Johnny went off and engaged Miss Lennox for the next dance.

"Promise not to tell Louisa," said he, "but my sister Ellen is to be a countess!"

"Nonsense, Johnny, how will she be one?"

"There is no nonsense about it; Lord Wentworth has proposed, and my sister has accepted him--that's how she will be a countess!"

"How do you know though?"

"Lady Florence told me!"

"Then it must be true."

"You won't tell though?"

"Oh dear no, trust me!"

After her dance Louisa, so called after one of the ladies Lennox, made her father her confidant, under the same promise of secrecy.

"I always imagined there was something between them," said her father; "I must tell the Duke our cousin."

"Oh! papa, you promised."

"Nonsense, love--it is safe with the Duke, as it is with me!"

In this way the news was quickly spread, and by-and-by every one knew it under promise of secrecy.

"Well, John, are you come to claim me for this dance?" said Lady Florence to her brother.

"To the devil with dancing, but, Florence, don't be angry, love," he said, in a milder tone, fearing he should frighten her into silence, "but, Florence, have you heard the news?"

"What news, John, about Wentworth's proposal?"

"Yes," said the Captain, smiling at her indiscretion.

"How did you know it--has Edith or Johnny told you?"

"No one but your simple self, Floss,--you are a capital secret keeper; I shall get you appointed to be secretary to the King."

"Oh, dear! what have I done? you won't tell--you will get me into such a sc.r.a.pe!"

"No fears, Florence," said the Captain, walking off.

"Then you won't dance, John?"

"Not I; d--n dancing."

When he rejoined L'Estrange, he said, "Just as I thought. Florence let the cat out of the bag famously; he has proposed, and been accepted too; confound it--this has come unexpectedly soon!"

"Oh! my G.o.d! this is agony," said the rejected lover, wringing his hands together.

"Cheer up, old fellow, many a slip between cup and lip. She thinks she is jolly safe--we shall see!"

"What, in Heaven's name, do you mean?"

"Ask me not, you will know by-and-by; I must speak a word in yonder foreigner's ear."

So saying he went off, leaving L'Estrange to brood alone over his woes.

Dancing was kept up with much spirit till the west began to lose the crimson splendour of sunset;--the evening star, harbinger of many another twinkling fire, shone brighter and brighter as shadow fell o'er hill and dale, and now and then a bat flitted by and twittered over the gay scene, as if surprised at its unwonted gaiety. The dancers then began to flag; one by one they dropped off; at last only Florence and a few other devoted adorers of Terpsich.o.r.e tripped it on the light fantastic toe. The musician, too, grew weary--ceased, and all began busily to prepare for a homeward drive, wrapping themselves up in plaids, for the air became more than cool. The sated pairs, warmed by the dance, felt the night air, for the dews were falling fast, the more chill. Alone, as if he had no part nor lot in the preparations for home,--as if he had no bower toward which to turn his weary feet,--no fireside to welcome him,--no pillow to rest his tired head on--sat the Italian. The dance was over now; he had seemed amused--pleased--almost happy while it lasted--as he saw the happy pairs glide past to his melody. But it was over now--his spirits sank low, and returning woe seemed to him all the heavier after the light break. The feelings of the convict, as he starts perchance from some delightful dream on the morn of his execution were his--the short-lived relief was broken, and he awoke to the stern realities of life. Alone--an exile from his land--a stranger on a strange sh.o.r.e--he sat. He rested his cheek on his hand--the lute slipped from his grasp on the turf at his feet, and tears fell fast. A figure approached--it was the Captain's.

"Cease, silly boy, your peevish weeping." Then, in an altered tone, "Cease crying, Juana--the deed is done--we will mend it yet."

"I know it," replied the disguised maiden, "I know it; I heard his lips ask her, I heard her lips accept him! She is a n.o.ble girl, she would not take his offered hand till he vowed he loved no other. Let her be happy--Juana die of a broken heart. He loves her, he loves not me, and she loves him--let them be happy!"

"'Sdeath--not so--but here comes the Earl, don't go to the Towers."

Then, changing his voice to Italian, he continued, "After all, silly fool, you play not ill, and sing capitally, I warrant me."

"Si signore, Capitano--I can sing."

"Ha! what are you doing to my Italian, making him cry? Use not the poor child so harshly."

"I'm blessed if I made his tears flow--it is his own silly thoughts; the lad can sing--at least he says so--let him sing us a song ere we go.

Sing a song in praise of wine, boy!"

"And take some too," said the Earl, as old Andrew brought a silver goblet full of red wine, and cakes. "Bring some more, Andrew, and tell the ladies the Italian boy is going to give us a parting song."

"Ay, my Lord, I'll tell them."

Summoned by the old man, the whole of the guests soon gathered round the stone, on which the disguised Juana sat; he--for we must still call her so--had again resumed his instrument, and prepared to gratify the desire of his listeners. Old Andrew meanwhile, proffered the goblet--the boy lifted it to his lips, and then, untasted, dashed it on the ground--to Andrew's great wrath, who cried, "Gude save us! sic a waste o' wine--he treats the vera best wine an' it were no better than water frae the burn! gude lack, to see a bletherin' Frenchman wi' never a bawbee, dae what the Earl wadna' wi' his thousands o' gowd an' siller."

Whilst Andrew thus vented his wrath on the Frenchman--as he called all foreigners without distinction--the Italian had played a wild prelude to the air he now sang with a magnificent voice.

SONG.

Take hence the costly bowl!

The red wine, brightly sparkling, Can fire no more the soul In midnight sorrow darkling, Without one lonely ray.

The friends who pledged me once are gone, And she whose eyes so softly shone-- Ah! faithless maid--has left me lone.

Hence, take yon bowl away!

Take hence the ruby wine!

Its juice not cheers, but maddens; And when I think what fate is mine, Lost bliss, remembered, saddens, And but distracts my brain.

In wine I pledged my lady fair, In wine I drowned my boyish care, Now hope has languished to despair, I'll never drink again!

Take hence the flowing bowl!

It was not meant for sorrow.

The careless mind, the sunny soul From it new beams may borrow; To me it lends no ray.

In it, as in a gla.s.s, I see My parted joys, and that false she Who promised endless truth to me!

Hence, take yon bowl away!