declare where your master's treasures are to be found, or will you die upon the rack? This, messire, is the option."

"My choice is made," said Casembrot, a glow of enthusiasm lighting up his eye, and flushing his pale countenance. "There is nothing you can condemn me to that I will not endure rather than betray a trust reposed in me. Nay, my creed will enable me to suffer cheerfully; for it teaches me that there are no tortures you can inflict in this world equal to those wherewith they will be repaid unto you in eternity, which alike await you and me. And my philosophy leads me to think that lawless barbarities such as you perpetrate in every land over which you obtain sway will one day come home to your descendants, and make their homes desolate, desecrate their altars, and lay the glory and peace of your country in ashes. It is not for condemning me that I say thus much to you; for, I confess it, I have ever been a traitor in my heart—in my wishes-in my feelings; and if I have not been so in deeds, it is because stronger motives restrained me. As a born subject of Philip, I may deserve death; that I have not merited yet more, is because I loved Egmont, and his fidelity stood firm. But when you would attack the honour of such as he-when you would dip his laurels in his blood, because you envy him the possession of them-when you would rob him of his hereditary honours and wealth, and condemn the noblest and the best in the land for drinking a cup too much in the merriment of the banquet hour, and thousands of innocent men-innocent even in thought-to grasp at their riches-you! who are come we know not whence-sprung we know not from what-the mushroom growth of a tyrant's favour-for deeds like these, I lay upon you my own and my country's curse!”

It was now with the utmost difficulty that Vargas could restrain his colleagues from carrying out the sentence of death before he had pronounced it; but he felt that, all-powerful and unscrupulous as Alba was, this might be going a step too far-that prisoners must not be thus unceremoniously despatched. When at last he succeeded in restoring order, leaning back in his arm-chair as if wearied by the exertions he had gone through, he turned upon Casembrot a look of ineffable contempt, and said:

66

severe

Enough, Sire de Backerseel; you have displayed enough eloquence for one day, and perhaps more than was needful in such a forum. Gentle means having failed, we must resort to the more ones. This examination is not definitive; but as you will, doubtless, not be able again to support the journey to Brussels"-as he spoke these words, a cold, satanic smile played on his withered lips—“ we will even take the trouble to see you at Vilvorde ourselves, when I trust the result will be more satisfactory."

Casembrot, deigning no further reply, was led out by the guards. "That man," said Vargas to his colleagues, passing his broidered, perfumed kerchief over his brow, "has given me trouble. Send for a glass of sugar and water, and, if possible, let it be iced."

SAIL on! sail on! rejoicing in thy might!
Beauteous as fairies, or as ocean queen!
Buoyant as floating feathers, and as light
As frolic fairies dancing on the green,

Peerless pursue thy solitary way,

Thy taper masts aspiring to the sky; Dance lightly onward to the summer bay That views thy secrets with a fearful eye.

Wicked, yet fair! and oh, how passing fair,

As she who once the Trojan prince beguiled;
Wooing with outspread sails the gentle air,
Seemingly guiltless, yet with blood defiled!

Speed on! and gaily spread thy snow-white sail,
With thy sharp prow the yielding waves divide;
Rejoice triumphant in the freshening gale,
And walk the waters in thine empty pride.

Sail on! but hope not safely to pursue
For aye thy course of piracy and crime;
Thy victims' blood calls out for vengeance due,
And thou shalt perish at th' appointed time.

Now, as thou sailest onward fearlessly,

The winds are loth to fan thee with their breath; The waves before thee parted, turn and fly'

As though thou bearedst pestilence and death.

No birds come near, and circling round thee fly;
Round thy death-bearing hull no fishes play
Save the fierce sharks, that ever following nigh
From thy vile crew demand their daily prey.

Speed on thy way! triumphant in thy pride!
Ah! fair without, yet stained with blood within;
How oft, alas! some beauteous form doth hide

A heart corrupt and every shape of sin!

