their sites! And this task I order you to see done. I have not
strength. You will then hasten to join me at Sorrento, that corner of
earth on which Horace wished to breathe his last sigh.

'Ille to mecum locus et beatae
Postulant arces--ibi--tu '"

"Don't, sir, don't. Horace again! It is too much." Fairthorn was
choking; but as if the idea presented to him was really too monstrous for
belief, he clutched at Darrell with so uncertain and vehement a hand that
he almost caught him by the throat, and sobbed out, "You must be joking."

"Seriously and solemnly, Richara Fairthorn," said Darrell, gently
disentangling the fingers that threatened him with strangulation,
"seriously and solemnly I have uttered to you my deliberate purpose. I
implore you, in the name of onr life-long friendship, to face this pain
as I do--resolutely, cheerfully. I implore you to execute to the letter
the instructions I shall leave with you on quitting England, which I
shall do the day Lionnel is married; and then, dear old friend, calm
days, clear consciences:--In climes where whole races have passed away
--proud cities themselves sunk in graves--where our petty grief for a
squirearch's lost house we shall both grow ashamed to indulge--there we
will moralise, rail against vain dreams and idle pride, cultivate vines
and orange trees, with Horace--nay, nay, Dick--with the FLUTE!"




CHAPTER V.