares to buy it by an audience; for I suppose he would make it an audience;” and the last word he gave with deep scorn. “Let me bring him the tidings.” “No, he shall bear them from myself, or not hear them at all. I want this villa!” cried be, passionately,--“I want the title to sell it, and pay off a debt that is crushing me. Go, then, and say I have something of importance enough to have brought me down some hundred miles to tell him, something that deeply concerns the cause he cares for, and to which his counsel would be invaluable.” “And this is true?” “Did I ever tell you a falsehood, mother?” asked he, in a voice of deep and sorrowful meaning.