The men obeyed, though their worthy leader twice showed an inclination

to doubt whether this person or that was the man whom the judge had

appointed to follow him. But Mr. Justice Whistler cut him short

sharply, and having seen him depart, turned to Lord Harold, saying,

"Now, my lord, I think with you that we had a great deal better go down

to the house, and examine what it contains, before we pursue these men,

having set our hounds upon the track. But as this reverend gentleman

says nothing, and seems to think otherwise, pray satisfy him in regard

to your reasons, to which I will add mine."

"Why," added Lord Harold, hesitating, "why, I think--that is to say, I

saw nothing but men in the party that went away. Now there is a woman

and a child, and if you take them, depend upon it, the chief bird of

the mew will hover near, and be caught at last."

As he spoke there was a deep and burning spot came up into his cheek,

which showed that there were feelings of shame and remorse, glowing

like coals of fire at his heart, even at the moment that the baser

spirit triumphed, and bowed his words and actions to its will.

Mr. Justice Whistler, however, did all that he could to make the matter

smooth to him. "Spoken like a true falconer," he cried; "my lord, you

take my trade out of my hands. We are fully justified in bringing our

bird back to the lure. However, there is no time to spare. Let us ride

on as fast as possible;" and so saying, he put his horse into a quick

pace, and, followed by the others, dashed down the hill at a rate which

scared many of the younger and more active of the party.

We must now, however, leave all the busy actors we have brought upon

the scene, and, quitting hounds and huntsmen, and the gay and merry

chase, turn to the dark and solitary lair where the quarry lay, fully

conscious of pursuit, in order to explain the motives of that sudden

flight which had been observed by the pursuers from the hills above.

CHAPTER XXXV.

The escape of Lord Harold, and the flight of one of their companions

with the woman-servant, had thrown the little band of Franklin Gray

into consternation and terror when it was discovered on the following

morning. Harvey, however, who assumed the command during the absence of

their leader, instantly took measures for tracking the fugitives, and,

by no other guide than the footmarks upon the sandy parts of the road,

traced the course of all three exactly to the spot where Lord Harold

had been left sitting under a tree by his two companions. From that

point all traces of those two were lost; but a shepherd, who had seen

the young nobleman, weary and exhausted, in the morning, and had

conducted him to a small village, hidden amongst the beeches to the

left of the spot, gave still further information; and leaving men to

keep a strict watch upon the place to which the fugitive had been

brought by the peasant, Harvey returned, with very unpleasant

sensations, to meet Franklin Gray, and gave him an account of the

evasion of the prisoner. He doubted not, indeed, that having thus

tracked him to his place of repose, they might be able to lay hands on

him again, for he never calculated upon the young nobleman doing what

in fact he already had done--taking a single hour's repose, and then

speeding on as fast as possible to the house of the nearest magistrate,

which was that of the gentleman with whom he was found by Justice

Whistler.

As Harvey returned, he perceived Franklin Gray and Mona riding

leisurely up the hill towards the house, and spurring forward at once,

he told the whole of his disagreeable tidings without any concealment.

The robber instantly turned his eyes upon his wife, and bit his lip

hard; while she, innocent of all share in what had occurred, but

feeling herself an object of suspicion and jealousy, turned very red,

and then very pale, and trembled violently.

"So, I am betrayed!" said Franklin Gray, "betrayed by those I trusted!

Harvey, I think you are faithful to me!"

"Indeed I am, Captain," replied the other; "and so are all the rest,

except that fellow who is gone, and whom I always thought was a low

scoundrel, unfit for the company of gentlemen. They are all faithful to

you, Captain, depend upon it."

"On what can we depend in life?" asked Franklin Gray, bitterly

"Friendship turns to hate; love betrays us always; gratitude was never

anything but a name; and honour is now a shadow! On what can we depend?

Let us come in, however, and consult what may be done. Action has been

through life the principle of my being; and I will not yield to

circumstances even now."

So saying, he led the way to the house; but he said not one word to his

wife, either as they went or when they arrived. The boy Jocelyn,

however, was in the court-yard, holding the infant in his arms, who

seemed well pleased with his new nurse. But Mona, the moment she had

set her foot to the ground, sprang forward and caught the baby to her

heart, exclaiming, "and did she leave you, my sweet babe? Cruel, cruel

woman! She never had one, or she could not have left you;" and dewing

its smiling face with tears, she ran away with it into the house to

hide the emotions she could not restrain.

Had Franklin Gray witnessed that meeting between mother and child, the

dark suspicions that had fully taken possession of his mind might have

been banished at once; but he was talking with Harvey at the moment,

and remembered nothing but the many whispered messages which he had

seen brought by the maid from the prisoner above on the preceding day;

and keen and bitter were the feelings at his heart. He went on speaking

with Harvey, however, as if occupied with ordinary business.

"If he have not quitted the village before this time," he said, "he

will most likely not quit it till night, knowing that we shall be

waiting for him. But at all events the horses must have some rest and

food. I rather think that, as far as insuring our own safety goes,

Harvey, we might as well let him journey on his way, for depend upon it

by this time he has given full information of everything concerning us

to the people where he has stopped. However, I am determined, if

possible, to have him in my hands again. In the first place, to punish

him for what he has done; in the next place, to find out the truth of

some matters in regard to which I am not at ease."

He spoke calmly; there was no heat, nor haste, nor agitation in his

tone. On the contrary, it was unusually slow and distinct; but there

was a knitting of the dark heavy brow, a setting together of the white

teeth between every two or three words, which made Harvey, bold man and

daring as he was, shrink, as it were, within himself, at signs of deep

and terrible passions, the effects of which he knew too well.

"Perhaps," continued Franklin Gray, in an easier tone, "the possession

of this young lord's person might be made, too, a sort of surety for

the safety of the band. There is a ship, I find, sails for the port of

St. Malo in four days; and I have made such arrangements that I can

have what space in her I like. I should wish our brave fellows to keep

around me till that time; when those who like to go with me can; those

who love this cold land can remain. But if we get hold of this pitiful

boy, I shall deal with him as a hostage, and make his life the price of

no step whatsoever being taken against me and mine."

With such objects in view, and believing that Lord Harold still

remained at the village to which Harvey had traced him, the

arrangements of Franklin Gray were soon made for proceeding in a few

hours to the spot in person. In the meanwhile he entered the house, and

held his infant child for several minutes in his arms, gazing on its

face in silence. He gazed, too, for an instant upon his beautiful wife,

with a cold meditative look, and without proffering a word; then gave

her back the child, and walked out across the hill, marking with a

soldier's eye every peculiarity of the country, when he did look upon

it, but in general bending his eyes down upon the ground, and communing

with his own sad heart, and muttering to himself as he strode along.

When the appointed hour was come, he was in the court-yard and his foot

in the stirrup; but his after proceedings on that night require no long

detail. Some information which he gathered, both from the men whom

Harvey had left to observe all the movements in the village, and from

some persons who passed, led him not only to believe that Lord Harold

was undoubtedly there, but that the young nobleman had gained tidings

of the close watch that was kept upon the place. The night was spent in

watching, and in vague councils held with Harvey and others, in the

course of which Franklin Gray did not display that firm decision which

had ever previously characterized his actions. He now thought of taking

the rashest and the boldest steps, of attacking the village itself, and

carrying off Lord Harold by force; then, again, he seemed inclined

still to watch, though the night had so far waned that it was

improbable any movement would take place; and again he was for giving

up the pursuit altogether.

In such infirm purposes passed the night, till the sound of horses'

feet revived expectation; and the appearance and flagellation of Mr.

Justice Whistler afforded a pleasant episode for the robbers to break

the tedium of their dull night's work. As soon as that was over,

Franklin Gray turned his steps homeward again; but feeling a conviction

that the peasantry of the neighbouring districts would soon be moved

against him, he took the precaution of placing two of his band, whose

horses were in the freshest condition, on two points, where they could

communicate by signs with each other, and see over the whole country

below.

He then returned straight to his dwelling; but there had come a

recklessness over him, a sort of moody and splenetic demeanour, which

was remarked by Harvey and all his companions. He who usually laughed

so seldom, now recalled the affair of Justice Whistler more than once

with somewhat wild and fitful merriment; but then the moment after he

would fall into deep stern thought, answer any question that was put to

him in an absent if not in an incoherent manner, and would frequently

break forth at once upon topics totally distinct from those which might

naturally have occupied his mind.

When he arrived at home--at least that temporary kind of home which was

all that his wandering life ever allowed him to know--he was met at the

door by his fair wife Mona, who gazed timidly up in his face, to see

whether his feelings were softer or happier than they had been. It was

an agreeable surprise to her to find that he took her by the hand, and

gazed on her with a look of admiration and love. The only words he

spoke, however, were, "You are fair, my Mona; fairer, I think, than

ever, to look upon. Where is the babe?"

She led him to see the child sleeping; and as Franklin Gray bent over

it, and gazed upon the calm and placid face of infant slumber, a bright

drop fell from his eyes on the cheek of the child, and woke it from its

rest. It held out its little arms to him at once, however; and taking

it up, and pressing it to his bosom, he carried it to the window, and

gazed forth upon the wide world beyond. Mona had seen the drops which

fell from her husband's eyes, and she saw, too, his action towards the

child, but she would not interrupt the course of such feelings for the

world, and only saying in her heart, "He is softened," she hastened to

seek some apparent occupation, while her soul was busy with the joy of

renewed hopes.

