THE REGICIDE.
(For the Parterre).

"Oh, my afflicted soul! I cannot pray;
And the least child that has but goodness in him
May smite my head off.".

Beaumont and Fletcher.

THE meridian sun poured down a flood of light upon the blue waters of the English Channel, across which the gentle breeze urged a small vessel, which a few hours before had quitted a French port. Other craft, of various forms and sizes, from the deeply laden argosie to the light skiff of the fisherman, dotted the vast expanse of water, while ever and anon, the whistle, the rude song, or the halloo bespoke the light heart that floated on its bosom.

But no sound of mirth or cheerfulness rose from the small vessel in question, which moved sluggishly through the waters. A short, stout, hard-featured man stood at the helm, and three others were carelessly looking out forward. Close by the mast, engaged in earnest conversation, stood two figures, whose costume shewed at once that they were not mariners. One of them wore the

habit of a priest; while the rich vest of the other, his gold chain and gilt spurs, declared him a knight. An expression of cunning and dissimulation pervaded the fine features of the ecclesiastic, but those of the knight indicated repugnance and disgust.

"I seek not the blood of this wretched man," said the priest; "but should he land in England, the peace of our country will again be threatened. Alas! Sir Henry, your brother's broad acres-perhaps his life, may be at the disposal of the outlaw Gournay."

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Peace, peace, father," replied the knight; "my brother warred not against the captive; his sword was never drawn but for his country's weal. When he heard of the cruel butchery of Edward, he wept like a weak woman.'

"It may be so," rejoined the priest; "but idle tongues have been waggingeven my lord bishop hath shared of the scandal. Will the knightly crest escape the keen eye of those who boldly check at the mitre?"

"Our blessed Lady grant that the guilty may be dragged into light," exclaimed the knight: "let the axe descend on the necks of all who rejoiced at the

death of the unhappy prince: my soul sickens at the thought that one of his butchers sails with us. Holy Mother, fill our sails, and cast the wretch again upon the land he has polluted! Gournay, a thousand fiends wait to

"Who calls on the wretched Gournay?" cried a voice from beneath the deck, which made the monk and the soldier start. "Is there no hope of mercy? Where is my Lord of Hereford-where Lord Mortimer? 'T was at their bidding. Had I not their seals?"

"Peace, peace," said the knight, stamping impatiently, and the voice subsided into a low murmur, broken by deep sobs of anguish.

His grief will make him desperate, and he will impeach the innocent with the guilty," remarked the priest.

"What have the innocent to fear from the ravings of this wretched man, father?"

"Alas, Sir Henry, there is much to fear. Should this wretch be laid on the rack, I tremble for those whom he may denounce. The king hath sworn to do justice on all who were privy to his father's death. More than one tongue hath mentioned the name of Pennington."

"Ha! mass!" exclaimed the knight, grinding his teeth with rage. "Where is the villain? Let me know his name, and the lap of the Virgin shall be no sanctuary to the foul slanderer!"

"Be calm," said the monk, "and reject not my counsel. I say again the lives of many are in danger while Gournay lives."

The knight folded his arms, and strode up and down the deck for some minutes. At length he stopped, and looking his companion in the face, he said

"And what would you do with this

pling of feet, and presently a man ascended the ladder, and came upon the deck, followed by the knight's attendant. The follower appeared to have no relish for his employment. He stood behind the prisoner with a dogged, surly countenance, while he muttered to himself—

My stomach loathes this gaolership, and I care not how soon our man may be delivered into other hands! fah! he is a whining rogue, and fears death like a woman, though he is as cruel as the Paynim!"

It will be scarcely necessary to inform the reader, that the man whom he thus characterised was one of the three ruffians who had destroyed their sovereign in his prison, at Berkeley Castle, a few years before.

Wretched, indeed, was the appearance of the prisoner: pale and emaciated, he could scarcely totter towards the monk. His apparel was tattered, and his untrimmed beard and hair bespoke the indifference of one who had long been a stranger to repose and comfort.

"Mercy, father! mercy, Sir Henry!" groaned the miserable man, addressing the priest and the soldier by turns. "Give me not up to torture! Why should the great ones escape, and I their poor slave be hunted down? My Lord of Hereford can tell ye that I acted in

"Silence, man!" cried the priest sternly: then turning to the knight, he whispered, " You see the danger! Many a noble head will be laid low, if the ravings of this wretch find willing ears. He must die!"

