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The vesper service was over in the church of St Mary, the echo of the last long-drawn response had died away, and slowly rising from their seats on either side the choir, two by two, the long procession of Benedictine brothers filed down the nave, and, drawing their cowls over their heads as they passed through the great west doors, dispersed in silence to their cells. The abbot dismissed his chaplains at the foot of the staircase leading to his chamber, and continued for some little time to pace the cloister alone. The doors of the church still stood open as he passed, and after a while he re-entered. It was perhaps the place of all others where, at that hour, he would feel most secure from interruption. The twilight outside deepened into gloom within the building; but the tapers which burned continually before the several altars were now shining out amidst their rich decorations, and their rays, flashed back in many colours from gilded vessels and jewelled shrines, mingled with the last gleams of daylight, with an effect not the less beautiful because it partook of unreality.

The abbot passed slowly into the choir, and, turning through the line of low arches on his right, stood within the side-chapel, where lay buried the de Burghs of Ladysmede. Some of them, it has been said, had been benefactors to the house of Rivelsby; and the altar of St Mary of Egypt, to whom the chapel was dedicated, blazed with precious stones and metals, and was lighted more liberally than any other within the precincts by the pious bequest of one

VOL. LXXXV.-NO. DXXIV.

of the knights who lay at its foot. The very diadem on the Egyptian brow of the image-" black, but comely"-was said to have been the royal crown of a Moorish princess, and was valued at a sum which, if it could have been realised, would have released the good abbot and his brethren from all their difficulties. The light from the tall waxen columns, for their proportions were unusual, fell full upon the figures of the warriors which, carved in stone of Caen or alabaster, reposed at full length upon the tombs below. There lay at rest at last, voyage and venture over, Sir Berart "le Boiteux," who had known but little rest in life; whose crippled foot had trod the soil of half Europe under Count Robert of Normandy, before it was planted on the Saxon rampart at Hastings. Not even the fair domain of Ladysmede, which had rewarded his good service on that day, could long content his roving spirit. Gladly he had returned with the conqueror to fight again in the fields of Maine and Anjou, and had only come home-if for him the idea of home had any existence-in time to die. There also, side by side, lay Sir Ivo and his lady. It would have been ungrateful indeed of the brotherhood of Rivelsby if they had been unmindful of the short and simple appeal which the legend made to their charity-no long list of honours and virtues boldly challenging the admiration and gratitude of posterity, but the simple words Priez pour nous. For some of their richest manors had been Sir Ivo's gift, and they owed an extra portion of wine and cheese at their

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daily table, besides many a costly offering at their altars, to the munificence of his lady. There, too, united to his brother Sir Rainald in death as they had never been since their childhood, with features all too faithfully rendered in the stone by the truthful sculptor-with what seemed the ghastly grin of death making the scowl which he had worn in life even more repulsive-lay "Evil Sir Hugh," as he was called: a name which, in its day, had been a terror to many a wife and mother among his own dependents in the valley of the Ouse, even more than to his lawful enemies. The hands were fast joined in perpetual prayer now, if that might atone for the omissions of a life; and over the hauberk of mail, which had proved but vain defence against the dagger of an unknown assassin, was drawn that which it was hoped might serve him in better stead against the powers of darkness-the sleeveless scapulary of the Benedictine, through which the mailed arms and hands showed with strange incongruity. In such habit he had been carried to his burial, as if under that holy disguise it might be possible for the reckless evil-doer to pass the gates of heaven. The feet of each warrior were set fast upon the emblematic dragon, in charitable hope that here at least sin might be trampled down.

The abbot paced slowly up the chapel, and gazed on each of the figures as he passed. He seemed to read the lesson.

