army of liberation? Was it true that Lord
Castletowers would command the English
contingent? Was it true that Saxon had himself
accepted a commission? And so on, till Saxon
stopped his ears, and refused to hear another
question.

"I am not in Signor Colonna's confidence,"
said he, "and I know nothing of his projects.
But I do know that I have accepted no such
commission, and I believe I may say the same
for Castletowers."

"And Vaughan?" said Sir Charles
Burgoyne.

"Vaughan is going. He starts for Genoa
to-night."

"I felt sure that was true," observed Greatorex,
with a significant laugh. "Perhaps the
fair Olimpia has promised to take pity on him."

Saxon turned upon him as if he had been
stung.

"What do you mean?" he said, hotly.
"What should Miss Colonna have to do with
the matter?"

"Perhaps a great deal," replied the banker.
"The gentleman gives his arm to the cause, and
the lady rewards him with her hand. 'Tis a fair
exchange."

"And Vaughan has worshipped for years at
the Olimpian shrine," added Sir Charles.

"Besides," said another, "what else does he
go for? We all know that he doesn't care a
straw for Italy. It may be a forlorn hope, you
know."

"More likely than not, I should say," replied
Burgoyne. "Olimpia Colonna is a clever
woman, and knows her own market value.
She'll fly at higher game than a major of
dragoons."

Saxon's face was burning all this time with
anger and mortification. At last he could keep
silence no longer.

"All this may be true," he said. "I don't
believe it's true; but at all events it is not in
my power to contradict it. However, of one
thing I am certain—that a crowded club-room
is not the place in which a lady's name should be
passed from mouth to mouth in this fashion."

"Your proposition is quite unexceptionable
in a general way, my dear fellow," replied
Burgoyne; "but in the present instance it does not
apply. When a lady's name has figured for
years in despatches, petitions, committee-lists,
and reports of all kinds, civil and military, it
can surely bear the atmosphere of a crowded
club-room."

"I don't think that has anything to do with
it," said Saxon, sturdily. "Despatches and
petitions are public matters, and open to general
discussion."

"But the probable marriage of a charming
woman is a private matter, and therefore open
to particular discussion," laughed the
Guardsman. "For my part, I can only say that I
mean to hang myself on Miss Colonna's
wedding-day."

Then the conversation turned again to
Garibaldi and Victor Emmanuel; and presently
Saxon made his escape, and was on his way to
the station.

He felt very moody and uncomfortable, as he
leaned back in his Hansom and sped along the
Strand. He had heard much that was infinitely
disagreeable to him during the brief hour spent
at his club; much that he could not refute, but
which he had been obliged to endure with
comparative patience. That Olimpia's name should
be thus familiar to every idle lip seemed like a
profanation; but that it should be coupled up
with that of Vaughan and Castletowers, and
perhaps—who could tell?—with the names of
a hundred other men whose political sympathies
necessarily brought them into communication
with her, was sacrilege pur et simple.

What man on earth was worthy of her, to
begin with? Certainly not Major Vaughan,
with his surface morality, his half-concealed
cynicism, and his iron-grey beard. Not even
Castletowers, brave and honourable gentleman
as he was. No—the only fit and appropriate
husband for Olimpia Colonna would be some
modern Du Guesclin or Bayard; some man of
the old heroic type, whose soul would burn
with a fire kindred to her own, who should do
great deeds in the cause she loved, and lay his
splendid laurels at her feet. But then lived
there such a hero, young, handsome, daring,
ardent, successful in love and mighty in battle,
a man of men, sans peur et sans reproche?

Perhaps Saxon was secretly comforted by the
conviction that only a preux chevalier would
be worthy of Miss Colonna, and that the preux
chevalier was certainly not forthcoming.

In the midst of these reflections, however, he
found himself once more at the station, with
the express on the point of starting, and not a
second to lose. To fling down his shillings, dash
along the platform, and spring into a first-class
carriage, just as the guard was running along the
line and the driver beginning his preliminary
whistle, was the work of a moment. As the door
closed behind him, and he dropped into the nearest
corner, a friendly voice called him by name, and he
found himself face to face with Miss Hatherton.

CHAPTER XLIX.  ON THE PLATFORM.

"WELL met by—well, not exactly by moonlight,
Mr. Trefalden," said she, with that hearty,
almost gentlemanly way of proffering her hand
that always put Saxon so delightfully at his
ease in her society. "Have you been shooting
any more weathercocks, or winning any more
races, since I saw you last?"

"No," replied Saxon, laughingly; "I have
been more usefully employed."

"I rejoice to near it. May I ask in what
manner?"

"Oh, Miss Hatherton, if you want particulars,
I'm lost! I'm only pleasantly conscious
that I have been behaving well, and improving
myself. I fear it's rather a vague statement to
put forward, though."

"Terribly vague. At all events, you have
not yet donned the red shirt?"

"The red shirt!" echoed Saxon, with an