That joy was soon clouded, for again over Franklin Gray came that same

fitful mood, which tenderness for his child had for a moment

interrupted. He said nothing harsh, indeed; he showed no sign of

unkindness; and no word announced that the dark suspicions and

jealousies which he had before entertained still remained as tenants of

his bosom. Often, indeed, he fell into deep stern fits of thought, and

would rest for more than half an hour in the same position, with his

head bent forward, and his eyes fixed on one particular spot of the

ground. Then, again, he would start up, and, especially if he found

Mona's eye resting upon him, would break forth in gaiety and merriment,

tell some wild tale of laughable adventure, or sing a broken part of

some cheerful song.

Mona, however, was not to be deceived by such signs; and they were all

painful to her. That he whom she had never known to be merry, even in

his brightest days, should so suddenly, after deep gloom, break forth

into gaiety, was quite enough to show her that all was not well within;

and watching him with the anxious eyes of deep affection, she strove to

do and say all that could soothe and calm, and console and cheer him.

Sometimes her efforts would seem successful, sometimes not. Sometimes

he would gaze upon her with looks of deep and earnest love; sometimes

would start away when her hand touched his, as if it had been a

serpent. All and everything she saw was matter of deep pain and anxious

thought to Mona Gray.

When the hour of dinner came, she strove to tempt him to his food, but

he would scarce taste anything except wine, and of that drank more than

usual. It seemed not to excite, however, but rather to calm him. His

manner grew more consistent; sadder, but more tranquil; and leaving his

companions still at the table, he led his wife away to the chambers

they usually inhabited, and sat down and spoke with her rationally on

many things. There was an occasional abruptness, indeed, in his speech,

and a rapid transition from one thing to another, which still alarmed

her, but she consoled herself with the hope that the fit was passing

away, and that all would be better soon.

At length he said, "Come, Mona, come! While I take the child upon my

knee, you sing me a song. Who knows if I shall ever hear another?"

Though her heart was sad, she made no reply, but hastened to obey; and

she chose such words and such an air as she thought most likely to

soothe him. Both were sad, but through both there ran the bright

glimmering of hope; a cheerful note every now and then mingled with the

more melancholy ones, and promises of future happiness blended with the

sadder words of the lay.

The music still trembled in the air, when Harvey suddenly entered the

room, and approaching his captain, whispered a word or two in his ear.

Franklin Gray instantly started up, with the dark cloud upon his brow

which usually gathered there in moments of determined action.

"The time is come!" he exclaimed. "Harvey, I will speak with you and

the rest. Mona, take the child. I will be back in a few minutes."

He then followed Harvey out of the room; and from that moment his whole

demeanour was calm, collected, and firm. "Have all the horses saddled

quickly," he said; "each man collect everything valuable that he has.

Each man, too, have his arms all ready for action at a moment's notice!

Did you say, Harvey, that they had both come over the hill?"

"No; only one," replied Harvey; "but he came at such speed that there

can be no doubt the other will soon follow. We shall doubtless have to

stand to our arms soon, Captain, I suppose?" And as he spoke his cheek

was a little paler than ordinary; but there is such a thing as the

emotion of strong resolution, and it may blanch the cheek, though in a

slighter degree than fear.

"Perhaps so, Harvey," answered Franklin Gray; "but we shall hear;" and

as he spoke he advanced to the window, and having satisfied himself by

one glance, he turned back to Harvey, saying, "The other is coming too.

We shall know more anon."

The first of his watchers, who had been left on the other side of the

hills, had by this time nearly reached the house, and in a minute or

two after he entered the room where Franklin Gray and Harvey, with the

rest of the band who were not occupied in preparations, waited his

report. "Well," said the Captain, "what news, Miles?"

"Why, I am afraid they are coming up in great force, Captain," he

answered. "I could only see them draw out from the end of the lane upon

the hill side, but there seemed a good many of them. I did not move a

step, however, till I saw Doveton begin to canter away, then I thought

it right to come on and give you the first tidings. He will be here

soon, and render you a clearer account."

"You did quite right," replied his leader. "If we had all to deal with

such as you, my man, we should do very well." The man looked gratified;

but Franklin Gray went on; "Come, Harvey; we will go out into the

court. We shall be nearer the scene of action," and he walked

deliberately out into the court-yard, where the horses were now all

brought out and ranged in line.

"Mount, my men!" he cried; "mount! We shall soon have Doveton here.

Miles, that pistol will fall out of your holster. Don't you see the

lock has caught on the leather? You hold my horse, Jocelyn! Harvey," he

continued, speaking to the man apart, and pointing to the boy; "do you

think if we were obliged to make the best of our way off, and this

youth were left behind--this mere child, as you see he is--they would

injure him?"

"Oh, no," replied Harvey, "certainly not. They might take him away, but

we could soon find means to get him out of their hands again."

"So," replied Franklin Gray, "so. But I hear Doveton's horse's feet

clattering down the road as hard as he can come;" and in a minute or

two the man he spoke of rode into the court-yard, with his horse

foaming from the speed at which he had come.

"I am glad to see you are ready, Captain," he exclaimed; "for depend

upon it we shall have sharp work of it. There must be at the lowest

count forty of them coming up the hill, and all seemingly well mounted

and armed, for I looked at them through the spy-glass you gave me, and

I could see them all as plainly as if they were at the other end of the

table."

Franklin Gray mused for a moment, and then demanded, "Could you see who

it was that led them on?"

"Why, there were three rode abreast," said the man, "and I could see

them all plainly enough. The one on the left was a man in a black

cassock; but I don't think I ever saw him before. The middle one was a

fat heavy man, who, I rather think is the justice whom we flogged last

night--only in the darkness then I didn't well remark his face. But the

third one, on the right hand, is certainly that lord you had up here

for so long: that Lord Harold."

The cloud grew doubly dark upon Franklin Gray's brow, and putting his

hand to his throat, he loosened the laced collar of his shirt. "Fully

forty men, you say?" he demanded, thoughtfully. But then added, without

waiting for reply, "Harvey, you are not mounted! Quick, quick, into the

saddle! Miles and Doveton, put yourselves upon the left. Now, Harvey,

mark well what I have to tell you! Lead those men out, and take at full

gallop across the hill to the right. If you keep Elsland Peak always a

little to the left, you will come to a hollow; and if you ride up it as

fast as you can go, long before any one can overtake you, for their

horses are not used to this work like ours, you will have reached a

spot where the slope divides the hollow into four, and all four lead

away to the beech wood, where you may disperse, and set chase at

defiance. Arrange your plans amongst yourselves as you go; and now lose

not a moment, for they must be over the hills by this time."

"But yourself, Captain," asked Harvey, anxiously; "yourself, and the

lady, and the little child? I will never leave you here alone."

"Do not be afraid Harvey," replied Franklin Gray, with a stern smile;

"I will take care of them and myself, depend upon it!"

"But I do not like this plan at all," cried the man. "What! to run away

and leave my captain behind me, at the mercy of these fellows that are

coming up! I do not like it at all, Captain Gray. This will never do."

"You surely would not disobey me in a moment of danger and difficulty

like this!" said Franklin Gray. "No, no, Harvey, you are too good a

soldier for that! But to satisfy you, you shall see that I provide in

some degree for my own safety. Jocelyn, take my horse down into the

narrow part between those two sheds, and hold him there, whatever you

see or hear, till I come to you. In the first place, open those two

other gates at the bottom of the court, and when you are holding the

horse, keep as far back as possible, that nobody may see you! Now,

Harvey," he added, "you see and are satisfied. Lead the men out as I

have commanded. I trust their safety to you!"

Harvey looked down and bit his lip, hesitating evidently for a moment

as to whether he should obey or not. At length he looked steadfastly in

Franklin Gray's face, and held out his hand to him, with a melancholy

shake of the head.

"God bless you, Captain Gray," he said; "I obey you even in this; but I

am very much afraid that you are not quite right in your plans. I am

afraid, I say, that you are acting under a wrong view; and I wish to

God you would think of it before it is too late. Well, well; I will

go--God bless you, I say. Come, my men, let us march;" and so saying he

led them all out of the court-yard.

Franklin Gray saw them depart with stern, unmoved composure; then

advanced to the gate himself, and while their horses were heard at the

full gallop proceeding in the direction which he had pointed out, he

himself gazed up towards the other part of the hills, and saw a strong

party of horsemen crowning some of the summits. He then spoke another

word or two to the boy Jocelyn, returned into the room where he had

conferred with Harvey, and paused with his arms folded on his chest,

pondering gloomily for about a minute.

His next act was to cast himself into a chair, and cover his eyes with

his hands, while his lip might be seen quivering with agonizing

emotion. It lasted scarcely a minute more, however, and rising up, he

struck his hand upon the table, saying, "Yes, yes; it shall be so!"

He then took a brace of pistols from the shelf, loaded them carefully,

and placed them in his belt; after which he proceeded to a closet

wherein were deposited several other weapons of the same kind; chose

out two with much deliberation, looked at them closely with a bitter

and ghastly smile; and having loaded them also, he locked the door of

the house, and returned to the room where he had left his wife.

The same dark smile was upon his countenance still, but he said as he

entered, "I have been away from you long, fair lady, but it was

business of importance called me. Now we will have another song, but it

shall be a gayer one than the last."

Mona sang, but it was still a sad strain that she chose; and Franklin

Gray, with his head bent down, and his ear inclined towards her,

listened attentively to every note. When it was done, he caught her to

his breast, and kissed her repeatedly, saying, "They are very sweet. Is

there no poison in them, Mona?"

"None! None! Franklin," she replied. "If any poison has reached your

heart, it has not been from Mona's lips."

Franklin Gray turned away, and muttered something to himself but Mona

did not hear that the words were, "Would it were so!"