ISABEL MIL FOR D.

AN OLD BACHELOR'S STORY.

A TALE OF THE TIMES.

VIII.

How could I break the sad tidings to Sir John of his wife's insanity? I dreaded the effect such a communication might have upon Isabel. Day after day I took my pen in the vain hope of performing this painful office, but it was useless. I could not do it, and sheet after sheet was consigned to the flames as soon as written. But at last, with a painful effort, the task was done, and the letter sent to the post; then I paced up and down my little studio, almost wishing to recal it; and I pictured the agony of Isabel when this intelligence reached her, how anxiously she had wished to rejoin her mother when she escaped from the convent, and how her wishes were overruled by my fears for her safety.

Unfortunate old bachelor! how I blamed myself for lack of wisdom in not taking greater precaution for the mother's peace of mind when I rescued the daughter from impending misery; but yet what could I have done? If I had permitted Father Donald to know anything of Isabel's plans before they were executed, they would as surely have been frustrated by his manoeuvres, and therefore there was no other course to be adopted than the one I then took; and I derived some comfort from the knowledge that I had forwarded a letter to Lady Milford immediately Isabel was safely on board the steamer out of Father Donald's reach, and I could not possibly have foreseen the effect her daughter's disappearance would have upon the poor mother. Grief she would of course feel, but that frantic despair could only arise from dread of the fearful tortures which might be put upon her child at the instigation of the priest. And thus, though I could not entirely divest myself of blame, I consoled myself with the knowledge of having acted with as much sagacity as my poor old brains could dictate.

And not many days hence another cause of dismay presented itself, conveyed in a letter from Ernest:

I could scarcely believe my senses as my eye fell upon the words, "I hear, from undoubted authority, that Isabel is positively engaged to Sir Harry D; the day was fixed, and by this time she is married!" I staggered to a chair, for a qualm came over me. Had I indeed been deceived in her?-the faultless Isabel, as I had till then believed her. My own early griefs passed vividly before my mind's eye, and then I turned again to Ernest's letter, and read the outpourings of his grief and disappointment, and I do declare I almost caught myself shedding tears of sympathy!

And Montague had just succeeded to a title and fortune by the sudden death of a distant relative. His mother was anxiously urging him to return to England, but he said, "The news he had just heard from Jamaica required blotting from memory's page ere he could feel inclined to visit England again."

I resumed my pacing with more energetic strides, for I felt indignant

that I should have been so deceived in Isabel. I wrote my condolences to Ernest, upbraiding her falsity, and applauding his faithfulness (little did I know how much he had allowed Mimi to entangle him). "Better

is it," said I, "to wear the willow with an honourable and truthful heart, than to carry away the prize with a false one!"

But what a terrible perplexity I was in, when, some days afterwards, I heard from Sir John Milford, and he stated that information had reached him of Montague's marriage with Mademoiselle St. Clair. The news had affected his daughter so much that she was dangerously ill, and he intended returning to England with her, and should embark in a few days, if she was well enough to undertake the voyage. Oh! poor distracted old bachelor. What does all this mean? thought I. I was ready to tear my hair, if I had had any to spare; but alas! the locks were scant and small-a few thin hairs were all I could boast.

Once more I flew to my pen to acquaint Ernest with the facts I had just heard of his marriage with Mademoiselle St. Clair I did not believe a word—but I told him of the "false report"-of Isabel's illness-of her expected return-urging him to be in readiness to receive her, as doubtless her health would improve when she saw and judged for herself of his faithfulness and devotion. And then for days I waited in painful suspense, almost expecting to see Ernest each time the door opened; but he came not; and no tidings from him. How could this be? At last came a letter from a friend of his, one who had acted the part of a second in a duel! My heart died within me. I could not see more than the words "Montague" and "duel," in an unknown hand; I dropped the letter, and a cold dew stood on my brow. Blame me not, gentle reader! I had loved him as my own son; and truth must be told, he was the son of my first love her whom I had slighted; three years afterwards she had married Ernest's father, who had from boyhood been my friend; and when we met in after years, it was still as friends, and his noble boy I loved as truly as man could love a son; and, as I have said before, Ernest had always evinced attachment to "the old bachelor;" perhaps he would scarcely have loved me so well, had he known how little I had valued his mother's love; but of that he was ignorant; he knew her only as a happy wife, and I hoped to convince her of my regret for the past by naming her son as my heir. And could it be that this son was now dying? Once more I read the fatal truth-Ernest Montague was dangerously wounded; he had fought with the brother of Mademoiselle St. Clair.

