.

"Why, you've got your dagger on, sir," hesitatingly suggested the lad,
as he caught the gleam of a small scimiter among the folds of Almanzor's
tunic.

Hart's face flushed.

"Devil take you, boy," he exclaimed; "you are too stupid ever to make an
actor!"

With this speech, the manager strode out of the greenroom toward the
stage.

Poor Dick sank back in an attitude of resignation. "How long, O Rome,
must I endure this bondage?" he said, sadly.

He again observed his boyish figure in the mirror, and the pretty face
brightened as he realized that there might still be hope in life,
despite Manager Hart's assertion that he would never be able to act. His
features slowly sank into a set expression of tremendous gloom, such as
he thought should characterize his conception of himself as Hamlet when
in days to come the mantles of Burbage and of Betterton should be his
and Manager Hart must bow to him. He stood transfixed before the glass
in a day-dream, forgetful of his ills. His pretty lips moved, and one
close by might have heard again, "To be or not to be" in well-modulated
phrase.

"Ah, boy; here!"

Dick started.

It was a richly dressed gallant, in old-rose with royal orders, who had
entered the room quietly but authoritatively from the street--the same
lordly personage we observed in the pit. His manner was that of one
accustomed to be obeyed and quickly too. The lad knew him and bowed low.

"Tell Mistress Nell, Buckingham would speak with her. Lively, lad;
lively," he said.

"She is on the stage, my lord," replied Dick, respectfully.

"Gad, I thought otherwise and stepped about from my box. Here; put these
flowers in her tiring-room."

The boy took the beautiful bouquet of white roses. "Yes, my lord," he
replied, and turned to do the bidding.

"Flowers strewn in ladies' ways oft' lead to princely favours," muttered
his lordship, thoughtfully, as he removed his gloves and vainly adjusted
his hat and sword. "Portsmouth at Dover told me that."

It was apparent from his face that much passed before his mind, in that
little second, of days when, at Dover Castle not long since, he had been
a part--and no small part--of the intrigue well planned by Louis of
France, and well executed by the Duchess of Orleans assisted by the fair
Louise, now Duchess of Portsmouth, in which his own purse and power had
waxed mightily. Whatever his lordship thought, however, it was gone like
the panorama before a drowning br