"Play upon the lute," he continued sharply; "let us have the sound of

that too;" and again she did as he bade her, though by this time there

was a sound of heavy blows, as if given by a hammer below; together

with the trampling of horses' feet, and voices speaking.

"Those men are making so much noise I can scarcely play," at length,

she said, "and the poor baby is frightened by it. See, he is going to

cry!"

"Play, play!" said Franklin Gray, soothing the child with his hand, as

it sat close to his feet; and Mona again, though with a trembling hand

and anxious heart, struck the chords of the instrument. At that moment,

however, there was the rush of many feet along the passage; and the

next, the door of the chamber flew open, and seven or eight persons

rushed in.

Though Mona had not remarked it. Franklin had drawn some of the benches

and tables across the room when he first entered, in such a manner as

to form a sort of barricade; and the moment the door burst open he

started upon his feet, and levelled a pistol towards it, exclaiming,

"Stand!" in a voice that shook the room.

The first face that presented itself was that of Lord Harold, and

though his nerves were not easily shaken, yet the tone and gesture of

Franklin Gray caused him to pause for an instant, of which the Robber

at once took advantage.

"Lord Harold," he exclaimed, "you have come to see your handy-work, and

to receive its punishment. I saved your life. You taught my wife to

betray me!"

"Never, never!" shrieked Mona, falling on her knees before him.

"Never?" exclaimed Franklin Gray. "False woman! did you think I could

not see? Lo! pitiful boy, here is your handy work, and here your

punishment!" and turning the pistol at once towards her, he discharged

the contents into her bosom. She fell back with a loud shriek, and Lord

Harold in an instant sprang across the barrier; but ere he could take a

step beyond it, a second pistol was aimed at his head, and fired by

that unerring hand which seemed only to gain additional steadiness in

moments of agitation or of agony. Bounding up like a deer from the

ground, the young nobleman was cast back by the force of the shot at

once upon the table over which he had leaped; he never moved again:

there was an aguish quivering of the limbs, and a convulsive

contraction of the hand; but, as in the case of Wiley, the shot had

gone straight into the brain, and consciousness, and thought, and

sensation, were instantly at an end for ever.

The rest of the Robber's assailants shrunk back with terror; and

Franklin Gray, with a fierce triumphant smile, gazed at them for an

instant, while, casting the weapons he had used to such fatal purpose

on the ground, he drew a third from his belt, and exclaimed aloud, "Who

will be the next?"

Borne back by the fears and pressure of his companions, with great

difficulty Justice Whistler struggled through the doorway into the room

again, but he did so with a bold and undismayed countenance, and,

pistol in hand, advanced towards the Robber. But an object had

attracted the attention of Franklin Gray, and he was bending down

towards the floor.

The infant--the poor infant--had crawled towards its mother, and the

fair small hands were dabbled in her blood. The Robber snatched the

child up to his bosom, and giving one fierce glance towards the only

one who remained to assail him, he exclaimed, "Fool! you are not worth

the shot;" and thrusting the pistol into his belt again, he sprang

towards the window, which was wide open.

Though embarrassed with the child, he had passed through in a moment,

but not before Justice Whistler, shouting loudly, "He will escape! he

will escape!" had pulled the trigger of his pistol at him with a steady

aim. Loaded, however, by hands unused to such occupations, it merely

flashed in the pan; and though he instantly drew forth the second, and

fired, it was too late; Franklin Gray had passed, and was dropping down

to the ground below.

"Stop him! Stop him:" exclaimed the justice, springing to the window,

and overturning chairs and tables in his way. "He will escape! He will

escape! Stop him below there! Run down, you cowardly rascals! Run down,

and pursue him in every direction! By ----! the fellow will escape

after all!" And after gazing for a single instant from the window he

rushed out of the room.

On the side where Franklin Gray sprang to the ground there was not one

of the party who had come to take him, all, except those who had

entered the house and learned the contrary, believing that he had fled

with the rest whom they had seen traversing the hills, and all being

busy in examining the Robber's abode, the courts, the stabling, the

harness that had been left behind, with open-mouthed curiosity.

The voice of the justice, indeed, called one stout farmer round, and he

instantly attempted to seize the stranger whom he saw hurrying forwards

towards some sheds at the other end of the building, but, though a

burly and a powerful yeoman, one quick blow from the Robber's hand laid

him prostrate on the earth, and springing past him, Franklin Gray

reached the spot where his horse was held.

The boy Jocelyn had managed skilfully, constantly avoiding the side

from which a sound of voices came. But now the quick and well-known

step called him forth in a moment; the fiery horse was held tight with

one hand, the stirrup with the other; and by the time Justice Whistler,

with the troop that followed him, came rushing forth from the door,

Franklin Gray was in the saddle; and still bearing the child in his

arms, he struck his spurs into the horse's sides, and galloped through

the gates.

Two of the farmers who had remained on horseback without, had seen him

mount, but not knowing who he was, had not attempted to interrupt him.

The appearance of their companions in pursuit, however, instantly

undeceived them, and they spurred after at full speed. On went the

gallant charger of Franklin Gray, however, faster than they could

follow; and when they had kept up the race, at about twenty yards

behind him, for nearly a quarter of a mile, the one nearest exclaimed

aloud, "I will shoot his horse."

The words must have reached the Robber's ear; for instantly his charger

slackened its pace, and the pursuer gained upon him a little; but then

Franklin Gray turned in the saddle, and with the bridle in his teeth

stretched out his right hand towards him. Next came a flash, a report,

and the farmer tumbled headlong from the saddle severely wounded, while

Franklin Gray pursued his course with redoubled speed.

Almost all the rest of the party who had come to take him were now

mounted and in full pursuit; but his greatest danger was not from them.

A little above him, on the hill, and nearly at the same distance from

the house where he had dwelt, were seen, when he had gone about a mile,

several of the party who had been sent to follow his band. The sight of

a horseman in full flight, and many others pursuing, as well as the

gestures and shouts of those below, made them instantly turn and

endeavour to cut him off. On that side, as he was obliged to turn to

avoid both the parties, the pursuers gained upon him, and, as if by

mutual consent, they now strained every nerve to hem him in.

There was, about half a mile further on, a chasm caused by a deep

narrow lane, between banks of twenty or thirty feet deep, descending

from the top of the hills; and those above him on the slope, having

already passed it once that morning, strove to drive him towards it,

their only fear being lest those below should not act on the same plan.

Franklin Gray, himself, however, took exactly the course they wished,

and as, bearing down from above, they came nearer and nearer to him,

they laughed to see him approach at full speed a barrier which must

inevitably stop him. They urged their horses rapidly on, lest he should

find some path down the bank into the lane; and nearer and nearer they

came to him as he bore up towards them. They were within fifty yards of

him when he reached the bank, and so furious was his speed that all

expected to see him go over headlong.

But no! The bridle was thrown loose, the spur touched the horse's

flank, and with one eager bound the gallant beast cleared the space

between; and though his hind feet, in reaching the other side, broke

down the top of the bank, and cast the sand and gravel furiously into

the lane below, he stumbled not, he paused not, but bounded on, while

the rashest horseman of the party pulled in his rein, and gazed with

fear at the awful leap that had just been taken. A part is still

pointed out on those hills where the top of the bank above the lane

exhibits a large gap; and the spot is still called the Robber's Leap to

the present day.

Every one, as we have said, drew in their horses, and some rode to and

fro, seeking for a passage down into the lane; but, in the meanwhile,

Franklin Gray was every moment getting further and further out of reach

of pursuit.

When Justice Whistler, who came up as fast as his horse would bear him,

arrived upon the spot, he saw at once it was too late to pursue the

fugitive any further, and he exclaimed, "Give it up my masters; give it

up; he has escaped us for the present, but we shall get hold of him

by-and-bye. A man who gets into a scrape like this never gets out of it

without a rope round his neck. Let us return to the house and conclude

our examinations there; though a terrible day's work it has been, for,

if my eyes served me right in the hurry, there is that poor young

gentleman as dead as a stone, and the woman, who seemed a beautiful

creature, too, no better."

Thus saying, he turned round, and rode back towards the house, while

those who followed, and who had not been present at the events which

had taken place within the building, eagerly questioned such as had

witnessed the fearful scene. While they listened to the details,

magnified as they might be, perhaps, by fear and the love of the

marvellous, a gloomy feeling of awe fell over the whole party; and they

gazed up towards the house as they approached it with sensations which

made the blood creep slowly through their hearts.

Such feelings were not diminished by the sight of their wounded

companion, who had received Franklin Gray's fire in the pursuit, and

who was still lying on the ground, supported by one of his friends who

had remained behind, and bleeding profusely from the right breast.

Several alighted, and aided to carry him towards the house, while

Justice Whistler and one or two others rode on, and proceeded at once

to the room where they had first found the Robber.

There were sounds of many voices within, for six or seven of the party

had remained behind, together with the good village rector, Dr. Sandon;

and when the justice entered the room he found it occupied by three

groups, the nearest of which consisted of two or three farmers,

gathered round the head of the table, and gazing curiously at the

object which it supported. A little further on was one of the

constables, holding firmly by the collar the fair curly-headed boy

called Jocelyn; while still further on was the rector, kneeling on the

ground, and surrounded by the rest of the farmers and yeoman.

The magistrate advanced direct to the table, and saw that the object of

the farmers' contemplation was the dead body of the unhappy Lord

Harold, which was now stretched out, with the limbs composed, and

stiffening into the rigidity of death. Too much accustomed to such

sights to be strongly affected by them, the justice passed on, shaking

his finger at the boy Jocelyn, and saying, "Ah, you little varlet, I

shall deal with you by-and-bye."

