"What's the matter with you, Maynard?" asked the Count, seeing that his comrade had become suddenly thoughtful. "By the way you stand looking after that little sprout, one might suppose her to be your own!"

"My dear Count," rejoined Maynard, in an earnest, appealing tone, "I beg you won't jest with me--at all events, don't laugh, when I tell you how near you have hit upon my wish."

"What wish?"

"That she were my own."

"As how?"

"As my wife."

"Wife! A child not fourteen years of age! _Cher capitaine_! you are turning Turk! Such ideas are not becoming to a revolutionary leader.

Besides, you promised to have no other sweetheart than your sword! Ha-- ha--ha! How soon you've forgotten the naiad of Newport!"

"I admit it. I'm glad I have been able to do so. It was altogether different. It was not true love, but only--never mind what. But now I feel--don't laugh at me, Roseveldt. I assure you I am sincere. That child has impressed me with a feeling I never had before. Her strange look has done it. I know not why or wherefore she looked so. I feel as if she had sounded the bottom of my soul! It may be fate, destiny-- whatever you choose to call it--but as I live, Roseveldt, I have a presentiment--she will yet be my wife!"

"If such be her and your destiny," responded Roseveldt, "don't suppose I shall do anything to obstruct its fulfilment. She appears to be the daughter of a gentleman, though I must confess I don't much like his looks. He reminds me of the class we are going to contend against. No matter for that. The girl's only an infant; and before she can be ready to marry you, all Europe may be Republican, and you a Presidant! Now, _cher capitaine_! let us below, else the steward may have our fine Havanas stowed away under hatches; and then such weeds as we'd have to smoke during the voyage!" From sentiment to cigars was an abrupt change. But Maynard was no romantic dreamer; and complying with his fellow-traveller's request, he descended to the state-room to look after the disposal of their portmanteaus.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE.

A SHORT-LIVED TRIUMPH.

While the hero of C--was thus starting to seek fresh fame on a foreign shore, he came very near having his escutcheon stained in the land he was leaving behind him!

At the time that his name was a shout of triumph in noisy New York, it was being pronounced in the quiet circles of Newport with an accent of scorn.

By many it was coupled with the word "coward."

Mr Swinton enjoyed his day of jubilee.

It did not last long; though long enough to enable this accomplished card-player to make a _coup_.

From the repute obtained by the sham challenge, aided by the alliance of Louis Lucas, he was not long in discovering some of those pigeons for whose especial plucking he had made the crossing of the Atlantic.

They were not so well feathered as he had expected to find them. Still did he obtain enough to save him from the necessity of taking to a hack, or the fair Frances to a mangle.

For the cashiered guardsman--now transformed into a swindler--it promised to be a golden time. But the promise was too bright to be of long continuance, and his transient glory soon became clouded with suspicion; while that of his late adversary was released from the stigma that for a time had attached to it.

A few days after Maynard had taken his departure from New York, it became known why he had left so abruptly. The New York newspapers contained an explanation of this. He had been elected to the leadership of what was by them termed the "German expedition"; and had responded to the call.

Honourable as this seemed to some, it did not quite justify him in the eyes of others, acquainted with his conduct in the affair with Swinton.

His insult to the Englishman had been gross in the extreme, and above all considerations he should have stayed to give him satisfaction.

But the papers now told of his being in New York. Why did Mr Swinton not follow him there? This, of course, was but a reflection on the opposite side, and both now appeared far from spotless.

So far as regarded Maynard, the spots were at length removed; and before he had passed out of sight of Sandy Hook, his reputation as a "gentleman and man of honour" was completely restored.

An explanation is required. In a few words it shall be given.

Shortly after Maynard had left, it became known in the Ocean House that on the morning after the ball, and at an early hour a strange gentleman arriving by the New York boat had made his way to Maynard's room, staying with him throughout the day.

Furthermore, that a letter had been sent addressed to Mr Swinton, and delivered to his valet. The waiter to whom it had been intrusted was the authority for these statements.

What could that letter contain?

Mr Lucas should know, and Mr Lucas was asked.

But he did not know. So far from being acquainted with the contents of the letter in question, he was not even aware that an epistle had been sent.

On being told of it, he felt something like a suspicion of being compromised, and at once determined on demanding from Swinton an explanation.

With this resolve he sought the Englishman in his room.

He found him there, and with some surprise discovered him in familiar discourse with his servant.

"What's this I've heard, Mr Swinton?" he asked upon entering.

"Aw--aw; what, my deaw Lucas?"

"This letter they're talking about."

"Lettaw--lettaw! I confess supweme ignowance of what you mean, my deaw Lucas."

"Oh, nonsense! Didn't you receive a letter from Maynard--the morning after the ball?"

Swinton turned white, looking in all directions except into the eyes of Lucas. He was hesitating to gain time--not with the intention of denying it. He knew that he dare not.

"Oh! yas--yas!" he replied at length. "There was a lettaw--a very queaw epistle indeed. I did not get it that day till after yaw had gone. My valet Fwank, stoopid fellow! had thrown it into a cawner. I only wed it on the following mawning."

"You have it still, I suppose?"

"No, indeed I lit my cigaw with the absawd epistle."

"But what was it about?"

"Well--well; it was a sort of apology on the part of Mr Maynard--to say he was compelled to leave Newport by the evening bawt. It was signed by his fwend Wupert Woseveldt, calling himself a Count of the Austwian Empire. After weading it, and knowing that the writer was gone, I didn't think it wawth while to twouble you any fawther about the disagweeable business."

"By Gad! Mr Swinton, that letter's likely to get us both into a scrape!"

"But why, my deaw fellow?"

"Why? Because everybody wants to know what it was about. You say you've destroyed it?"

"Tore it into taypaws, I ashaw you."

"More's the pity. It's well-known that a letter was sent and delivered to your servant. Of course every one supposes that it came to your hands. We're bound to give some explanation."