uge yet!"

"No, no, father," said the Archduke, with a laugh; "we have another
remedy."

"The mitre is stronger than the _mitraille_, after all," said
D'Esmonde, boldly. "Believe me, sir, that the solemn knell that tolls
an excommunication will strike more terror through Christendom than all
your artillery."

Either the remark or the tone in which it was uttered was unpleasing
to the Prince; indeed, all the Abbe's courtesy at times gave way to an
almost impetuous boldness, which royalty never brooks, for he turned
away haughtily, and joined the others at a distant part of the room.

There was something of scorn in the proud look which D'Esmonde gave
after him, and then slipped from the chamber with noiseless step and
disappeared. Inquiring the way to the Princess's apartment, the Abbe
slowly ascended the stairs, pondering deeply as he went. Nina was
passing the corridor at the moment, and, supposing that he had mistaken
the direction, politely asked if she could offer him any guidance.
Scarcely noticing the questioner, he replied,----

"I was looking for the Princesse de Midchekoff's apartments."

"It is here, sir; but she is indisposed."

"If you would say that the Abbe D'Esmonde--"

He had got thus far when, lifting his eyes, his glance fell upon her
features; and then, as if spell-bound, he stood silently gazing at her.
Nina's cheek grew crimson under the stare; but her eyes met his with
unshaken firmness.

"If I were to disbelieve all probabilities," said he, slowly, "I should
say that I see an old friend before me. Are you not the daughter of
Huertos, the Toridor of Seville?"

"Fra Eustace!" said Nina, stepping back and staring steadily at him.

"No longer so, Lola; I am the Abbe D'Esmonde now," said he, while a
faint flush tinged his pale features.

"And I am Nina, the 'Cameriera,'" replied she, scornfully. "See how
unequally fortune has dealt with us!"

D'Esmonde made a sign towards the door, which she at once understood and
answered,----

"Yes, in the service of the Princess."

"This is indeed a strange meeting, Lola."

"Call me Nina," said the girl, flushing, "or I shall remember old times,
and my Spanish blood will little bear such memories."

"Where can we talk together, Nina?"

"Come this way, holy father," said she, with a half-sneering smile. "I
suppose a poor girl may receive her confessor in her chamber."

D'Esmonde walked after her without speaking. While crossing a gallery,
she