A profuse breakfast, served in the good old style, awaited them in the dining-room. The sideboard groaned with the weight of huge cold joints, hams, tongues, and pasties; and broiled trout and salmon in abundance appeared on the table. How many good things there were besides in the shape of cutlets and omelettes, we cannot tell, but nothing seemed wanting. Chocolate was handed to the ladies, but claret suited the gentlemen best, though in some instances a flagon of strong ale was preferred.

Breakfast over, the ladies withdrew to prepare for the ceremony appointed to take place in the chapel, while the prince again walked forth on the terrace, in company with Lord Derwentwater and Sir John Webb, and gazed with fresh delight at the prospect.

Colonel Oxburgh and his companions, with Tom Forster, adjourned to the stables. There was a good deal of conjecture among them as to the prince's plans, which now seemed quite undecided; but they came to the conclusion that no rising would take place. At the same time, they all rejoiced that the hazardous—and as they deemed it useless—journey to London had been abandoned.

“Something ought to be done,” cried Forster. “But it puzzles me to say what.”

“Have patience,” said Colonel Oxbugh. “Depend upon it we shan't remain long idle. His majesty will be forced to make a move of some kind.”

Long before the hour appointed for the betrothal, the little chapel was filled. All the household craved permission to witness the ceremony, and none were refused. The guests entered at the same time, and found places where they could. But little room was left, as may be imagined, when all these persons were accommodated. In the large pew were the prince with Charles Radclyffe, Mr. Forster and his sister—the latter looking bright and blooming as usual.

Lord Derwentwater was standing at the door of the little edifice in momentary expectation of the arrival of her to whom he was about to be affianced. She came, leaning on her father's arm, and attended by her mother—not decked in bridal attire—not draped in a bridal veil—for such adornments would have been unsuitable to the occasion, but arrayed in a charming costume of azure satin and lace.

After salutations had passed, Sir John Webb consigned his lovely daughter to the earl, and followed them with Lady Webb.

An irrepressible murmur of admiration burst forth as the youthful pair moved towards the altar, where they immediately knelt down, and a group was formed behind them of which the prince was the principal figure—his highness having come with the others from the pew.

Not till a prayer was recited could the spectators obtain a glimpse of the scene at the altar, and if this was quickly hidden from their sight they heard the vow pronounced that bound the pair together, and they likewise heard Father Norham's benediction.

Those near the altar saw the earl embrace his affianced bride as they rose together, and some of them remarked that she looked strangely pale. Only for a minute, for her colour quickly returned. The prince, however, noticed the circumstance, and so did Dorothy. But both attributed it to deep emotion.

Nothing whatever marred the ceremony, the sole fault of which, in the opinion of the majority of those present, was that it was too brief.

Several of the household grouped themselves on either side of the path leading to the gate to offer their good wishes to the newly-affianced pair as they passed by. Among these were old Nicholas Ribbleton, and an elderly dame who, like himself, had lived in the family for years.

“Eh! she's a bonnie lass!” cried this old woman, after scrutinising her sharply. “But I doubt if she'll make his lordship happy. He had better have chosen Dorothy F orster.”

“Why, what ails her?” said Ribbleton.

“I cannot exactly tell—but there's a look about her I don't like.”

“Well, it's too late to change now, Grace,” observed Ribbleton. “The troth is plighted.”

“Ay, that's the worst of it,” rejoined the old woman. “But a time may come, when his lordship will wish what's done were undone.”

This was the only discordant note uttered, and it reached no other ear but Ribbleton's, and him it made angry. So he walked off, and left the old prophetess of ill to herself.