yet picturesque attachments, which, amid all the ordinary prose of life, need to be well authenticated to be believed. Henriette was one of these;—poetry records nothing more ideal than the passion with which she inspired Lord Craven, who sought the Holy Land to forget the too lovely queen, and only returned to his own to risk his life in her service. Even now, faded by age, but still more by sorrow, Lord Craven esteemed existence but given to be spent in her service—his time, his wealth, were lavished for her sake. We need only add the name of the Chevalier de Joinville, as Francesca's old acquaintance, and leave the rest unmentioned.
The whole party left Dieppe early, and a favourable wind soon carried them across the Channel. Yet they had to pass the Isle of Wight, which held Carisbrook Castle,—that melancholy prison which Charles I. only left for that drearier cell which was but the passage to the scaffold. Lord Craven, however, contrived that they should be in the cabin when the island appeared in sight.
The Queen knew nothing of the environs, and it was dusk when they landed. Lord Avonleigh was in anxious attendance—carriages were ready for the whole suite—lamps and torches were soon kindled—and they arrived at his residence about midnight. It had a noble effect, as a hundred at-
