priest, and was always a favorite with the British Jesuits about
Versailles, but this in the end came to nothing. He abandoned the
religious vocation, though not the scholar's tastes, and became a soldier,
for the sake of a beautiful face which he saw once when on a secret visit
to England. He fell greatly in love, and ventured to believe that the
emotion was reciprocated. As Jacob served Laban for his daughter, so did
Tom Lynch serve the Pretender's cause for the hope of some day returning,
honored and powerful, to ask the hand of that sweet daughter of the
Jacobite gentleman.

One day there came to him at Paris, to offer his sword to the Stewarts, a
young Irish gentleman who had been Tom's playmate in childhood--Anthony
Cross. This gallant, fresh-faced, handsome youth was all ablaze with
ardor; he burned to achieve impossible deeds, to attain glory at a stroke.
He confessed to Tom over their dinner, or the wine afterward perhaps, that
his needs were great because Love drove. He was partly betrothed to the
daughter of an English Jacobite--yet she would marry none but one who had
gained his spurs under his rightful king. They drank to the health of this
exacting, loyal maiden, and Cross gave her name. Then Tom Lynch rose from
the table, sick at heart, and went away in silence.

Cross never knew of the hopes and joys he had unwittingly crushed. The
two young men became friends, intimates, brothers, serving in half the
lands of Europe side by side. The maiden, an orphan now, and of substance
and degree, came over at last to France, and Lynch stood by, calm-faced,
and saw her married to his friend. She only pleasantly remembered him; he
never forgot her till his death.

Finally, in 1745, when both men were nearing middle age, the time for
striking the great blow was thought to have arrived. The memory of Lynch's