"He's a funny little rascal, your worship," said the constable. "He ran

up the hill so fast that nobody could catch him, till he got to a place

where he could see the whole chase, and there he stood, and let himself

be taken as quietly as a lamb, though I told him he would be hanged to

a certainty."

The justice looked in the boy's face, and saw the tears streaming down

from his eyes. One of the redeeming qualities of Mr. Justice Whistler

was his love for children; and the boy's affliction touched him. "Poh!

Poh! you foolish lad," he cried; "they'll not hang such a child as you.

Whip the devil out of you, perhaps; but don't cry for that."

"I'm crying for my poor mistress," said the boy; and the justice then

advanced in the direction towards which Jocelyn's eyes were turned,

pushing two of the farmers out of his way who obstructed his view of

what was taking place. He found that Mr. Sandon was kneeling by the

side of Mona Gray, and supporting her lovely head upon his arm. Her

face was deadly pale, her lips blanched, her eyes closed, and the long

black lashes resting upon that fair cheek: while the dark hair, broken

from the bands that had confined it, hung in glossy confusion to the

ground. The blood which had been flowing from a wound in her bosom was

now stanched; and the clergyman, sprinkling cold water in her face, was

at that moment endeavouring to bring her back to life; but the

countenance was so like that of a corpse, that the magistrate

immediately demanded--"Is she not dead?"

"No, no," said the clergyman, in a low voice. "Don't you see she

breathes: she has twice opened her eyes."

In a moment or two after she unclosed them again; but those bright and

lustrous eyes were dimmed with the grey shadows of approaching

dissolution. She feebly lifted her hand, and putting it to her bosom,

drew forth a small crucifix of gold, which she pressed earnestly to her

lips. New strength seemed to be acquired by the very effort; and gazing

wildly round her on the strange faces that filled the room, she made an

effort to speak. At first no sound was heard; but the next moment she

distinctly uttered the words--"Is he safe? Has he escaped?"

The boy Jocelyn caught the sounds--burst away from the constable who

held him--broke through those that stood around, and cast himself down

on his knees beside her. "Yes, Mona, yes!" he cried; "he is safe! He

has escaped! I saw him leap the gap myself, and none was brave enough

to follow him. He is safe, and the baby too!"

Mona Gray raised her eyes, as if seeking the heaven to pour out her

thankfulness; but the next moment, by another great effort, she said,

"Jocelyn, if ever you see him again, tell him that Mona did not

betray him in deed, or word, or thought. Tell him it was her last

asseveration."

As she spoke, she pressed the crucifix again to her lips, and then

murmured forth some sounds in a language that was not understood by any

one present. She then closed her eyes, but still from time to time

uttered a few words in the same tongue and in a low tone.

At length they ceased. The hand that held the crucifix to her lips sunk

a little lower on her bosom--the other dropped motionless by her

side--there was a slight gasp, and a shudder, but neither groan nor

cry, and the breath stopped for ever.

Several moments elapsed before any voice broke the deep silence which

that sight had produced; and the first words that were spoken were by

the clergyman, who said, "God have mercy upon her."

She was then carried into the room beyond, and laid upon her own bed;

and Justice Whistler returning, despatched messengers to the next town

to summon the coroner with all speed.

His design, however, of apprehending Franklin Gray was by no means

abandoned; and he endeavoured, skilfully enough, to make use of the

simplicity of the boy Jocelyn for that purpose. After talking with him

for some time in rather a kindly tone, yet asking him a great many

questions in regard to his connection with the robbers, and attempting

apparently to ascertain whether the boy had taken any share in their

exploits, he said at length, "Well, my good boy, since such is the

case, and you had nothing to do with them, but merely minding your

master's horse, and the commands of the lady, you are pretty clear of

the business; and, indeed, I do not know what to do with you, so you

had better go home to your friends, if you've got any."

"I would rather go with you, sir," said the boy, "if you would take me

with you. You seem good-natured, and I should like to serve such a

gentleman as you; and if you did not choose to keep me on, I could

serve you along the road."

The suspicions of the justice were excited, and he asked, "Why, which

way do you suppose I am going, my man?" And then added, keeping his

eyes fixed upon the boy's face, "I am not going back over the hills; I

am going on to the town of ----, to seek out this master of yours."

The boy's countenance appeared to fall; and Mr. Justice Whistler

convinced by what he saw, that Franklin Gray had most likely taken his

way back over the hills, and that the boy knew it, left him in the

hands of the farmers, and took the constable aside.

"Keep an eye upon that youth," he said. "Don't seem to restrain him at

all; and if he says he will go back to his friends, let him go, but

watch every step that he takes. If he says, however, that he will go

with me, look to him well every step of the way; for I judge by his

manner that he knows his master has gone over the hills, and wishes to

be carried back with us for the purpose of rejoining him."

The man promised to obey punctually; and the justice, returning to the

boy, spoke to him once more, as if in passing, saying, "Well, my good

boy, you shall do just as you like. Upon second thoughts, I am going

back to Moorhurst and Uppington; and you can either go away by

yourself, and find out your friends, or you can come with me, and I'll

feed you well by the way. Think about it, and let Master Constable

know."

The boy's face brightened in a moment, and he said at once, "Oh, I will

go with you."

There was much to be done, however, before the justice could set out,

and it was nearly dark ere, leaving the scene of so many sad and

horrible events in the hands of the officers of the county, he took his

way back over the hills with the reverend gentleman, who once more

invited him kindly to his house.

All the farmers accompanied them. No one choosing to separate from the

rest at that hour, with the knowledge that Franklin Gray and his band

were free, and in the vicinity. The boy Jocelyn, mounted behind the

constable, was carefully watched, but he showed not the slightest

inclination to escape, and when he arrived at the parsonage, ate a

hearty supper in the kitchen, and fell asleep by the fire-side.

He was roused about eleven o'clock to accompany the constable to a

garret chamber which had been prepared for them, and in five minutes he

was asleep again; but when his companion woke an hour or two after

daylight on the following morning, no Jocelyn was to be found, though

the door was still locked, and the room was in the third story. There

were found, indeed, the window partly open, the traces of small feet

along a leaden gutter, the branch of a tall elm, which rested against

one corner of the house, cracked through, but not completely broken,

and the fragments of glass at the top of the wall neatly and carefully

pounded into powder with a large stone.

These were the only traces of the boy's flight that could be

discovered; but these were quite sufficient for Mr. Justice Whistler;

and after chiding the constable severely for sleeping so soundly, he

turned to the clergyman, saying, "It is very evident that this man is

still in the neighbourhood, and is on this side of the hills. Let me

beg you, my good sir, to keep a good watch in every direction till I

come back, which will be to-morrow evening. I think it better, now, to

go on myself, in order to see old Lord Danemore, who lies dangerously

ill, and to break to him the news of his son's death, which, if I judge

rightly, may, at the present moment, be a matter of the greatest

importance to him and many others."

The justice breakfasted, and then proceeded on his journey.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

We must now return to the conversation which was going on at the

Rectory of Danemore between Mr. Evelyn, Sir Walter Herbert, and him

whom we shall still call Henry Langford--in the fear that he should

never establish his claim to any higher title; and the reader need

scarcely be told that the interruption which took place therein was

occasioned by the arrival of Mr. Justice Whistler, bearing with him the

sad account of all that had occurred in consequence of the expedition

which he himself led against Franklin Gray.

Putting down his hat upon the table, the feather band of which was

dripping with some rain which had now begun to fall, he declared that

he believed such events had never happened before in any civilized

country; and he related with no inconsiderable degree of real feeling

the death of poor Mona Gray. For a time, sensations of awe, and grief,

and astonishment, suspended every other feeling in the bosoms of his

hearers; but he himself, who had cast off the first impression under

the influence of a good night's rest and a long heavy ride, recalled

the rest of the party to other thoughts, by making Langford a low bow,

and saying, "Under existing circumstances, I suppose I may congratulate

you, Sir, upon your undisputed succession to the title of the Earl of

Danemore."

Langford replied that he certainly intended at once to assume that

title, though, he believed, it would not be undisputed; and Mr. Evelyn,

who had a great inclination for doing business under all circumstances,

immediately proceeded to take into consideration the change which the

news that they had just received might produce in Langford's position.

Judging that it might be as well to engage the acuteness of Mr. Justice

Whistler in their service, at least as far as seeking for the lost

papers was concerned, he opened the matter to that respectable

magistrate, and held out to him such cogent inducements for exerting

himself to the utmost in the business in hand, that the justice, though

he represented the importance and necessity of his presence in London,

agreed to leave all business there to his colleagues, and devote

himself to the object in view.

Langford heard this arrangement without saying anything, and without

giving any encouragement to Mr. Justice Whistler to remain; for, in

truth, he had his own views upon the subject, and had already

determined what course to pursue, feeling perfectly sure that the lost

papers were in the possession of Franklin Gray, and that any efforts of

Mr. Justice Whistler for the recovery of those papers would retard if

not utterly prevent the attainment of their object.

He took care, therefore, to give no hint, either of his own purposes,

or his suspicions as to the hands into which the papers had fallen, but

at once turned to another part of the subject, saying, "In the first

place, Mr. Evelyn, as it is my full intention to deal openly and

straightforwardly in this business altogether, I think it may be

necessary immediately to send a note to Sir Henry Heywood, informing

him of the terrible fate which has befallen my unhappy brother, and

begging to meet him here, to confer more fully on the subject to-morrow

morning."

