down his manly head and kissed the poet's brow; then he hastened to the
gate, flung himself on his horse, and rode away.




CHAPTER XVII.

Lord L'Estrange did not proceed at once to Riecabocca's house. He was
under the influence of a remembrance too deep and too strong to yield
easily to the lukewarm claim of friendship. He rode fast and far; and
impossible it would be to define the feelings that passed through a mind
so acutely sensitive, and so rootedly tenacious of all affections. When,
recalling his duty to the Italian, he once more struck into the road to
Norwood, the slow pace of his horse was significant of his own exhausted
spirits; a deep dejection had succeeded to feverish excitement. "Vain
task," he murmured, "to wean myself from the dead! Yet I am now
betrothed to another; and she, with all her virtues, is not the one to--"
He stopped short in generous self-rebuke. "Too late to think of that!
Now, all that should remain to me is to insure the happiness of the life
to which I have pledged my own. But--" He sighed as he so murmured. On
reaching the vicinity of Riccabocca's house, he put up his horse at a
little inn, and proceeded on foot across the heathland towards the dull
square building, which Leonard's description had sufficed to indicate as
the exile's new home. It was long before any one answered his summons at
the gate. Not till he had thrice rung did he hear a heavy step on the
gravel walk within; then the wicket within the gate was partially drawn
aside, a dark eye gleamed out, and a voice in imperfect English asked who
was there.