Piqued with the account of Isabel's marriage, he had rashly yielded to the advances made by Mimi, had proposed, and been accepted. The marriage settlements were being drawn out at the very time he received my intelligence of Isabel's approaching return to England. He immediately made known his wish to cancel his engagement with Mimi, and received a challenge, "to atone for the insult with his heart's blood," from Monsieur le Capitaine. Lord C proved to be an active agent on the occasion. He acted as the Frenchman's friend, and with savage satisfaction saw Ernest fall, as it was feared, mortally wounded.

Mimi was seen to stamp her little foot again, and clench her tiny fist, as she exclaimed, "De parchmen muss be signe; he must no die before we get his gold. Vraiment! he is one base villain!"

An emissary of Lord C presented the parchment for Ernest to sign, telling him, unless he made the provision he had promised for Mimi, she would sue him for breach of promise. Ernest was disgusted'; but not to be frightened into doing what he knew they had no right to claim he replied that he was quite willing to make reparation to mademoiselle for any disappointment caused, but that, as he believed he had atoned for his fault with his life, he fancied both she and her friends should be satisfied.

Thus, then, the matter rested, and my dear Ernest might not, perhaps, survive another day. I determined on setting out immediately, in hope of at least seeing him once more.

IX.

I ARRIVED late in the evening at Paris, and on repairing to the hotel could scarcely restrain the impatience I felt to see him; but prudence held her sway; I knew that Ernest was enjoined perfect quiet and repose, and therefore believed the announcement of my arrival might cause him too much excitement to be unattended with danger. I therefore exerted myself to calm the agitation which quite unmanned me, and await with patience the arrival of the French doctor, who, I was assured, would be with Ernest in less than an hour. In a much shorter time than I expected the facetious Frenchman was introduced. With characteristic politeness, he lamented I should have been kept waiting to see my friend, detailed rapidly every symptom of Montague's case, shrugged his shoulders, and smiled with self-satisfaction as he described the operation he had performed of extracting the ball, giving me to understand that few men could have done the same as skilfully. As Sir Ernest Montague was still partially under the influence of chloroform, he said it would be but a wise precaution if I abstained from seeing him until the following day.

How long and dreary that night appeared; and yet, in reality, it was a very short one, for the clock had but just chimed the hour of four when the glorious sun rose in the splendour of its summer brightness, tinging all surrounding objects with its golden hues. Yet, though all nature smiled, my heart refused the impress of her gladness, and I remained painfully oppressed with apprehension of some dread calamity. And still I alternately paced my chamber and lounged in my chair, vainly striving to quiet the tumults within my breast. Several times I ventured as far as the door of Montague's apartment, and anxiously listened, if but to catch some sound of his voice, flattering myself I could judge of his state by its strength or weakness; but though all sound seemed hushed save the light step of his attendant, I listened in vain. The room was large, and his bed stood far from the door. I longed to enter, but dared not; his attendant assured me he was doing well; and upon his awaking from a refreshing sleep, the news of my arrival was gently broke to him, and I once more clasped the dear boy's hand in mine.

Day after day sped away, and he slowly mended; I continued with him, seldom leaving his bedside: and while thus detained in Paris, I heard of Sir John Milford's arrival in England. He told me of the agony felt by himself and Isabel on learning the fearful disorder of his wife, and