for
their cicerone. Let Rawdon know immediately of this. They tell me here
that the sun rises about six. As we shall not be with you till noon, I
have no doubt your united energies will be able to make all requisite
preparations. We may be thirty or forty. Believe me, dear Sir Carte,

'Your faithful servant,

'St. James.

'Carlstein bears this, which you will receive in an hour. Let me have a
line by return.'

CHAPTER XIII.

_The Charms of Hauteville_

IT WAS a morning all dew and sunshine, soft yet bright, just fit for a
hawking party, for dames of high degree, feathered cavaliers, ambling
palfreys, and tinkling bells. Our friends rose early, and assembled
punctually. All went, and all went on horseback; but they sent before
some carriages for the return, in case the ladies should be wearied
with excessive pleasure. The cavalcade, for it was no less, broke into
parties which were often out of sight of each other. The Duke and
Lord St. Jerome, Clara Howard and Charles Faulcon, Miss Dacre and Mrs.
Dallington, formed one, and, as they flattered themselves, not the least
brilliant. They were all in high spirits, and his Grace lectured on
riding-habits with erudite enthusiasm.

Their road lay through a country wild and woody, where crag and copse
beautifully intermixed with patches of rich cultivation. Halfway, they
passed Rosemount, a fanciful pavilion where the Dukes of St. James
sometimes sought that elegant simplicity which was not afforded by
all the various charms of their magnificent Hauteville. At length they
arrived at the park-gate of the castle, which might itself have passed
for a tolerable mansion. It was ancient and embattled, flanked by a
couple of sturdy towers, and gave a noble promise of the baronial
pile which it announced. The park was a petty principality; and its
apparently illimitable extent, its rich variety of surface, its ancient
woods and numerous deer, attracted the attention and the admiration even
of those who had been born in such magical enclosures.

Away they cantered over the turf, each moment with their blood more
sparkling. A turn in the road, and Hauteville, with its donjon keep and
lordly flag, and many-windowed line of long perspective, its towers, and
turrets, and terraces, bathed with the soft autumnal sun, met their glad
sight.

'Your Majesty is welcome to my poor castle!' said the young Duke, bowing
with head uncovered to Miss Dacre.

'Nay, we are at the be