The note was accordingly written, and sent; and Sir Henry, who fancied

himself considerably nearer to his object in consequence of the death

of Lord Harold, returned a gracious answer, and appointed ten o'clock

on the following day for the conference. Sir Walter Herbert then

proceeded to Moorhurst; but although Langford felt a longing desire to

pass one more evening of tranquillity with her he loved best, in the

library of the calm old Manor House, he would not quit the sad dwelling

where the body of his father lay, but remained there during the night.

By ten o'clock the next morning Sir Walter had returned, and the

arrival of Sir Henry Heywood soon followed. He was now, however,

accompanied by a lawyer, and on his entering the room, Langford

immediately, in plain and courteous language, and few words, announced

to him the situation in which he stood, as son of the late Earl of

Danemore, by his private marriage with Eugenie de Beaulieu.

Sir Henry Heywood had not lost his time since his arrival in the

neighbourhood of Danemore Castle, and by one means or another had

collected a very accurate knowledge of Langford's situation, and the

points in which his claim was strong or defective.

"Sir," he said, in reply, "what you have just asserted may be, and,

indeed, very probably is correct. You are a likely young gentleman;

bear a strong resemblance to the late Earl, and so forth. I have

nothing to say against the fact of the Earl being your father, or of

your mother being a very virtuous lady; but all I have to say is, that

such assertions are good for nothing in law without proofs of the fact.

If you will do me the honour to show me the registry of your father's

and mother's marriage, a certificate to that effect from the hands of

the clergyman who married them, the attestation of the proper

witnesses, or, in short, satisfactory legal proofs, I shall make you a

very low bow, and congratulate you on your accession to the title of

Earl of Danemore. Till then, however, by your leave, I shall assume

that title myself, and acting as heir to the late peer, take possession

of everything to which the law gives me a claim."

"In regard to taking possession of anything, sir," replied Langford,

"be my claim what it will, I think you will find yourself barred by my

father's will."

"Then let it be produced, sir--let it be produced," said Sir Henry

Heywood, with some degree of irritable sharpness. "We have heard a

great deal about this will: let it be produced."

"Certainly, sir," replied Mr. Evelyn; "here it is. But before it is

opened, we will call in, if you please, the witnesses who heard every

word of it read over to the Earl, and who saw him sign it. I think that

his chief servants should be present."

What he suggested was agreed to. The small room of the Rectory was

nearly filled; and while Langford, with feelings of deep grief, perhaps

we might even say despondency, sat at the table shading his eyes with

his hand, and Sir Henry Heywood, seated on the other side, shut his

lips close, and looked full in Mr. Evelyn's face, the lawyer, after all

due formalities, proceeded to read the will aloud.

In the first place, it ordained as private and speedy a burial of his

body as possible. In the next, it provided liberally for all the

servants. It then went on to leave to his son Edward, heretofore

erroneously called Lord Harold, a large independent fortune, which was

to revert, in case of his death without issue, to the person whom next

he named; that person was his eldest son, Henry, by his first wife,

Eugenie de Beaulieu, whom he had married privately the year before the

Restoration.

Under the skilful management of Mr. Evelyn, nothing had been left

undone to show that Langford was the person to whom he alluded, and to

render the wording of the Earl's will the most solemn acknowledgment of

his marriage and declaration of his son's legitimacy. With all these

precautions, the Earl went on to leave to him every part of his vast

fortune not otherwise disposed of; noticing the estates attached to the

title of Earl of Danemore only as coming to him of necessity. The three

executors were then appointed, as had been before announced, and the

will terminated with the signature.

The reading of this document called forth a burst of angry vehemence

from Sir Henry Heywood, which might have proceeded further had it not

been repressed instantly by a murmur of indignation which ran through

all present.

Langford, however, himself, was the coolest of the party, and as soon

as the reading of the will was concluded, he said, "Sir Henry Heywood,

in the present state of feeling experienced by all parties, the less

discussion that takes place, of course the better. You are now

satisfied as to who are the executors; but I think it will be better,

till after the funeral is over, to remove none of the seals which have

been placed; and I doubt not that this reverend gentleman, and Sir

Walter Herbert, will agree with me in that view. You will, of course,

be present at the funeral; and I doubt not that on that sad occasion we

shall all meet more calmly. For the present, I wish you good morning;"

and so saying, he bowed and quitted the room.

Sir Henry Heywood remained, and would fain have entered into the

discussion of many points, both with Sir Walter and Mr. Evelyn, but

neither were at all inclined to gratify him in that respect; and he

retired, declaring that he would certainly attend the funeral; but that

before that time he would have such legal authority from London as

would enable him to maintain his just rights against any conspiracy

which might be formed to oppose them. Sir Walter Herbert coloured, and

raised his head at the word conspiracy, with signs of ill-repressed

indignation; but Mr. Evelyn laid his hand upon his arm, saying, "He is

a disappointed man, Sir Walter, and has privilege of angry words."

On the measures that were taken by Sir Henry Heywood we will not dwell;

nor will we pause, even for a moment, on the melancholy ceremony of

committing to dust the bodies of the Earl of Danemore and his younger

son. Langford, although between him and the dead there existed none of

those endearing ties which gather round the heart in the tender

intercourse of early years, though his affection towards them was not,

like the rich shells which we find embedded in the coral rock, joined

to the things it clung to by the accumulated love and associations of

years, still could not help feeling deeply and painfully as he laid the

father and the brother in the grave, and took the dark farewell of his

last earthly kindred.

Sir Henry Heywood had by this time learned so far to restrain himself

that nothing disagreeable occurred; and from the vault the whole party

turned their steps, not to the Rectory, but to one of the large saloons

which had remained unconsumed in Danemore Castle. The two noted lawyers

were found waiting for the baronet, who immediately addressed himself

to Langford, demanding if he distinctly understood him to lay claim to

the earldom of Danemore.

"Distinctly, sir," replied Langford.

"Very well, sir. Then--" interrupted Sir Henry.

But the other waved his hand, and went on, "I do most distinctly lay

claim to that earldom, sir; but as I wish to do nothing whatsoever that

can be considered unfair towards you, and shall in a few days be able

to produce the only papers which seem necessary to convince you of my

right--having at this moment a certain knowledge of the person who has

taken them--I shall leave the executorial duties under my father's will

entirely to my excellent friends, who, well advised, will deal with you

in all justice and kindness, I am sure. I myself am bound upon

important business, and therefore you will excuse my presence any

further. I trust in two honourable men, all whose actions I know will

bear the closest inspection; and I shall feel satisfied with and ratify

everything that they shall do."

A word whispered in the ear of Sir Henry Heywood by one of his lawyers,

made him start a step forward ere Langford departed, and say,

"Doubtless, sir, we are to expect on your return the production of the

papers; and of course you will be willing to submit them, as you do the

conduct of your friends, to the closest inspection?"

"Quite," replied Langford, with a calm smile, so slightly coloured by

contempt that none but an eager and well-qualified appetite could have

detected the admixture. "Whether I bring back the papers or not, Sir

Henry, depends upon fortune; or, rather, I should say, upon God's will.

You judge rightly when you think I go to seek them; and that I go to

seek them where they are to be found, I am quite certain. My chance may

be to find them, or not. I give you good-day."

Leaving Sir Henry Heywood to follow what course he thought fit, and Sir

Walter Herbert with the rector, guided by Mr. Evelyn, and an old, calm,

thoughtful, experienced, little-speaking lawyer from London, to deal

with him as they judged advisable, we shall trace the course of Henry

Langford, who now, followed by two servants, one attached to Sir Walter

Herbert, and the other an old and faithful domestic of his father, the

late earl, took his way abruptly from Danemore Castle, but not in the

direction which the reader may imagine. He rode at once across the

country to the little village of Moorhurst; and passing over the

bridge--because the shortest way, though the park, under lately

existing circumstances, had been closed--he approached the Manor House;

and leaving his horse, with orders not to unsaddle him, in the

court-yard, he hurried through the house in search of Alice Herbert.

He found her without much difficulty; and sweet and tender were her

feelings on that first meeting, alone, and altogether to each other,

after a long period of distress and anxiety, and the obtrusiveness of a

thousand anxious and busy cares. He told her that he could not go away

upon a journey of some distance and of much importance without seeing

her--without bidding her farewell for the time. He told her again and

again how deeply and how passionately he loved her. He pressed her

again and again to his heart, in gratitude for past kindness, in the

ardour of present affection, in the longing apprehension of parting. He

took, and she granted, all that a noble heart could wish or a pure

heart could yield; and then, springing upon his horse, he once more

pursued his way towards the spot which the tale of Justice Whistler had

pointed out as that where Franklin Gray was likely to be met with.

He left the village, with the Rectory of Mr. Sandon, far to the left,

about an hour before sunset; and then inquiring his way to the nearest

farm-house--for there were neither railroads over deserts, nor hotels

upon mountains in those days--he prepared to repose for the night ere

he pursued his inquiries on the following morning. The people of the

farm were kind and civil: and, though it put them somewhat out of their

way to receive a guest with two servants and three horses, when they

expected no such thing, the matter was readily arranged, and Langford

soon found himself sitting at a pleasant country table, whereat ten or

twelve people were enjoying themselves after the fatigues of the day.

Langford made himself friends wherever he came, by the urbanity of his

manners: generally ruling as much as he wished in all circumstances, by

appearing, like the ancient Greek, to yield and to respect. In the

present instance he was received with great gladness, and was enabled

to gain information of everything that was passing throughout the

country round, by the very fact of his making himself at once at home

amongst the people, as we have said he did, and by seeming to share

their feelings, which soon proved the means of sharing their thoughts.

