“By the beard of Jove!” swore St. Anthony, as he almost started from his seat, and arranged with his thumb and forefinger the delicate Albanian tuft of his upper lip, “by the beard of Jove, Miss Fane, I am obliged to you.” “Well, then,” continued Violet, “Albert being a tyrant, Lady Madeleine must be an unhappy, ill-used, persecuted woman, living on black bread and green water, in an unknown dungeon. My part shall be to discover her imprisonment. Sounds of strange music attract my attention to a part of the castle which I have not before frequented. There I shall distinctly hear a female voice chaunting the ‘Bridesmaids’ Chorus,’ with Erard’s double pedal accompaniment. By the aid of the confessors of the two families, two drinking, rattling, impertinent, most corrupt, and most amusing friars, to wit, our sainted friends--” Here both Mr. St. Leger and Mr. St. John bowed low to Miss Fane. “A most lively personage is Miss Fane,” whispered St. Anthony to his neighbour, Miss Fitzloom, “great style!” “Most amusing, delightful girl, great style! rather a display today, I think.” “Oh, decidedly! and devilish personal too; some people wouldn’t like it. I have no doubt she will say something about you next.” “Oh, I shall be very surprised, indeed, if she does! It may be very well to you, but Miss Fane must be aware--” Before this pompous sentence could be finished an incident occurred which prevented Miss Fane from proceeding with her allotment of characters, and rendered unnecessary the threatened indignation of Miss Fitzloom. Miss Fane, as we mentioned, suddenly ceased speaking; the eyes of all were turned in the direction in which she was gazing as if she had seen a ghost. “What are you looking up at, Violet?” asked St. George. “Did not you see anything? did not any of you see anything?” “None, none!” “Mr. Grey, surely you must have seen it!” “I saw nothing.” “It could not be fancy; impossible. I saw it distinctly. I cannot be in a dream. See there! again, on that topmost branch. It moves!” Some odd shrill sounds, uttered in the voice of a Pulcinello, attracted the notice of them all; and lo! high in the air, behind a lofty chestnut tree, the figure of a Pulcinello did appear, hopping and vaulting in the unsubstantial air. Now it sent forth another shrill, piercing sound, and now, with both its hands, it patted and complacently stroked its ample paunch; dancing all the time with unremitting activity, and wagging its queer head at the astounded guests. “Who, what can it be?” cried all. The Misses Fitzloom shrieked, and the Santi seemed quite puzzled. “Who, what can it be?”