"Ay," he said, as he paused in his walk," there, if ever, earthly passions are at rest; but not till thennot till then! Even here in the cloister, what avails it to have renounced the world without, when we cannot escape from the world within us? St Mary forgive me, if the thought be sinful! But it seems to me often, as if Heaven laughs to scorn all the barriers which we try to raise for ourselves. Here lies this Sir Hughwho, if half the tales they tell of him be true, was cut off in deadly sin.They buried him here in holy ground, with chants and litanies; and thrice a-year, by the liberality of Sir Rainald (God grant it be reckoned to him!) do we yet sing mass for his soul; whilst gallant and honest Miles

de Burgh died in a heathen lazarhouse; his body, it may be, cast forth to dogs and birds in those misbelievers' fashion, or, in any case, far enough from any kindly office or Christian prayer; and his cousin Godfrey— niggard that he is in all things but his own pleasures-grudged us payment for one poor vesper-service! though, if the prayers of an old comrade, who was a better soldier, I fear, than a churchman, may avail him aught, he has them," said the abbot humbly-"Heaven knows he has them, without price!" and crossing himself, he knelt down on the lowest step of the altar, and rapidly, yet not without devotion, with crossed arms and low bent head, murmured a placebo for the departed spirit.

He was yet on his knees, when he was startled by an "Amen," from a low deep voice behind him. He turned, and rose hastily. Within three or four yards of him stood the figure of a monk, his head bowed in reverential obeisance.

Abbot Martin felt the blood flush into his face, from an impatient feeling of anger and annoyance. He was not ashamed of humbling himself in prayer, nor yet of being seen to pray; but he would have been loth to have it thought-as it would be perhaps by some-that he had chosen such a place for his private devotions purposely, for the chance it offered of his being seen by his brethren. He was naturally indignant also at the thought that his movements had been dogged unwarrantably.

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Brother," said he to the intruder, in as calm a tone as he could command-" what is your will with me?"

The monk raised his head, and half throwing back his cowl, enabled the abbot to recognise the features of the Italian Giacomo.

"Pardon, my gracious lord," said he, in his low gentle voice," pardon me, I humbly entreat you, and believe that I have unwittingly intruded on your prayers; but do not grudge it me," he added, as the abbot replied by a somewhat haughty gesture"it were well for me, perhaps, if I could listen to the prayer of an honest man oftener."

There was an earnestness in his tone, which softened the abbot at

once. "But this dress," he said, still regarding him with some surprise and displeasure-" what means this disguise?"

"It is worn by many, father, to cover worse motives than mine. But it is no disguise, in the sense in which you mean it; I, too, was once-nay, if once, I am still-a Benedictine." The abbot started. And an apostate?" he asked, with visible disgust. "Some might call me so; I would trust the abbot of Rivelsby to use a less bitter word, did he know all But we will not speak of this. Again I crave your pardon for coming before you in a habit which, it is true, I claim no right to wear. But I had need to see and speak with you, and my movements may be watched; even the chatter of the good brethren here, had I been known to pass the gate in my own person, would have been dangerous-a besetting sin of the cloister, Father Abbot, is curiosity; and I would not have our communications made common talk just now."

"But you risk a worse discovery; you may be detected here at any moment," said the abbot, with a hearty and honest dislike of false pretences.

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Danger is for the coward, who hesitates, father; all is safe to those who feel it so. I salute no man; I keep my head bent upon my chest; my cowl half-drawn over my face; my eyes fixed upon the ground; if brother Peter at the gate should so far rouse himself as to mark my coming and going, he can but look upon my bearing as an edifying example to your house of obedience to the rule."

There was something of the old bantering tone-something also of the chuckling consciousness of the practised and successful dissembler, which jarred unpleasantly upon his listener's ear. Perhaps he read this in the abbot's face, which his keen eyes watched as usual. The next moment he was serious again. "Can we speak safely here?" he asked.

The abbot looked round the chapel to make sure that they were alone.

"At least we are secure from sudden interruption," he replied; " and I, too, have something which I would say, since we have met again."

"First," said Giacomo, " though I feel that I need scarcely ask-how is it with the child?"