The whole tittle-tattle of the neighbourhood was now detailed to him,

and he heard every particular of the death of his brother. The stopping

of Mr. Justice Whistler, and his scourging with the saddle-girths and

stirrup-leathers, were also told him, with many other interesting

details, which seemed to have made a deep impression upon the

laughter-loving hearts of the honest villagers.

Langford himself was, in comparison with his ordinary moods, sad and

gloomy, as he well might be, not so much from anticipation of the

future as in reflecting upon the past, and upon all the deeds, wrongs,

and sorrows whereon that inevitable past had set its seal for ever; and

as he approached the spot where his brother had fallen, the despondency

that he felt was of course not diminished. Without asking any direct

questions concerning Franklin Gray, Langford obtained tidings which

made him hesitate in regard to his further conduct; for in answer to

his inquiries as to whether any of the robbers had been captured, the

honest farmer--who had been one of those that went out against them,

and therefore took a personal interest in the whole affair--informed

him that the band had certainly dispersed, each man, it was supposed,

taking his separate way back to London. Such was the opinion pronounced

by Mr. Justice Whistler, the farmer said; and Langford now learned, for

the first time, that the worthy justice had returned to the scene of

his former adventures, and was eagerly aiding the local magistrate in

the pursuit of the robbers.

He feared, then, that Franklin Gray might thus have been driven from

the neighbourhood; but after some reflection, an impression took hold

of his mind--probably springing from traits of the Robber's character

which he had seen and marked in better days--that Gray would linger,

for a time at least, round the spot where his unhappy wife was

interred; and Langford consequently proceeded at once to the little

solitary burial ground in which she lay. To it was attached a small

church, situated at a great distance from any other building, high upon

the side of the hill, and offering once in the week some means of

religious instruction to the inhabitants of that wild tract. He easily

found the grave of poor Mona Gray, for no one had been buried there for

many months but herself, and every other grave was green.

The sight of that grave, however, confirmed him in the hope of soon

finding Franklin Gray, for at the head were strewed, here and there,

some wild flowers, evidently lately gathered. Justice Whistler, with a

heart hardened by intercourse with evil things, did not comprehend the

character of the Robber as Langford did, and never dreamed that he

would linger near the spot where the wife whom he had himself slain

with such determined premeditation, slept her last sleep.

Leaving his two servants to watch in the churchyard, Henry Langford

rode up to the top of the hills, and continued his course along the

ridge towards the sea; but ere he had gone half a mile, he saw

something move in one of the deep, shadowy indentations of the ground,

and riding quickly down, he pursued the object as it fled before him,

taking advantage of everything which could conceal it in its flight,

doubling round every tree and bush, and plunging into each deep dell.

But Langford caught sight of it sufficiently often to feel sure that it

was a human being, and he gained upon it also as it led him back in its

flight towards the churchyard.

There, however, he lost sight of it again; but the moment after, a

faint cry met his ear, and a shout; and riding on fast, he found the

boy Jocelyn in the hands of his two servants. The boy was evidently in

great terror; and the sound of another voice behind him, when Langford

spoke as he came up, made him start almost out of the hands of the men

who held him. The sight of Langford's well-known face, however,

instantly made his countenance brighten; and when that gentleman spoke

kindly to him, and bade the men let him go, the boy came up towards

him, bending his head, and looking gladly in his face, as a favourite

dog that has been lost for several days, runs up, fawning, but yet half

frightened, towards its master, when it returns.

"Well, Jocelyn," said Langford, gazing at him, and marking his soiled

clothes and pale and haggard appearance, "you seem not to have fared

very richly, my poor boy, since you got away from Justice Whistler. Did

you find out your master?"

The boy looked timidly at the two men who stood near, then hung down

his head, and made no reply. Langford bent over him, and said in a low

voice, "Do not be frightened, Jocelyn. I am seeking no ill, either to

yourself or your master. Come with me on the hill side, and tell me

more. We will leave the men here."

"You must leave your horse behind, then, also," said the boy, in the

same low tone, "if you want to see the Captain as you used to do; for

he will never let us find him if he sees any one coming on horseback."

"That I will do willingly," replied Langford; and throwing the bridle

to one of the men, he bade them remain there till he returned.

Holding the boy Jocelyn by the hand, he then went out upon the hill

side, questioning him as they walked along, with regard to Franklin

Gray; but before he would answer anything, the boy made him again and

again promise that he would not betray his master. When he was

satisfied on that point, he gazed up in Langford's face, with a look of

deep and anxious sadness, saying, "Oh, you don't know all, Captain

Langford! You don't know all!"

"Yes, my good boy, I do," replied Langford; "I have heard all the sad

story of the people going to attack your master in his house, and his

fancying that his wife had betrayed him, and shooting the person he

loved best on earth."

"Ay, poor thing, she is happy!" said the boy; "I am sure she is in

heaven, for every day since they laid her in the churchyard, I have

strewed what flowers I could get, upon her grave, and they do not

wither there half so soon as they do anywhere else. But I am sure it is

better for her to be there than to see her husband in such a state as

he is now."

"What do you mean, Jocelyn?" demanded Langford. "Grief and remorse for

what he has done must, I dare say, have had a terrible effect upon your

master; but you seem to imply something more. What is it that you

mean?"

"Alas," replied the boy, "he is mad; quite mad. That is what made

Harvey and the rest leave him, for they found him out after he got away

and joined him again; but, both for his sake and their own, they were

obliged to separate, when they found what state he was in. But I am

sure he had been mad some time before, for the day after that wicked

man made his escape, who brought all the people upon us, I saw him on

the hill fire one of his pistols in the air, as if he had been shooting

at something, though there was nothing to be seen: and when he had done

he looked at the pistol and said, 'You are not so dangerous now.' But

now he is quite wild, and you must take care how you go near him, for

it is a thousand to one that he fires at you, and you know he never

misses his mark."

"Whereabouts is he?" demanded Langford. "I wonder he has not been

discovered."

"Oh, he is two or three miles off, at least," replied the boy; "in the

rocky part of the hills near the sea. He comes here about night, when

he goes to the grave in the churchyard, and moans over it; but then

before daylight he is away again."

Langford and the boy walked on, but the two or three miles he spoke of

proved to be fully five, and during the last mile the scenery became

wild and rugged in the extreme. The turf, which had covered the hills

further inland with a smooth though undulating surface, was here

constantly broken by immense masses of rock, sometimes taking the form

of high banks and promontories, with the tops still soft and grassy;

sometimes starting abruptly up in fantastic groups out of the ground,

like the rugged and misshapen columns of some druidical temple. Here

and there a few scattered birch trees varied the scene, and near a spot

where a spring of clear water broke from the ground, and wandered down

in a stream into the valley, some fine oaks had planted themselves,

sheltered by a higher ridge of the hill from the sharp winds of the

sea.

As they came near this spot, the boy Jocelyn gave a long low whistle,

more like the cry of some wild bird than any sound from human lips,

saying, after he had done so, "He is often about here at this hour."

No answer was returned, however, and they went on for nearly another

mile, which brought them to the high rocks that encircled a bay of the

sea. "I should not wonder if he were here," said the boy; "for I

sometimes catch fish for him there, and there are more berries upon the

shrubs that grow half way down than anywhere else."

"Good God! Is that the only food that he obtains?" demanded Langford.

"He has had nothing else," said the boy, sadly, "since Harvey and the

rest went away. Look! There he is!--just below us. Hush! Do not let us

go quick!"

Langford laid his hand upon the boy's arm, and detained him, while he

gazed down for two or three moments on the unhappy man who had once

been his companion and friend in the stirring days of military

adventure.

It was a terrible sight! The sun was shining brightly, though over the

deep blue sky some large detached masses of cloud were borne by a soft

and equable but rapid wind, throwing upon the green bosom of the water

below, and the rocks and hills round about, deep clear shadows, which,

as they floated on, left the objects that they touched brighter than

ever in the sunshine, like the shadows which doubt or suspicion, or

gloom, or the waywardness of the human heart, will cast upon things in

themselves beautiful, and which, when the mood is gone or the doubt

removed, resume at once all their splendour. Part of the steep close by

Franklin Gray was covered with bushes, mingled with some taller trees,

and over these the shadow of a cloud was flying, while he himself sat

in the full light upon a small projecting piece of the rock.

Tenderly folded to his bosom, he held his infant with both his arms;

and, swaying backwards and forwards, while his eyes wandered wildly

over the waters, he seemed endeavouring to rock it to sleep. A little

further up, his horse, his beautiful grey, of which he had been so

fond, cropped the scanty herbage, with the bridle cast upon his neck;

and hearing the approach of strangers even before his master, he raised

high his proud head, and gazed eagerly around.

"How does he feed the child?" demanded Langford, in a whisper.

"With berries, and anything he can get," replied the boy; "he never

lets it be out of his arms but to crawl round him for a few moments on

the turf."

"This is very terrible, indeed," said Langford; "but he sits there on

such a fearful point of the rock that you had better go forward

yourself, in the first instance, and tell him that I am here. The least

thing might make him plunge over."

"It would not surprise me at all," replied the boy, "for where he goes

I am sure I would not go, and yet I can climb as well as any one."

Langford then withdrew for a few yards, and the boy again uttered his

low whistle, which was immediately answered. After pausing for a moment

or two to give him time to reach his master, Langford again advanced,

and saw the boy in eager conversation with Franklin Gray, whose eyes

were now bent upon the spot where he stood. Satisfied that he was

prepared for his coming, Langford descended with difficulty the

precipitous path which led to the shelf of rock on which he stood; and

Franklin Gray himself took a step or two back from the edge, and came

forward to meet him. Holding the child still to his bosom with one arm,

he at first held out the other to his old companion; but the next

moment, as they came near, he drew it suddenly back, gazing upon him

with his bright flashing eyes, and exclaiming, "No, no! This hand

killed your father and your brother, and you must pursue me to the

death!"

