As, for very good reasons, Francis gave no answer, a vigorous arm forced open the window, and a man sprang into the room, seemingly quite indifferent about any damage he might have caused.

“What is your business with Miss Mordaunt?” I asked, advancing towards the intruder.

“A stranger here?” he answered, with an expression of surprise; “I thought they never had visitors now.”

“I think the manner of your entrance is much more astonishing, and I am the person surprised.”

“Well, yes, my entrance is somewhat irregular,” he replied, in the most familiar style possible; “however, Mr. Unknown, I am neither a thief nor a housebreaker. I have entered in this way because I wished no one but Francis to know of my arrival, and I was sure I should find her here; but, now I am here, allow me to rest myself whilst I reflect a little upon the best means of obtaining an interview with her.”

And he threw himself at full length on the old sofa, which creaked under his weight.

“Ah! ah!” he continued, examining the walls, “the family portraits are gone—eaten away, no doubt, by the moths and the damp.”

It was quite clear to me the stranger was not here for the first time. Though his manners were free, there was something gentlemanly in his personal appearance. Still his dress was fantastic. He wore a short velvet jacket with metal buttons, and a silk handkerchief loosely tied around his neck; tight trousers of a grey pearl colour, and polished riding-boots with spurs, and a soft felt hat.

“You’ve got nothing to drink here?” he asked, after a pause of some minutes. “I have ridden for three hours, and my throat is almost choked with sand and dust.”

He spoke Dutch with a foreign accent. His age seemed to be about fifty, though he might be younger. His lively, active features were never at rest for a moment; his greenish-grey eyes, the fine wrinkles on his high sunburnt forehead, and the paleness of his cheeks, all marked him as the adventurer endued with strong passions—an impression that was increased by his thick-set face, large nose, and the tufted mustachios hanging over his thick, sensual lips. I could not refuse him a glass of water, unwelcome as I found his presence. As I handed it to him I said—

“You seem to know this house well.”

“Yes, and that’s no wonder; I played many a prank here in my boyhood. But you, sir, who are you? An adjutant of the Colonel’s, or a protÉgÉ of Francis’s?”

“I think I have the best right to question you, and to ask who you are?”

“That’s true enough; and I would tell you with pleasure, but it’s a secret which concerns others besides myself. Call me Mr. Smithson—it’s the name I am known by at present.”

“Very well. Now what is your business here, Mr. Smithson?”

“I wish you to tell Francis I am here.”

“Do you think the news will be agreeable to her?” I demanded.

“I cannot say, but she will come all the same.”

“Here, into my room?”

“Bah! our Major Frank is no prude.”

“Mr. Smithson, I give you fair warning that if you say a single word derogatory to the character of Miss Mordaunt, I shall instantly make you take the same way out of this room by which you entered it.”

“Oh! oh! Mr. Unknown, I am a first-rate boxer. But easy, man, easy! For I should be the last person in the world to say an offensive word about Francis. Now, since you know her, you ought to be aware that she would never refuse to assist a person in distress out of a sense of prudery. Just you ask her to come here to see—not Smithson, because she does not know me under that name, but a relation of hers, who calls himself Rudolf.”

“And if she refuses to come?”

“Oh, you make too many difficulties. Ah! is it possible you are her——I should have thought Francis Mordaunt more capable of commanding a batalion than of bowing herself under the yoke of marriage. But, after all, women do change their minds. Then you are the happy mortal?”

“A truce to your suppositions,” I answered him in a firm voice; “I am here as a relation, a grand-nephew of the General’s; my name is Leopold van Zonshoven.”

“Well, upon my word! Probably we are cousins, for I am also related to the General. Francis will not refuse to come, I assure you—especially if you tell her that I do not come to ask for money; on the contrary, I bring some with me.”

Hereupon he drew from his pocket a purse containing a number of clean, new greenbacks.

“Tell her what you have seen; it will set her mind at ease, and possibly yours also—for you seem as yet only half-and-half convinced that I am not a highwayman.”

I no longer hesitated; but took the precaution to lock my door on the outside, lest he should follow me, and surprise Francis before I had warned her. Having reached her room I knocked gently, and she answered “Come in.” It was the first time I had penetrated so far, and I began in a serious tone—

“Something very singular has happened, my dear cousin——”

“It is not an accident you come to announce to me, I hope?” she exclaimed.

“No, but a visit which will not prove agreeable, I am afraid.”

“A visit at this time of the day! Who is it?”

“A person who says he is a relation of the family, and refuses to give any name but that of Rudolf.”

She knit her eyebrows.

“Good heavens! Unfortunate man! Here again!”

I explained to her how he had forced his way in at the window, and offered to make him retrace his steps if she desired it.

“No, there must be no disturbance,” she said, in a state of agitation. “My grandfather must not even suspect he is here. I will go with you, Leopold; this once you must excuse me if I do anything you consider in bad form. How dare he show his face here? I can do nothing more for him. You will stand by me, won’t you?”

I took her hand and led her to my room. Rudolf lay on the sofa, fast asleep. When he saw Francis standing before him, he jumped up as if to embrace her, but she drew back. He did not seem hurt, but he lost his tone of assurance.

“I understand, Francis, that my return is not a joyful surprise to you.”

“You have broken your promise. You gave me your word of honour you would stay in America. At any rate, you ought never to have set foot in your native country again——”

“Don’t judge me without having heard——”

“Is it not tempting fortune to come back here to the Werve, where you may so easily be recognized?”

“Oh, don’t make yourself uneasy on that score, my dear. I have taken precautions; and as for breaking my promise, I beg your pardon on my bended knees.”

And he made a gesture as if he would fall on his knees before her.

“Don’t be theatrical,” she said severely, and again retreated some steps from him.

“Heaven forbid! On the boards, to gain a livelihood, it is another thing; but in your presence, before you, Francis, whom I honour and love, I wish to justify my conduct. You may condemn me afterwards, if you like. It was really my intention never to appear before your eyes again. Alas! man is but the puppet of fortune, and I have not been able to swim against the stream. I have had all sorts of adventures—but can I tell you all now?” he added, looking significantly at me. “To tell you the truth, I had reckoned on our being alone.”

“Stay, Leopold,” she said, in answer to an inquiring look I gave her.

“Francis,” resumed Rudolf, with tears in his eyes, “you know you need no protector where I am.”

“I know that, but I will not again expose myself to calumny for your sake. As for your security, Rudolf, I can answer for my cousin Van Zonshoven’s discretion. You may tell him who you are without fear.”

“It is a question of life and death,” he said in French, with a most indifferent shrug of the shoulders, and he again stretched himself at full length on the sofa. “The least indiscretion, and my life will be forfeited. What of that? I run the risk of breaking my neck every day.”

And then, turning towards me, he began to sing, or rather to try to sing, with a voice quite hoarse, and with a theatrical pose, the following lines out of the opera “The Bride of Lammermoor”—