"He is well," said Abbot Martin, smiling for the first time-" well and happy. I would not say he has forgotten you; but even love and sorrow pass lightly at his years. Has Sir Godfrey any misgiving, think you, of his being here among us?"

"I am not sure," replied the Italian thoughtfully; "after the first storm was over-for storm there was, as you may guess-we have had few words together, and he seems to avoid his name; but I hold his silence to be no good sign."

"You have heard of the demand which Sir Nicholas sent hither in the king's name?"

"Yes," replied Giacomo, with one of his unpleasant smiles; "I had some knowledge of the honour which his majesty intended your house."

The abbot took no notice of the other's manner, but proceeded to mention briefly the fact of the royal messenger's visit, and his recognition of Giulio at the window.

"Dubois!" said the Italian ; " I heard it was he that did the errand ;

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man that sees much and says little. Whatever he learns, he will keep probably until he can turn it to some purpose of his own. But I know Sir Godfrey's temper; if he had any certain information that the boy was here, he would not lose a day in demanding him.”

"If he should see fit to threaten

force," said the abbot, we are but in poor case at Rivelsby to resist it; and there are few to whom I could look for aid against him, even in a cause where he had less show of right than this.-But I have something of which I must speak "-He cast another glance round them, to satisfy himself that they were out of the reach of curious ears. Then drawing close to the Italian, yet carefully turning his face aside-" When last we met," he continued, " you mentioned a name I had not heard for many a year-a name I never thought to hear again." He paused for a moment, but Giacomo did not interrupt him.

"I do not care to hide from you(Giacomo smiled silently to himself) -“that it brought with it remem

brances which moved me much; and now, answer me one question-I have surely earned the right to ask-and answer truly, standing here in the presence of the dead, and of Him who lives for ever. She is dead, you tell me; dead to me she has been long since; is this boy her child?"

"I will answer you truly," said the Italian-" he is. I owed you a confidence, and so far I repay it. But question me no further; so much may concern you to ask, and you have the right to know; but as to matters which touch the Knight of Ladysmede, I will not speak; nay, any knowledge which you might gain from me, could only serve at present to bring more trouble upon your house than, it may be, I have brought already."

When the abbot turned his face full upon the Italian, it had lost its usual expression of frank benevolence, and the brow was very dark and stern. His voice was hoarse with some strong emotion, as he said—“ I ever held Godfrey de Burgh for a godless and a selfish man, but I could not have believed I hardly now believe that he would take the life of a child. Surely your fears have misled you in this?"

"Whoso is guilty in one point, is guilty in all," rejoined the chaplain

I thought it a hard word once does your experience of men, reverend father, confirm the saying, or not?"

"I know not," said the abbot hurriedly" I know not." His thoughts were too busy with individuals now to discuss general maxims, divine or human.

"I will not ask to see the child," said Giacomo-" it were better not -and I do but detain you, and risk the shutting of your gates upon me; I thank you, and I take my leave."

"And who are you?" said the abbot, speaking almost bitterly in his strong feeling," who are you? monk priest Englishman- Italian-you whose falsehood stands almost selfconfessed-perjured in your monastic vow-faithless to the master whose bread you eat-one whom in my whole soul I should loath and despise -and yet whose bare word I have trusted-St Mary forgive me if I be wrong therein ! and am trusting

still, to mine own grievous peril and that of my house!'

"Lord abbot," said the Italian, "you have read that when the Hebrew had a true message to deliver, men did not ask him if he himself were immaculate or no; he gave them a sign by which to know him for a prophet. Even so judge of me—by the token I have given."

Abbot Martin searched his features with a glance almost as keen as his own. "Man!" said he, "I cannot call to mind that we ever met in earlier days the days of which you would remind me; how came you by the knowledge of the only secret of my life?"

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By no unlawful means, nor yet from any human lips-I am neither wizard nor eavesdropper; if I said by instinct, I might seem to speak riddles, but I should say true."

"I thought," said the abbot, abruptly, " that she of whom you speak had taken the veil in the convent of the Marcellines?"