"No, Franklin," replied Langford, in a calm and quiet tone; "I pursue

you not with any evil intent towards you. What you say is true; that

hand did slay my brother, and aided, perhaps, in taking my father's

life; but that hand too aided and supported my mother; and my father,

not many days before his death, made me promise that I would not seek

for vengeance upon you. He said that he had wronged you in early years,

and that it was fitting your own hand should punish him."

"He did--he did wrong me!" cried Franklin Gray. "To him I owe all that

is evil in my nature. He had me kidnapped when I was a boy, and would

have fain followed the sweet lady he had deserted. He had me kidnapped,

and carried me away into the south, and made me familiar with blood;

and when I fled from him, he pursued me as if I had been his slave; but

I escaped. And now, Henry, tell me what you seek with me! If you come

not for vengeance, what is it you come for?"

"I came," replied Langford, "from a personal motive; but I did not

expect, Franklin, to find you in this state, and the thoughts of myself

are swallowed up in pain to find you thus."

"What! you mean I am mad!" burst forth Franklin Gray. "It is true, I am

mad, madder than any that we used to see nursed by the Brothers of

Charity at Charenton. But what matters that? Every one else is as mad

as myself. Was not she mad to let me think that she had betrayed me?

Was she not madder still to send me word when she was dying that she

had not betrayed me, and to pile coals of fire upon my head? Was she

not mad to die at all, and leave me with this infant?" and sitting upon

the ground, he looked earnestly upon the face of the child, which his

vehemence had awakened up from its sleep.

After pausing for a few minutes, and pressing his hand tightly upon his

brow, he turned to Langford more collectedly, saying, "You told me you

came here from a personal motive. What was it? Speak quickly, while my

mind will go straight, for my brain is like a horse that has just gone

blind, and wavers from one side of the road to the other." And he

laughed wildly at his own simile.

"The motive that brought me, Franklin," replied Langford, "was to

obtain from you the papers which you know I have been so long seeking

to possess. My mother's marriage, it seems, cannot be proved without

them."

Franklin Gray started upon his feet, and gazed with wild surprise in

Langford's face. "I have them not," he exclaimed; "I never touched

them. Did you not take them? It was your own fault, then; and they were

burnt with the house. We rushed out as fast as we could go. I know

nothing further."

That he spoke truth was so evident, that Langford instantly determined

to say nothing more on the subject, though the disappointment caused

him a bitter pang. But it was useless to enter into any explanations

with the unhappy man before him; and with the usual calm decision of

his character he determined at once to apply himself, as far as

possible, to see what might be done to relieve and comfort him. If he

remained in England, his life would inevitably be sacrificed to the

law, notwithstanding his manifest insanity. He himself, under such

circumstances, could not even intercede in his favour, and the only

hope of saving him from public execution was to induce him to fly to

France, and by giving notice of his condition to some persons of

influence there, to obtain admission for him into the institution which

he himself had mentioned--namely, that of the Brothers of Charity at

Charenton, who devoted themselves to the care of persons in his unhappy

situation. All this passed through his mind in a moment, and he replied

to Franklin Gray at once, "Well, if it be so, it cannot be helped; but

now, Gray, to speak of yourself. You must be aware that you are here in

a very dangerous situation, surrounded by people who are pursuing you

for the express purpose of bringing you to the scaffold. Would it not

be much better for you to fly to France?"

Franklin Gray gazed in his face for a moment or two, then looked up to

the sky with a sort of half smile. "It would be better," he answered,

at length; "it would be better, and my passage is even taken in a ship

which is to sail, I think, in two days. But what am I to do with the

child?"

"Oh, I will provide means for its joining you," replied Langford: "it

shall be well taken care of."

"I have got a little boat, too, down there," said Gray, in a rambling

manner, "which would carry me to the ship in no time."

Langford looked at the boy Jocelyn with an inquiring glance; but the

youth shook his head, murmuring, in a scarcely audible tone, "There is

no boat."

Franklin Gray was evidently occupied with other thoughts. He put his

hand again to his head, and then, turning to Henry Langford, he said,

"Henry, we are old companions, and I will take you at your word.

Promise me, as a man and a soldier, that this babe shall be well taken

care of till he joins me. It is a sweet creature, and seldom, if ever,

cries. You will use it as your own, Henry, in every respect as your

own?"

"I will, indeed," replied Langford; "I will, indeed; but let us think

now how you can best be got off to the vessel."

But Franklin Gray went on thus:--"And poor Jocelyn, too," he said,

laying his hand upon the boy's head; "you will be kind to him, and

breed him as a soldier?"

"He had better go with you, Franklin," replied Langford.

"No," answered Franklin Gray, "No; I shall be better alone;" and at the

same time the boy whispered to Langford, "Humour him; humour him. I

will find means to follow him closely."

"Will you promise that, too?" demanded Franklin Gray, but instantly

went on without waiting a reply--"Then the baby, too, Henry; you will

be very kind to it, and tender, and love it very much? See, it smiles

at you. Take it in your arms."

Langford took the child as he held it out to him. Franklin Gray bent

down his head and kissed it; then laid his two muscular hands upon

Langford's shoulders, and gazed gravely and solemnly into his eyes.

"Henry," he said, "your vow is registered in heaven!" and before

Langford could answer him, he shouted exultingly, "Now I am free! Now I

am free!"

With a sudden spring forward he reached the ledge on which he had

lately stood, and without pause, or thought, or hesitation, plunged at

once over into empty air.

The depth below might be near two hundred feet, and the water of the

sea washed the base of the rock. It was in vain that Langford himself

sought, and, with the aid of his servants and some people that they

brought to his assistance, spent the whole of that evening in

endeavouring to find the body of Franklin Gray. It was not till nearly

ten days after that some fishermen found a corpse, with marks of much

violence about it, showing that it must have struck upon the rocks at

the bottom of the water, lying on a sandy spit that ran out from one of

the points of the bay. The clothes proved it to be that of Franklin

Gray; but nobody took any pains to identify it as such. A verdict of

found drowned was returned by the coroner's jury; and it was buried, at

Langford's expense, close to the side of Mona Gray, in the churchyard

on the hills.

The road which Langford pursued, on his way back, was that which passed

over the moor, as we have before mentioned, near the spot called

Upwater Meer, and thence descending the hill, separated into two

branches, at a point where, on the one hand, the remains of Danemore

Castle, with its wide park and deep woods, were to be seen at the

distance of about four miles, and on the other appeared the graceful

little spire of Moorhurst Church, with the manifold roofs and chimneys

of the Manor House, peeping out of the trees some way in advance.

When Langford reached that spot, which was at the period of the evening

when the shadows begin to grow long, but before the sun had lost any of

its power, he paused and gazed for several minutes upon the mansion of

his ancestors; saying to it in his own heart, "Farewell for ever. The

things which were to have given you back to me, with all the honours

and pride of high birth and long ancestry, are lost beyond recall. But

never mind. It may be better as it is. I shall escape the temptations

of high estate. Alice will not love me less; and though it may cost Sir

Walter's heart a pang that the legitimacy of my birth is not clear to

the eyes of all men, he himself will not doubt it. It may cause mine a

pang, too, that even a shade should rest upon my mother's name; but I

have done all that could be done."

Such were his thoughts, though not, perhaps, his words, as, after

gazing for some time upon the castle, he turned, and directed his

horse's head towards Moorhurst. On arriving at the old Manor House, he

looked up with pleasure to see the smoke curling above the trees, the

lattice windows wide open to give admission to the sweet fresh air, and

all bearing that air of comfort and cheerfulness which it used to do.

There were several persons, not servants, lingering about in the

court-yard, however. There was a look of some vexation in honest

Halliday's face as he gave Langford admission, and some strangers were

in the hall. The events of the last few weeks had brought an

apprehensiveness upon Langford's heart which sorrow can do even to

those who are steeled against danger; and he asked at once if anything

were the matter.

"Oh, no. His worship and Mistress Alice are both quite well, sir,"

replied Halliday, divining Langford's feelings at once. "It is only

that they have brought a poor fellow up before Sir Walter, charged with

stealing, who I am sure never stole; and that Sir Henry Heywood, or

Lord Danemore, as he calls himself--I hope he'll have to uncall himself

soon--is pressing to have him sent to prison at once. Mistress Alice

is up in the village. I am glad she is away, poor thing."

Langford went on into the library, and, passing without much notice a

group of persons around the prisoner at the end of the long table, he

advanced to Sir Walter, who was sitting with Sir Henry Heywood at some

distance, with a table before them, and some books. The Knight and the

Baronet both rose on seeing Langford; the one to grasp his hand: the

other to make him a more cordial bow than hitherto.

"Pray, sir, may I ask," he said, immediately, with a certain anxious

quivering of the lip, but with perfect civility, "if you have been

successful in your search?"

"I have not, sir," replied Langford, honestly; "I have not found what I

sought."

"Then I presume, sir, that you are not disposed to pursue further your

claims in this matter?" rejoined the other, in a hesitating manner.

"You are wrong, sir," replied Langford; "I shall pursue it upon such

proofs as are in my possession. If it were but for the purpose of

clearing my mother's fame, I would do so, even if there existed no

chance of my recovering my right."

