ge of this
ingenuous youth?"

The question was a little beyond the pale of good breeding; perhaps the
Spaniard, who was tolerably punctilious in such matters, thought so, for
he did not reply. I was sensible of my error, and apologizing for it,
insinuated, nevertheless, the question in a more respectful and
covert shape. Still Don Diego, inhaling the fragrant weed with renewed
vehemence, only--like Pion's tomb, recorded by Pausanias--replied to
the request of his petitioner _by smoke_. I did not venture to renew my
interrogatories, and there was a long silence. My eyes fixed their gaze
on the door by which Isora had disappeared. In vain; she returned not;
and as the chill of the increasing evening began now to make itself felt
by the frame of one accustomed to warmer skies, the Spaniard soon rose
to re-enter his house, and I took my farewell for the night.

There were many ways (as I before said) by which I could return home,
all nearly equal in picturesque beauty; for the county in which my
uncle's estates were placed was one where stream roved and woodland
flourished even to the very strand or cliff of the sea. The shortest
route, though one the least frequented by any except foot-passengers,
was along the coast, and it was by this path that I rode slowly
homeward. On winding a curve in the road about one mile from Devereux
Court, the old building broke slowly, tower by tower, upon me. I have
never yet described the house, and perhaps it will not be uninteresting
to the reader if I do so now.

It had anciently belonged to Ralph de Bigod. From his possession it
had passed into that of the then noblest branch the stem of Devereux,
whence, without break or flaw in the direct line of heritage, it had
ultimately descended to the present owner. It was a pile of vast extent,
built around three quadrangular courts, the farthest of which spread to
the very verge of the gray, tall cliffs that overhung the sea; in this
court was a rude tower, which, according to tradition, had contained the
apartments ordinarily inhabited by our ill-fated namesake and distant
kinsman, Robert Devereux, the favourite and the victim of Elizabeth,
whenever he had honoured the mansion with a visit. There was nothing,
it is true, in the old tower calculated to flatter the tradition, for it
contained only two habitable rooms, communicating with each other,
and by no means remarkable for size or splendour; and every one of our
household, save myself,