the battled and solitary man, who now slowly approached him,--the man
whose proud career he had served to thwart, whose heart his schemes had
prematurely soured, whose best years had been consumed in exile,--a
sacrifice to the grave which a selfish and dishonourable villany had
prepared! Cesarini, the inmate of a mad-house, Florence in her
shroud,--such were the visions the sight of Maltravers conjured up. And
to the soul which the unwonted and momentary remorse awakened, a boding
voice whispered, "And thinkest thou that thy schemes shall prosper, and
thy aspirations succeed?" For the first time in his life, perhaps, the
unimaginative Vargrave felt the mystery of a presentiment of warning and
of evil.

The two men met, and with an emotion which seemed that of honest and real
feeling, Lumley silently held out his hand, and half turned away his
head.

"Lord Vargrave!" said Maltravers, with an equal agitation, "it is long
since we have encountered."

"Long,--very long," answered Lumley, striving hard to regain his
self-possession; "years have changed us both; but I trust it has still
left in you, as it has in me, the remembrance of our old friendship."

Maltravers was silent, and Lord Vargrave continued,--

"You do not answer me, Maltravers. Can political differences, opposite
pursuits, or the mere lapse of time, have sufficed to create an
irrevocable gulf between us? Why may we not be friends again?"

"Friends!" echoed Maltravers; "at our age that word is not so lightly