“And why, Lucy, can’t you look and feel as I do⁠—buoyant, courageous, and fit to defy all the nuns and flirts in Christendom? I would give gold on the spot just to see you snap your fingers. Try the manoeuvre.”

“If I were to bring Miss Fanshawe into your presence just now?”

“I vow, Lucy, she should not move me; or, she should move me but by one thing⁠—true, yes, and passionate love. I would accord forgiveness at no less a price.”

“Indeed! a smile of hers would have been a fortune to you a while since.”

“Transformed, Lucy, transformed! Remember, you once called me a slave! but I am a free man now!”

He stood up: in the port of his head, the carriage of his figure, in his beaming eye and mien, there revealed itself a liberty which was more than ease⁠—a mood which was disdain of his past bondage.