ver you feel somewhat tired of
your own. Conduct the count to his cabin. Gently there, gently. Adieu,
Monsieur le Comte, adieu! et bon voyage."

Harley turned lightly on his heel, as Peschiera, in spite of his
struggles, was now fairly carried down to the cabin.

"A trick for the trickster," said L'Estrange to the Austrian prince.
"The revenge of a farce on the would-be tragedian."

"More than that,-he is ruined."

"And ridiculous," quoth Harley. "I should like to see his look when
they land him in Norway." Harley then passed towards the centre of the
vessel, by which, hitherto partially concealed by the sailors, who were
now busily occupied, stood Beatrice,--Frank Hazeldean, who had first
received her on entering the vessel, standing by her side; and Leonard,
a little apart from the two, in quiet observation of all that had passed
around him. Beatrice appeared but little to heed Frank; her dark eyes
were lifted to the dim starry skies, and her lips were moving as if in
prayer; yet her young lover was speaking to her in great emotion, low
and rapidly.

"No, no, do not think for a moment that we suspect you, Beatrice. I will
answer for your honour with my life. Oh, why will you turn from me; why
will you not speak?"

"A moment later," said Beatrice, softly. "Give me one moment yet." She
passed slowly and falteringly towards Leonard, placed her hand, that
trembled, on his arm, and led him aside to the verge of the vessel.
Frank, startled by her movement, made a step as if to follow, and
then stopped short and looked on, but with a clouded and doubtful
countenance. Harley's smile had gone, and his eye was also watchful.

It was but a few words that Beatrice spoke, it was but a sentence or so
that Leonard answered; and then Beatrice extended her hand, which the
young poet bent over, and kissed in silence. She lingered an instant;
and even by the starlight, Harley noted the blush that overspread her
face. The blush faded as Beatrice returned to Frank. Lord L'Estrange
would have retired,--she signed to him to stay.

"My Lord," she said, very firmly, "I cannot accuse you of harshness
to my sinful and unhappy brother. His offence might perhaps deserve a
heavier punishment than that which you inflict with such playful scorn.
But whatever his penance, contempt now or poverty later, I feel that
his sister should be by his side to share it. I am not innocent if he be
guilty; and, wreck though he be, nothing else on this da