"Mercy, mercy!" again cried the prisoner, kneeling and clasping his hands in agony, for he guessed that his death hour was nigh. "Why should your wrath descend on me alone?-Even my Lord Berkeley left the castle with his company."

"Whist! whist!" said the knight fiercely, "and prepare thyself for death - thou hast but a few moments to live!"

"Alas! alas!" cried the wretch, as he wrung his hands in despair, "why am I to die thus? Why am I not tried by my countrymen? I may deserve to die, but I am the lesser villain!"

He was again interrupted, and the monk bid him prepare to make his shrift; but so completely had the fear of death bewildered the unhappy man that he turned a deaf ear to the ecclesiastic, and continued to supplicate for mercy.

But nought, save a miracle, could

have averted his fate. Several of those who held high offices in the court of the English king, had rejoiced at the untimely end of his predecessor, and some of them had taken parts in the earlier scenes of that hideous drama; they therefore dreaded the return of one of the regicides. Gournay had been seized at Marseilles, and was now on his way to meet the reward of his fiendish cruelty. To accomplish the death of this wretch, as he crossed the sea, was the object of the guilty ones, and they had chosen a proper agent in the monk, who was now intreating Gournay to proceed with his confession.

But he might as well have lectured the winds. Fear and suspicion fettered the tongue of the prisoner, who would neither pray nor confess, and remained kneeling on the deck, wringing his hands, grinding his teeth, and rocking his body to and fro, while he uttered a low moaning sound, like a wild beast when held in the toils of the hunter.

William Delaval looked on, his rough but honest features distorted into an odd expression of disgust and contempt.

"Mass!" thought he, "how the blood-guilty villain writhes at the approach of death; and yet the shrieks of the poor king could bring no tear in his fierce eye, or stay his murderous hand."

The knight and the monk were also regarding the prisoner, and conversing with each other in whispers.

Bring up my great cutting falchion," said Sir Henry; and terror froze the vitals of the kneeling wretch, who seemed at these words to have been struck motionless.

The follower descended into the cabin, and presently returned with the weapon. The arms of Gournay were now bound tightly behind his back, and he was dragged to the ship's side, and fastened to an iron ring in the bulwarks, without his making any attempt at resistance.

Again the monk approached the prisoner to receive his shrift, but Gournay looked at him with a vacant stare, and maintained a dogged silence-fear seemed to have rendered the wretched man incapable of utterance.

The white cliffs of England now appeared stretching right and left along the coast until lost in the distance.

"Time flies," said the monk, addressing the knight: "let your man smite off his head at once-his soul is lost-he will not confess."

"Gramercy, father!" cried William

Delaval, who overheard this advice, "I am no headsman!"

"But you shall perform his office," said the knight sternly. "Why do'st tremble man? Thou hast showered hard blows on helmed heads. I once saw thee chine a Picard archer with a stroke that would not have shamed Guy of Warwick."

"But that was in fair fight," remarked William Delaval sulkily, "my foe was before me, with his sallet on his head, and his mell in his hand."

"Tut," said the knight, "the man thou see'st before thee is a murdererour lives are in his power."

The follower grasped the weapon which he still held in his hand, and reluctantly approached the prisoner.

"Strike!" cried the knight, "he is my enemy!"

A

The bright sword was raised aloft, flashed in the sun beams, and then descended upon the neck of the culprit. But the blow was awkwardly struck, though dealt by no feeble hand. convulsive tremor shook the frame of Gournay, and William Delaval averted his face and flung down his weapon with horror.

"Holy Mother!" cried he, "I cannot strike an unarmed man!"

"Varlet!" shouted the knight, laying his hand on his dagger, "proceed with your work!"

The crew of the vessel were looking on the scene with amazement and dread. Again the sword was raised, again it descended, and the head of the regicide fell with a heavy splash into the sea, while jets of blood spouted from the severed arteries.

"Cast the body overboard," said the knight, descending with his companion into the cabin; and in a few minutes the headless trunk was hurled into the sea, while the crew were busied in washing from the deck of their vessel the traces of the execution. A.A.A.

