fated to undergo!" was the wanderer's exclamation. "Am I doomed to owe my life to her who abandoned me in prosperity-never, never. I shall at least seek an honester asylum than the bower of a heartless woman."

He rushed impetuously to the windowEmily's intelligence was too true—the military bivouacked around; their horses were picketed close to his concealment, and a sentinel within a few paces of the window. The impossibility of leaving his place of refuge was too apparent. Stung to madness, he threw himself once more upon the sofa to brood over his disastrous fortunes, and wait until night came, when he resolved to hazard an escape. The day appeared interminable. He looked at his watchit was but five o'clock, and for many hours he must remain a prisoner. In vain he attempted to calm his agitated feelings; he took a book from the table which seemed to have been lately used-a gold pencil was between the leaves, and the beautiful lines of Pope (which have since been given to the world) were written in wellknown characters in the margin.

What are the falling rills, the pendent shades,
The morning bowers, the evening colonnades,

But soft recesses for th' uneasy mind
To sigh unheard in, to the passing wind!
So the struck deer, in some sequester'd part,
Lies down to die-the arrow in his heart-
There hid in shades, and wasting day by day,
Inly he bleeds, and pants his soul away!

He threw aside the book, and his uneasy mind
recalled a sombre train of melancholy remem-
brances.
years of childhood, while

His

A stranger yet to pain,

were few, and passed rapidly-then came his earliest sorrow, and in fancy he followed his mother to the grave. He thought upon his first entrance on the theatre of the world, and again enacted the busy scenes of his college career, opening in honour, and ending in unmerited disgrace. Next came war-the hardfought field of Castaglione-the fiercely-contested bridge of Lodi, rose in glorious recollection. He returned to his happy home-his father and his friend were there, and there was Emily-and a burning glow flushed his pale cheek. His brow soon darkened, for the tragic close of all came on. Lord Edward lay bleeding upon his humble bed-he saw his teeth clench, and his mouth convulse with bodily pain; but not a groan escaped, and his dark

eye flashed defiance and revenge as he bent its proud glance on his enemies rolling on the blood-stained floor. And then he parted with his father!—he heard his last blessing-he felt his last embrace-the fatal drum struck, and the procession again passed in " shadowy review;"-and now he kneels beside his bier, and utters vows of desperate vengeance, and immediately the ghastly form of Travers glided byagain he sees his home in flames-again the tumult of the fight of Antrim rings in his ear, as in fancy he pulls his noble victim down, and the death-wound is given anew. Nature at last yielded to the influence of quiet, and sleep once more rested on the wanderer's lids.

He slept long and soundly, until a light footstep broke his slumber-a sigh breathed beside him, and a sweet voice softly repeated his name.

He opened his eyes-Emily was leaning over him-she did not speak, but a tear fell upon his forehead. The thrilling look of anguish which met his reproachful glance unmanned him in a moment, and before she could find words to ask for pardon, half his injuries were forgotten.

66

With sudden and desperate resolution he sprang from the sofa. Emily was leaning against the table. There was a dead pause for a few moments, while the wanderer appeared endeavouring to collect his thoughts. Lady," he said, in deep and broken tones, "this is indeed a painful meeting; believe me that accident alone brought me here for shelter, and when I discovered where chance had conducted me, I only waited for a few hours until night would favour an escape. I hoped that for this short time my privacy would have been respected; but I will go this moment-it matters little whether events, which seem inevitable, be hurried forward or not. Lady, farewell." He drew his belt more closely, and attempted to take his weapons from the table. Emily laid her hand feebly on his arm. She could not speak; and perceiving she was fainting, he supported her gently to the couch. Her head dropped upon his arm: she endeavoured to speak, but the exertion was too powerful, and she fell insensible on his breast. O'Hara gazed upon her: his stoic apathy was gone, and tenderness and compassion usurped its place. He looked on the woman

he had loved with such devotion-he bathed her lifeless forehead with water-he put wine to her cold lips; the colour again tinged her cheek, and again her sparkling eyes were turned on him in looks of fondness and entreaty.

"Henry, you will not leave me, and unpardoned-Oh God! I am already too wretched, and to part from you unforgiven would kill me: hear me, and refuse your pity if you can.".

The rebel's wan face flushed. To coldly leave that beautiful being, and leave her in her wretchedness, was beyond human nature; and placing himself beside her, he implored her to be comforted.

"You have heard much, Henry, to my disadvantage; but you have heard it from my enemies, and you will at least be candid, ere you condemn me. When we last parted-oh God! to meet again under such altered circumstances-you left me exulting in the happiness of an anticipated union with the man of my heart; and could you suppose that in a few short days I would forget you, and sacrifice you to another, and such another. But when you hear my miserable tale-when you hear a