"It was so said," replied the Italian, looking down.

"Miserable man," said the abbot, again almost fiercely, and in a voice raised beyond all considerations of prudence-" what wrong have I done you, that you have thus forced yourself, with these things of the past, upon one who had sought and hoped to renounce them! above all, that you have embittered a memory of which the pain had passed away, and which, until now at least, had in it no dishonour?"

"Dishonour!" said the priest, in a more guarded tone, but not with less emotion than the other-"ay, churchmen that ye are, with all your penitential disciplines to mortify the flesh, there was never rule yet given that could teach men to humble the spirit-Dishonour! it is the single hell in which the men of this generation firmly believe. Abbot or soldier, what matters it-there spoke the true spirit of knighthood, not that of the Nazarene so would you thrust from you your truest and best affections, did they stand in the way of your worship of that brazen idol! I much doubt me, father, whether you are more faithful to the spirit of the vows of St Benedict than I have been to their letter. I at least," he continued

bitterly, "have learned to trample my honour in the dust; for years I have been content to suffer a worse penance than any known in the cloister-to be a scorn and loathing in the eyes of others, and even in my own to be what you called me even now, apostate to my vow, traitor to those I have professed to serve and all this for what? not for wealth, or life, or happiness, if that could ever be mine; not for any selfish hopes in earth or heaven-but for a memory and a dream!"

"Or for revenge," said the abbot, sternly, as he met the flashing eye of the Italian.

"Revenge? say justice, if you would not do me wrong; justice for

those who cannot claim it for themselves. Let those look well to their own safety who stand between it and me! Night and day, for many a year, I have thought for it, worked for it, sinned for it- if a hundred lives stood in the way of it, I would not spare, if I saw it within my grasp; and I shall win it yet."

He might have gone on, for he was speaking, for once, out of the heart's abundance. But a step was heard in the choir-it was the subsacrist approaching in the discharge of some of his duties. Drawing his cowl again over his head, and looking on the ground, Giacomo passed slowly by him, self-possessed and unsuspected, and the abbot was left alone.

WAR SPECULATIONS.

THE storm has been long gathering. The state of Europe has long been hot, nervous, and feverish. The gloom has been steadily increasing in thickness, and the silence of the air becoming more weird. At last the first drops fall, the first of the thundershower! The Austrians have declared war. The Rubicon (in this case the Ticino) has been crossed. The first shots have ere now been fired, and the first victims have fallen; but at the time we put pen to paper the telegrams are all at cross purposes, and the electric currents have gone mad, as if scared by the greatness of the crisis. Of course, all the world is now agape for news; and as we are all at present in the position of Byron's disinterested spectator,

"It is a goodly sight to see, For him who hath no friend, no brother there,"

we look through our mind's eye on the great arena of the basin of the Po, very much with the same feelings with which a northern spectator would gaze for the first time on a Spanish bullring,-with great curiosity and excitement, and a certain degree of horror, awaiting the beginning of the sports.

The Times has already warned us that an appetite for news is not likely to be so punctually or satisfactorily

fed, as it was by the despatches of "our own Correspondents" from the Crimea and India, seeing that the rival armies will probably exclude from their grim lines all gentlemen of the press and other amateurs; and any bold Briton inclined to venture on taking notes, will run a good chance of being shot, according to the position in which he is found, as either a French or an Austrian spy. At the same time the telegraphs, if all communications of the kind are not rudely interrupted, will simply be made to give such information as may inspire confidence in friends, and disconcert, and as much as possible mystify, enemies, with very little regard to objective truth. No doubt, something very decisive may happen before the issue of the June number of Maga; but it is equally probable that it may not, and we may well take advantage of the present breathing-time to indulge in conjectures which, if they turn out true, may fairly be put to our credit as true prophets; if not, will be taken for what they are worth, considering, as Thucydides long ago remarked in substance, that the most improbable events are the most probable in war. At the same time, the more we ponder and reflect on our own relative position to the contending parties,

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