JERICHO BELEAGURED.

BY H. GUILFORD.

(For the Parterre.)

Now, 'mid the graceful palm, and cypress bowers,

Th' escaped of Egypt view those mighty towers;

Tow'rs built to heaven, and ramparts that defy,

In impious strength, the wrath of Deity.

stranger asked for nothing, but desired to be shewn to his room; so the girl lighted him up stairs, and my husband went to look after his horse, which is no more a real horse, Mr. Curé, than he is a man; for it had found its way into the stable although the door was shut. But no sooner had we begun to supper again, than suddenly we heard the sound of laughing and talking in the stranger's room, and the noise of people eating and drinking; and my husband, who is a bold man, crept softly up stairs, and looked through the key-hole, and sure enough he saw the stranger, and two others, seated at the table, which was covered with dishes and bottles, and they were eating and drinking heartily, and laughing and talking betwixt every mouthful: only hear!" said the innkeeper's wife; "and the smell of the victuals fills the whole house, and never did victuals smell so strangely to my nose: it was no mortal cook that made ready their supper.'

So they all snuffed and listened. The noise of the feast, indeed, was loud; but as for the scent of the viands, the Curé found nothing extraordinary in it, unless that it was somewhat richer than he was accustomed to.

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Truly (said the Curé) this is a won derful relation; these indeed cannot be mortal men. But in the church there are some relics which have performed many wonderful miracles, and I doubt not at all that they may have the power of dispersing this unholy meeting: I shall go and fetch them."

"Do so," said the innkeeper's wife, "and God speed you!"

"I shall be back in a twinkling," said the Curé.

While the Curé was absent, the innkeeper's wife read her prayers, and the innkeeper continued his supper.

"Now said the Curé (as he re-entered, with the box in his hand) I am ready to go and dissolve the assembly." So the Curé walked up stairs with the innkeeper behind him, and the innkeeper's wife remained at the foot, to await the issue of the enterprise, of whose success she doubted nothing. As the Curé and the innkeeper ascended the stair, the clatter of plates, and the sound of merriment, were as loud as ever; and it is natural to think, that before entering the room they would apply their eyes to the key-hole. The feast was going on merrily -the three were carousing joyously, making vast havock among the ragouts, and tossing over huge bumpers of wine.

The Curé next applied his ear to the door, to try if he could catch any of their conversation; but they were talking in an unknown tongue, of which he could comprehend nothing. At last he pushed open the door, and boldly entered, with his relics in his hand, and the innkeeper at his back. The moment the door was opened, the steam of rich meats came floating to the Curé's nose, and the first stranger rose, and politely bowing, invited him to "partake of their cheer." The Curé wisely reasoned that the relics would be as efficacious after as before supper; and he placed himself at table. Never had he tasted of better meats, or drank more delicious wine; but as his appetite yielded, he bethought himself of what the innkeeper's wife had said of the cook that had dressed the supper; and he began to feel himself somewhat uncomfortable in such company. He looked wistfully at his relics, and hardly less so at the door, uncertain of which he should avail himself; for he began to feel some slight doubts of the efficacy of the former, after having partaken of the unholy supper. Every time he looked up, he saw all the six eyes fixed upon him, and there was something in their expression not calculated to put him much at his ease; and every moment he began to wish more and more that his relics were in the church, and he in his bed.

From the moment the Curé had taken his place at table there had been total silence; but at last it was broken by one of the strangers laying his hand upon the box of relics, and asking what it contained.

"This," said the Curé, opening it, and not without hopes that the mere exhibition of the relics would of itself disperse the meeting, "this is a fragment of the stone that killed Saint Stephen; and this in the small box is a drop of his blood."

The two others stretched their necks across the table to look at it, and the Curé perceived, for the first time, that all their faces were alike.

"I cannot see the drop of blood," said the first stranger.

"It is somewhat difficult," replied the Curé; " but by long habit, I can see it perfectly well myself." Only figure a Catholic Curé shewing holy relics to three devils!!

"Your relic," rejoined the stranger, "reminds me of a story which I will tell you: A man stood upon a certain bridge, and exhibited a hair of the Virgin Mary."