"It is a noble feeling, sir," said Sir Henry, with an urbane smile;

"but perhaps there may be a method of compromising this affair. Allow

me one word with you," and so saying, he drew Langford aside into the

recess of one of the windows. "For my own part," he continued, "I am

not ambitious. I am a widower, and shall certainly never marry again. I

have but two daughters--you are a single man--"

"But one engaged to be married very shortly," replied his auditor,

making him a low bow; and Sir Henry went back to Sir Walter Herbert,

saying, in a fierce and impatient tone, "Let us proceed with the

business before us at once, Sir Waller. I say the man must be

committed, and I call upon you as a magistrate to do so."

"I do not see the case as you do," answered the good Knight of

Moorhurst; and as he spoke, Langford approached the table also, and,

raising his eyes to the prisoner, at once recognised the poor

half-witted man, Silly John Graves. Though surprised and grieved, he

said nothing, having learned in a hard and difficult school to govern

his first emotions. Standing beside Sir Walter Herbert, however, and

feeling that internal conviction of the man's honesty and truth which

is gained, not alone from great and significant notions, but from small

signs and casual traits, which betray rather than display the heart, he

determined to interpose in the poor man's defence, and not to suffer

the overbearing vehemence of Sir Henry Heywood to crush the calm

simplicity of truth, as overbearing vehemence so generally does in this

world.

"Why, Sir Waller Herbert," exclaimed Sir Henry Heywood, in the same

sharp tone, "has not the man been found carrying out of Danemore Castle

a valuable cup and silver cover? Has he not been taken in the very

act?"

"I took nothing but what was my own," said Silly John, gazing upon Sir

Henry Heywood with a shy look, which mingled in strange harmony terror,

and contempt, and hatred; "I took nothing but what was my own, or what

ought never to have been there, or what no one there had a right to."

"What, then," exclaimed Sir Henry Heywood, "you took more beside the

cup?"

"Ay, that I did," replied Silly John; "I took the cup because Mistress

Bertha brought it to me full of wine on the night I was shut up there,

in the dark hole under the tower; and she gave me the cup and all, and

said I might keep it; and then the fire came, and I lost the cup; and

so, whenever I was well enough of the burns and the bruises, I went

back again to seek it, and to take my own."

"Send for Mistress Bertha," said Sir Waller, speaking to one of the

attendants at the lower side of the room; "She is now in the house,

which is fortunate."

Sir Henry Heywood gnawed his lip, but, as if to fill up the time, he

asked the prisoner, looking keenly at him, "You acknowledge you took

other things out of the Castle before you were caught. What were they,

and what right had you to them? You will see, Sir Walter," he

continued, "that whether Danemore Castle belongs to me, or to this

other gentleman who claims it, it is absolutely necessary that we who

dispute the property, and you who are executor to the will, should

investigate accurately, and prosecute vigorously, every one who

abstracts anything from that building. I ask you again," he added,

addressing the half-witted man, "what it was you admit taking, and what

claim you had thereunto."

"More claim than you can show," answered Silly John; "for I had some

right, and you have none. And worse than a fox you are, for a fox only

seeks a young bird out of the nest; you seek nest and all. Every one

knows I never told a lie in my life!"

"Ay, that we do!" cried some voices at the end of the library; but at

that instant Sir Henry Heywood exclaimed, "Silence there! how dare you

disturb the court?"

"By your leave, Sir Henry," said Sir Walter Herbert.

But at that moment the woman Bertha entered the room, with the same

cold, calm, and dignified air which had become second nature with her,

and gazing round with a look of inquiry, she demanded, "What is wanted

with me? Who sent for me?"

The next moment, however, her eves fell upon the half-witted man, as he

stood at the bottom of the table, and clasping her hands together with

emotion, such as no one present had ever beheld her display on any

previous occasion, she exclaimed, "Good God! is it possible? Art thou

living? or art thou risen from the dead? I thought thou hadst been

burnt to ashes in Hubert's tower, which fell amongst the first that

went down. I dared not even mention thy name, for thy confinement

there, and the dreadful fate that I thought had befallen thee, were too

terrible, were too awful for thought even, to rest upon! But now thou

art come to life again to bear witness of the truth and yet," she added

sorrowfully, "they will not hear his testimony, for they will say he is

mad--that he has been mad for years!"

"Never you fear that, Mistress Bertha," said the half-witted man. "The

foxes let me out before they set fire to the house; and I never forget

anything; so, while they were fighting and tearing each other to

pieces, I went and fingered what do you think?"

"The papers! the papers!" exclaimed Bertha, almost screaming with joy.

"Ay, even so," said the half-witted man, thrusting his hand into his

breast. "I found the key upon the door of the room, and I opened the

hole in the wall, and took them out."

"What right had you with them!" thundered Sir Henry Heywood, who had

sat by, no unconcerned spectator of the scene. "What right had you with

anything in that place! You confess robbery!"

"What right had I with them?" exclaimed Silly John, with a wild laugh.

"Why, you are as foolish as if you had been born before Noah's flood!

Wasn't there the leaf of the register which they cut out of my own

register-book just about the time I first went mad, when I was usher of

Uppington Grammar School, and clerk of the parish! and did not that

make me madder than before? Who had any right to the leaf but I? and

there it is!" and he spread out upon the table an old yellow leaf of

paper, written over both sides with pale ink, and bearing the traces of

many foldings.

"If is a falsehood! a forgery!" exclaimed Sir Henry Heywood. "It is got

up for the occasion! It is a conspiracy! Let me see the sheet!" and he

started forward to snatch it up from the table; but at that moment Mr.

Evelyn, the lawyer, stepped in before him, and laid his hand firmly

upon it.

"By your leave, sir," he said, "this valuable document is fingered by

nobody. Do not, bend your brows on me, sir. I am firm! Clerk, take up

the document, and be you responsible for it. If Sir Henry chooses to

bring this business into court, he may; but if he will take my advice

he will listen to a few quiet words. While thinking that my noble

client and patron, the young Earl of Danemore, here present," and he

pointed to Langford, "would certainly obtain this same document from

another source, I busied myself eagerly to obtain every collateral

testimony which could prove the identity of the leaf that had been so

nicely extracted from the register; and I have here, under my hand, the

certificates of five marriages which took place in that same year in

the parish of Uppington, which are not now to be found in the volume of

the register, but which will be found, I will answer for it, in the

leaf that is now produced. This will be confirmation, beyond all doubt,

if it be so. Clerk, compare the papers!"

"Oh, but that is all nonsense, Master Turney," cried Silly John;

"there's no need of comparing anything. Was not I clerk of the parish

myself, and witness of the marriage? And besides, here's the

certificate of the marriage in the Rev. Jonathan Whattle's own hand.

Anybody in the place will swear to the drunken parson's handwriting.

The only difference was, that it was more crooked and shaky when he was

sober than when he was drunk; and here's my own handwriting to it, as I

used to write in those days. God help me! I've nearly forgotten how to

write now. And then there's Mistress Bertha's there; her hand is to it

too, and a Frenchman's hand that was with them at the time. I remember

very well. And here's another paper besides, written in a tongue I

don't understand, which is all the more likely to prove a matter of

moment. God help us all! we're as blind as kittens of time days old,

and can tell nothing of what will happen at the end of the nine."

"Sir," said the clerk, who had been busily looking over the papers, "I

find all these extracts placed at intervals in the leaf of the register

before me. There are nine or ten others, too, which could doubtless

easily be traced. Shall I send for the register of Uppington to compare

the book and the leaf?"

"It is unnecessary, sir; it is unnecessary," said Sir Henry Heywood,

making a virtue of necessity. "My Lord the Earl of Danemore, I

congratulate you on your unexpected accession to such honours and so

much wealth. That you have cast me out from them I forgive you.

Disappointed I must feel; but that disappointment, believe me, proceeds

more from affection for my two poor girls, whose inheritance will be

but their father's sword, useless in their hands, and their mother's

virtues, which God grant may adorn them always, than from the loss of

rank and wealth to myself. Sir, I give you good morning, and leave

you."

"Stop a moment, Sir Henry Heywood," said Langford; "a word in your ear

before you go." That word was spoken in a moment, but Sir Henry

Heywood's face was in that moment lighted up with joy, and grasping

Langford's hand in both his own, he exclaimed, "Indeed! indeed, my

Lord, you are too generous!"

"Not so, Sir Henry," replied Langford; "for the present, adieu. We will

meet to-morrow at Danemore Castle, and all shall be settled entirely.

Sir Walter," he added, in a lower tone, "there is some one whom I would

fain see, in this moment of joy and agitation, before I say a word more

to any one."

"She must have returned by this time," said Sir Walter. "Let us go!"

They went out, and proceeded to the ladies' withdrawing-room, where

they found Alice, with her beautiful eyes raised anxiously towards the

door. As soon as she saw Langford, she sprang up to meet him, with the

whole pure unrestrained joy of her heart beaming forth upon that lovely

face.

"Alice," said Sir Walter, with a touch of his kindly stateliness, "this

is the Earl of Danemore!"

"Your own Henry, ever dearest Alice," said Langford, casting his arms

round her; and then, while he held her to his bosom with one hand, he

extended the other to Sir Walter. "Most excellent and generous friend,

I have never yet asked your consent with my own lips. Do you give her

to me? Will you part with this great--this inestimable treasure?"

"I will give her to you, Henry," replied Sir Walter, "with all my heart

and soul. I will give her to you, but I will not part with her. I must

have a garret in the Castle, my dear boy! There, there; I give her to

you. She is yours. God's blessing and her father's be upon your heads!"

So saying, he clasped their hands in each other's, and they were happy.

THE END.

------------------------------

Woodfall and Kinder, Printers, Milford Lane, Strand, London, W.C.