Beg he must. And when he so resolved, had you but seen the proud, bitter
soul he conquered, you would have said, "This, which he thinks is
degradation,--this is heroism." Oh, strange human heart! no epic ever
written achieves the Sublime and the Beautiful which are graven, unread
by human eye, in thy secret leaves.

Of whom else should he beg? His mother had nothing, Riccabocca was poor,
and the stately Violante, who had exclaimed, "Would that I were a man!
"--he could not endure the thought that she should pity him and despise.
The Avenels! No,--thrice No. He drew towards him hastily ink and paper,
and wrote rapid lines that were wrung from him as from the bleeding
strings of life.

But the hour for the post had passed, the letter must wait till the next
day; and three days at least would elapse before he could receive an
answer. He left the letter on the table, and, stifling as for air, went
forth. He crossed the bridge, he passed on mechanically, and was borne
along by a crowd pressing towards the doors of parliament. A debate that
excited popular interest was fixed for that evening, and many bystanders
collected in the street to see the members pass to and fro, or hear what
speakers had yet risen to take part in the debate, or try to get orders
for the gallery.

He halted amidst these loiterers, with no interest, indeed, in common
with them, but looking over their heads abstractedly towards the tall
Funeral Abbey,--imperial Golgotha of Poets and Chiefs and Kings.

Suddenly his attention was diverted to those around by the sound of a
name, displeasingly known to him. "How are you, Randal Leslie? coming
to hear the debate?" said a member, who was passing through the street.