Roderick took his offered hand. “My dear Sir,” cried he, “talk not of thanks; Edric and myself are but too well repaid in seeing you thus recovered; and I am sure we shall ever esteem the day when we were so fortunate as to be of service to you, as the happiest of our lives!”
“You are too good,” exclaimed M. de Mallet—“too good!” and he could no longer restrain his tears.
Roderick was deeply affected; he could not bear to see an old man weep; and he again took M. de Mallet’s hand, pressing it respectfully to his lips: “My dear Sir,” exclaimed he, “what I have as yet been able to do for you is nothing; but if you will return with me to Ireland, I may be able—”
“Hush! my good friend,” replied M. de Mallet; “I do not doubt your kindness nor your power; but I have had too much of professions!”
“My father,” said Pauline, interposing her soft sweet voice, “has suffered much; forgive him if he seem ungrateful for your kindness; but repeated disappointments sour the spirit. We have seen much trouble!” and her voice trembled as she spoke.
“Alas! if you have not been exempt from trouble, who shall dare complain?” exclaimed Edric, in a voice as soft and tremulous as her own.
Pauline turned her beautiful eyes upon him: “Pardon me, Sir,” said she, “that I have not before thanked you! be assured it has not been for want of feeling your kindness; but sometimes the heart is too full for utterance.”
“Thanks from your lips, madam,” returned Roderick, “would be a reward for any service.”
Pauline blushed: “You too, Sir, were kindness itself,” rejoined she: “think not I am insensible to your favours; but I am a bankrupt even in thanks. Alas! fate destines us to incur continually obligations which we can never repay.”
“A grateful heart is more than words,” said her father; “and in that, my child, I know you will never be deficient; but to whom are we indebted for such kindness?”
“I am the king of Ireland,” said Roderick, smiling; “surnamed the Devil’s favourite here in Spain.”
“Is it possible?” cried M. de Mallet; “do I, indeed, see the illustrious Roderick?”
“And this,” continued Roderick, without noticing his exclamation, “is my friend, Mr. Montagu, an Englishman; who, like many of his countrymen, not consented with enjoying every luxury at home, rambles into foreign climes, to grumble and find fault with everything he may chance to meet.”
“Do not believe him, madam,” cried Edric; “my countrymen are fond of travelling, it is true; and may find fault occasionally with what they think deficient in a strange land; but I assure you, we travel from a desire of improving ourselves and acquiring knowledge, whilst we only find fault in the charitable hope that our censures may produce amendment.”
“That is, supposing your censures are just,” replied Roderick; “but that we sometimes take the liberty to doubt.”
“I think nothing more unreasonable than to censure customs merely because we are not used to them,” said M. de Mallet; “for my part, when I travel, I make up my mind to be satisfied with everything, as I think I have no right to quarrel with inconveniences I have sought myself.”
“It would be well,” rejoined Roderick, “if all were of your opinion, and if those who cannot be contented abroad would try to rest contented at home. But you speak as though you had travelled, and I think your daughter mentioned yesterday that you were strangers in Spain.”
“We are Swiss,” replied M. de Mallet; “my name is de Mallet, a name which you may have heard as belonging to a champion of liberty. Powerless as my efforts have been, I was that champion, and the reward of my labours is poverty and disgrace in a foreign land.”
“But surely,” said Roderick, “the Spaniards as a nation of freemen would receive a martyr for liberty with open arms, and would treat him as a brother.”
“Yes, yes,” replied M. de Mallet bitterly, “I have had a tolerable specimen of their fraternal affection: they received me with protestations, fed me with delusive promises, and then left me to perish miserably.”
“Not designedly, my dear father,” said Pauline; “I cannot suppose they left us to perish designedly.”
“Oh, no!” cried Roderick; “that must have been impossible: tigers must have been moved to pity by that voice. They never could have intended to leave you to perish.”
“Sire,” replied M. de Mallet gravely, “you forget my daughter and I are but plain simple Swiss; we are unused to flattery and to the language of courts; do not then address expressions to us above our comprehension, which may lead us to forget the distance fortune has placed between us.”
“Speak not of the difference of rank,” interrupted Roderick impatiently, “beauty and merit, like that of your daughter, place her upon a level with a throne.”
“Pardon me, Sire,” replied Pauline, blushing, and casting her eyes upon the ground; “I am perfectly aware of the humility of my station. I am aware that I was not born to be a companion of kings and princes, nor have I any wish to exalt myself above the situation in which nature has placed me. My duty to my father led me to follow him to the Spanish Court. It was the first that I had seen; and, forgive me, Sire, if I say, I sincerely hope it may be the last.”
“But you must not judge of us by the Spaniards.”
“I know it well, Sire; report has always spoken of
