angry scream. Mademoiselle Colonna withdrew
her hand quickly, and flung away the remainder of
the cake with which she had been feeding him.
Lord Castletowers saw the gesture, and sprang
to her side.

"The brute has not bitten you?" he said,
anxiously.

She had already wrapped her handkerchief
round her hand, and was moving slowly towards
the house, as if nothing had happened; but there
was a scarcely perceptible quiver in the smile
with which she replied:

"Very slightly, thank you. Don't be angry
with the poor bird. He meant no harm."

"Meant!" echoed the young man, fiercely.
"I'll teach him to know what he means in future.
Will you permit me to see the extent of the
mischief?"

"Nay, it is nothing—a mere peck."

Lord Castletowers uttered an exclamation of
dismay, as he stooped to take something from
the ground. It was a little fragment of cake,
all crimson dyed.

"It is no 'peck' that has done this!" he
exclaimed. "For pity's sake, Olim—
Mademoiselle, allow me to see your hand!"

"Indeed it is not serious; but, lest you should
fancy it worse than it is—there!"

The blush with which she began faded quite
away as she concluded, and left her somewhat
paler than usual. She averted her eyes. She
could bear the pain bravely enough, but not the
sight.

"What is the matter?" said Major Vaughan,
who had turned away on making his salaam, and
seen nothing of the accident.

"That carrion-bird has bitten Mademoiselle
Colonna!" replied Lord Castletowers, with
unconcealed agitation. "Bitten her severely.
See this!"

The pretty little delicate palm was half laid
open, but the slender fingers did not even
tremble. Major Vaughan examined the wound
with the keen glance of one accustomed to such
matters.

"Humph! an ugly gash!" said he; "but not
so bad as a bayonet thrust, after all. If you will
accompany me in-doors, mademoiselle, I will
dress it for you in first-rate style. You do not
know what a capital surgeon I am. Here,
Castletowers,—something to tie up the young
lady's hand in the mean while!"

Lord Castletowers gave his own handkerchief,
and, turning aside, hastily thrust Mademoiselle
Colonna's into his breast-pocket. Her eyes
were still averted; but a dark shadow came upon
Major Vaughan's face.

"A thousand thanks," said she, smilingly, when
the bandage was adjusted.

"You must not thank me till it is properly
dressed, mademoiselle," replied he, offering her
his arm. "And now, if you please, we will find
our way to the housekeeper's room, and procure
all that is necessary; while you, my dear fellow,
had better go and explain the cause of this
delay to Lady Castletowers. I know she does
not like to wait for breakfast."

"True, it is one of my mother's peculiarities.
I will do the work of propitiation. As for
Sardanapalus . . ."

"Sardanapalus must be pardoned," interposed
Mademoiselle Colonna.

Lord Castletowers shook his head.

"Nay, I entreat."

But she entreated with the air of an empress.

The young man lifted his hat.

"The prisoner at the bar was condemned to
death," said he, courteously; "but since the
queen chooses to exercise her prerogative, the
court commutes his sentence to solitary confinement
for life in the great aviary at the end of the
Italian garden."

At this moment the breakfast-bell sent forth
a second clamorous peal; the imperial convict
uttered another dissonant cry, and sailed across
the terrace in all his panoply of plumage; and
the trio went up to the house.

CHAPTER XIII. THE HOUSE OF CASTLETOWERS.

GERVASE LEOPOLD WYNNCLYFFE, Earl of
Castletowers, was the fifth peer of his house,
and the last of his name. He was not rich; but
he was very good natured. He had no great
expectations; but he was tolerably clever,
tolerably good looking, and only twenty-seven years
of age. His principles were sound; his French
accent was perfect; he had made one successful
speech in the House, and he was unmarried.
With all these qualifications, and his five feet
eleven inches to boot, it is not surprising that
Lord Castletowers, despite his very limited
means, should have found himself, during several
seasons, the object of a fair amount of maternal
manœuvring. That he was not yet given over
to the spoilers was owing to no wisdom of his
own, and to no absence of that susceptibility
which flesh (especially flesh under thirty years
of age) is heir to. On the contrary, he had been
smitten, as the phrase goes, twice or thrice; but
on each of these occasions his destiny, and,
perhaps, his lady mother, had interposed to save
him.

The young Earl adored his mother. She was
still beautiful; slender, pale, stately, and somewhat
above the average height of women. In
complexion and features she resembled the later
portraits of Marie Antoinette; but it was a likeness
of outline and colouring only. The expression
was totally different—so different that it
appeared sometimes to obliterate the resemblance
altogether. The sorrow, the sweetness, the
womanly tenderness of that royal face were
all missing from the serene countenance of
Alethea, Countess of Castletowers. She looked
as if she had never known a strong emotion in
her life; as if love and hate, anguish and terror,
would have glanced off from her like arrows from
a marble statue. Proud as they both were, the
very pride of these two faces had nothing in