ess to her wit; but carefully rounded
off all the more salient points of her acting. He said nothing of her
singing "Constant my heart," at him. He did not hint at his taking her
hand in the coach, or kissing it at the supper table; but dilated on
her skillful libel on old Moodie's sobriety, and her well acted dread
of the house-breaking banditti, from whom he could best protect her,
as they are no other than his own men.

Though L'Isle did not get through his narrative with the best possible
grace, he was doubly successful in it; at once greatly amusing his
auditors, yet exhibiting Lady Mabel only as a witty girl, who had
merely played the part allotted to her with mischievous pleasure and
consummate tact. But he attained this at the cost of showing himself
an easy dupe to her arts, and getting well laughed at for his
pains. It cost L'Isle no small effort to do this. It was, in fact, a
heroic, self-sacrificing act; for he was not used to being laughed at,
and there is something highly amusing in compelling a man to tell a
story which makes him more and more ridiculous at every turn. But
while showing so much consideration for Lady Mabel, so far was he from
beginning to forgive her ill-usage of him, that the constraint he had
put upon himself only embittered his feelings toward her.

As to Lord Strathern, he was delighted with the account of _ma
belle_'s cunning manoeuvres and witty speeches, even to the point of
laughing heartily at her satire on himself; and he reveled in L'Isle's
ill-concealed mortification, exclaiming: "What a pity the plot failed
by Mabel's unmasking too soon. That and your good horse enabled you to
keep your appointment at the risk of your neck. Why, L'Isle, you might
have become a ballad hero. Mabel would have put your adventure in
verse, and set it to music, and you would have been sung by all our
musical folks, from Major Lumley down to the smallest drummer-boy. You
are a lucky fellow; but this time your luck has lost you fame."

"And how did you get away at last?" asked Sir Rowland, fully convinced
that L'Isle had been a prisoner, under lock, bolt and bar.

The earth-stains on L'Isle's clothes might have testified that he had
gotten a bad fall in jumping out of a lady's window, at two o'clock in
the morning. But this is a scandalous world. L'Isle remembered
Bradshawe, without looking at him, and evaded the question.

"I found old Moodie, lantern in hand, at the open gate, looking as if
he