battlements, had become nearly too powerful for her frame. She thus addressed the other individual, a female relation, distantly allied by blood, but nearly knit in love, who, for the sixth time had been prevailed on to quit the terrace, on which they walked, to obtain news of the expected arrival :—“ Well, did you ask all-did you remember all?" "Yes, truly," returned the other; "that is, all who remain sober, and they persist in declaring, that the baron's route is the shortest, and so should have brought him here first. They have no doubt but, finding the road from some cause impassable, they have struck into the same way they came; so we may expect them every instant. But, have patience, my love; I have persuaded Albert to set off on the route they came themselves." "But the other road," said Blanche. "Ten stout archers have proceeded that way. I have other news yet; Lord Rondle has just arrived on foot, and expressed much surprise at not hearing of his brother's return. He declares he will instantly set out in search of him, though he has received a hurt by a fall with his horse, in which the valuable animal was killed," "I am sorry for him," said Blanche, "though, sure, the hours of misery he has occasioned me are only to be equalled by my present uncertain state of wretchedness. But I forgive him, though I thought I never could, and I wont tell my father, nor Pearcy, (though he defied me, and never since made any concessions.) Truly, he must be a very bold man to rejoice, as he appears to do, in the return of two persons he would have so ungenerously used. But, tell me, do you think Pearcy will look much darker, and speak with a Syrian accent?" As this, and the remaining interrogatories and replies, were then passing through their fifth version, we will leave this happy, anxious pair, on their descent to their chambers, to dwell on a scene of far different import. It was near midnight when the venerable Baron de Morton, accompanied by his destined son-in-law, the young and brave Lord Thomas Pearcy, attended by two or three domestics, might be seen urging their jaded steeds through the forest of Arden, in the direction of the white towers of the castle, then just peering above the lofty trees. They had diverged somewhat from the route, to call on the baron's old friend, the constable of Kenilworth. They were now endeavouring to make up for lost time, each joyfully anticipating the return to his home and friends; but none more so than young Pearcy. He had, since a boy, fought and bled by the side of his venerable relative and guardian, the baron, who, when left an orphan, had proved to him a second father, having him carefully instructed in every accomplishment of the time, and himself teaching him the use of arms. His only child, the fairest lady of the day, the gentle Blanche, had given him a sweeter lesson still she taught him first to love, nor long escaped the soft contagion, but quickly felt the feelings she inspired. The baron witnessed their attachment with approving smiles; and his first, his only wish, was to see those he so fondly loved, united and happy. The war, from which they were now returning victorious, had been the only obstacle to their union. For the first watch of the night the moon had shone with splendor on the grassy roads and shrubs, looking more bright from the contrast with the sombre forest shades; but now her cheering influence was only to be enjoyed at short intervals, for huge black thunder clouds rolled before the Queen of Night, and lent to the forest its most dreary aspect. They had travelled to within half a league of the castle, when a phenomenon appeared in the heavens, which caused the baron and his companion to break from their reverie, and turn their inquiring glances on each other: it was several lurid streaks, of dark blood color, apparently above the castle towers. "It is strange !" quoth the baron; and turning to Philip, an aged domestic, whose eyes were fixed intently on the ob ject of his wonder, he inquired, "What mean those signs? it cannot be fire; the castle is safe, and I know no other building near." "An' please my lord," answered the old man, visibly agi tated, "it is no fire-it is a sign of worse. May the blessed mother and saints (crossing himself,) keep it from our house and friends?" "What signs, you superstitious knave?" cried his lord. "Of murder, my lord," said the old man, in a solemn voice. "I have twice seen the like awful signs, and they proved too true and fatal. It is forty years since I saw it hang like dropping blood over the monastery of St. Mark :that night the venerable abbot was barbarously murdered by a lay brother. The last time I saw it was twenty years past, when Stephen de Gaston murdered his master, the Earl of March, with the concurrence of his adulterous wife. Never shall I forget the terrible warning-the still more terrible way in which the unlaid spirit brought the deed to light, and his murderers to justice. Father Ambrose has seen and known this sign, once on a dark stormy night, returning from administering the last rites on a deceased brother." "Cease your idle tales," cried Pearcy, "and keep them to frighten children and women at your Christmas fire; here is more like to be man's work for you. Heard you not voices from the thicket?" "There is," replied the baron, after a short pause; "and a rustling of the leaves. Draw your swords, and advance, men," continued he, this is no time or place for true men to lurk in." He had scarcely finished, when a whizzing through the air told a shower of arrows; the baron's horse reared, plunged, and fell with its rider to the ground; while a deep groan from old Philip, who had fallen to the earth, showed it had been more fatal there. Pearcy instantly dismounted and raised the baron, then calling to his men, who had followed his example and were on foot, he cried, "Forward, my lads, let us drive the rascals from the thicket;" but scarcely had they entered, when they found themselves surrounded by thrice their number. The baron fought lustily, but was soon disarmed: he evaded the first blow at his life by clasping the up-lifted sword with his hands; the ruffian drew the sharp blade back, tearing the flesh and sinew from the bone. "I am "Villains! what would you?" exclaimed he. the Baron de Morton; is it plunder ye seek? Name your ransom, and spare our lives." The assassins, who were masked, merely shook their heads, while one among them raised a ponderous battleaxe to strike the fatal blow; meantime Pearcy, sword in hand, had laid about him with such dexterity as to disengage himself from those who had assailed him, rushed to the assistance of the baron, but, alas! too late; he was in time only to behold the murderous deed. The old man stood erect in the firm grasp 66 of a ruffian on each side; his features were pale, yet rigid; his lips slightly quivered at the approaching eternity, but he still bore a dauntless eye; his silvery locks alone seemed to plead for mercy-they were soon to be dyed a different hue; for, as he uttered, in a tremulous voice, Forgive my sins, O Lord, and bless my child!" the murderous axe descended on his bare head, severing it to the lower jaw. He fell to the earth, a ghastly spectacle, stained with blood. At that instant a dreadful peal of thunder and lightning broke over the heads of the murderers, and seemed to threaten the vengeance of heaven, while Pearcy flew, with the fury of a tiger, on the assassins, and wounded the chief in the sword arm; but he was quickly borne down by the blows which rained on him on every side, he felt the cold biting steel enter several parts of his body-a dreadful sort of crush ensued, which deprived him of all sensation. (To be continued.) I'VE THOUGHT OF THEE. I've thought of thee when far away And when, in Greenland's icy clime, My thoughts were still with thee at home. And as the sun on summer's morn And happy is my favor'd lot, D. L. M. SUN-SET SONG OF THE SWISS PEASANTRY. Deal. BY REGINALD AUGUSTINE. Hang the bright sickle up, How sunset's tinges steal O'er bow'r, and rill, and sod; On Bernard's kingly brow When it shuts the weeping rose. How widely on our ears The vesper-anthem swells;— 'Tis not for men to yield Their rights to tyrant lords: But 'tis for men to shield, And guard them with their swords! Our social mountain ties,— Our plains that flow'r-cups gem ;- For liberty and them! So hang the sickle up, And calm as evening be; |