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"Let us fly, Juan.” " Whither?"

Ah, whither? But yesterday it was the same questioning word, yet how different. Where was the long line of glorious beauty now and the flower-strewn path? Was it possible that this hideous thing could be true, or was it not rather some horrible dream from which tomorrow's sun should rouse her ?

“Juan, fly."

“Too late. Every avenue is closed; on every side we are surrounded ; at every corner hateful spies are watching our movements."

“And yet thou camest hither! Oh, why was this? If thou wert safe I should be strong to answer them; strong to bear it.”

“ And what would my life be to then ?"

“Shall I tell thee, Juan, whero our bridal will be ? Let me whisper. The Great Square of Seville.”

“ Courage, Viola."

" I have none. A fair bridal ; a bright illumination ; a goodly concourse of spectators and well-wishers ; already I see it."

“Wilt thou hide the books, love ?"

“Nay, oh Juan, as though it would not be vain; why tempt me ? See there."

“ What is it, beloved ?"

“ There, in the shadow. I saw it. A man such as we spoke of; and a pair of eyes that glistened upon us fiercely."

“It was fancy.”
“No fancy. They are coming; they are upon us.

See for thyself.”

“I will not. I will see nothing but the light of my eyes, which they are about to take from me. I will think of nothing but a prayer that whenever the trial comes it may come to both at the same moment, and bring strength with it. The separation will be short. Kiss me, Viola."

His arm was round her, and she hid her face from the terrible indistinctness of the shadow opposite.

" Juan, I have thought of something. There may be yet safety for thee. Thou art not"

"Hush! I am as thou art."

“If I had only strength and courage, but I have none. I am faint : it terrifies me.”

They will not torment thee, my bird. There is none to betray but me, and I betray myself. There is but one trial—the last. I would I could bear it for both. Strength will be given thee in that bour."

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"Was I right, Juan ? Is there no hope left? Is it coming ?” "Courage, beloved, it is coming." No more time, no more hope ; only one whisper, " Together mine in death if not in life,”

-and it is come. Together through the dim streets, silent and ghostlike; together under the gaunt portal which bids those who enter leave hope behind; through the dismal chambers, each one darker than the last, till their muffled conductor stops.

This then is the end. Here, where the black-robed figure sits before his table, and holds in his hand the roll of the accusation written; where from the one gloomy window might be seen below the entrances to those cells, far away from all sounds of life, or hope, or love, to which the portal of the grim building leads. Gagged and pinioned; this is the end.

And in the room where so lately the spirit of joyful anticipation had rested; which was yet eloquent with tokens of a presence never more to enter it in reality, an old woman knelt on the floor with her withered hands clasped in the agony of silent grief; daring to utter no word; scarcely to gesticulate, lest the inevitable eye should rest upon her, and see in her another victim.

This is the bridal day, and in the Great Square of Seville uprises the flame of rejoicing. Merrily it leaps and dances in the air ; brightly it shines out over the houses, and the goodly concourse of spectators. Hungrily it licks the fuel, craving for more; and not one of those who look on can turn to his neighbour and say, “ I am safe.” Merrily it burns and crackles ; playfully the smoke eddies round, and kisses the heads of those nearest; but above it all, there comes out a voice which says, “ Trusting in one Mediator between God and man, the Man Christ Jesus, I die in hope. Oh, Viola, hearest thou ?”

Faint and tremulous rises the answer, “ Juan!”
It is enough.

There is a heap of ashes in the Great Square of Seville. Gather them up, sweep them all away; the place will be wanted again to

morrow.

THE ROBIN'S CHARTER.

A fine old cock-robin sat up in a tree,
His song was as sweet as a bird's

song

could be ; His back like brown velvet, his breast red and round, A prettier robin could nowhere be found.

This robin had got a most beautiful wife,
He loved her a thousand times more than his life;
And in the beech hedge, in the warmest of nests,
Lived the pair, and their pretty young brood of redbreasts.

Master Dicky, the eldest, was like his papa,
Miss Chirpy was named from her pretty mamma;
And Hobby and Lobby were dear little souls,
Although they were nearly as blind as two moles.

The rectory garden was now very old,
Beech hedges shut off both the wind and the cold;
And round the whole garden a stone wall so high,
It almost appeared to reach up to the sky.

For many long years had these robin redbreasts
In the snug old beech hedges built many nice nests;
Indeed at one time they had tried a small yew,
But they found it was rather exposed to the view.

'Twas a bright lovely day in the sweet month of Junc,
When Bob, the old redbreast, began his fine tune;
And Hobby and Lobby, and Chirpy and Dick,
Were to take their first flight to the nearest hayrick.

Though fluttered and frightened, they all safe and sound
Found themselves on the rick without touching the ground;
But the little ones screamed in despair and dismay,
When they saw a tall man with pass

a rake

that way.

“Ah, me!” said youug Dicky, “our fate is now clear.”

Mamma,” said Miss Chirpy,“ my heart bursts with fear!" While Hobby and Lobby had squatted so flat, They each much resembled a very young bat. Their father cried, “Hush!” as he shook his brown head, * My children, you know not what wise men have saidThat good actions live when the doers are dust, And sweet is the memory of those who are just.

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"And so, as it happened in days long ago,
Two babes were compelled from their own home to go.
My tale must be brief of these darlings so good;
They died, and we buried them deep in the wood.

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“ The thoughts of these children my tender heart grieres,
I helped my dear parents to gather up leaves ;
We laid them quite softly on each little pet;
'Twas a sight that no robin could ever forget

"Since then all good robins are cherished with caro,
And are privileged birds above all in the air;
Should we fly to the window of cot, house, or hall,
We're cheerfully welcomed, and fed at them all."

This story so touching, in many moro words,
Is oft told to children to make them love birds ;
And robins are welcomed by all who are good,
For the sake of the poor little “ Babes in the Wood.”

THE LIFE AND TIMES OF THOMAS A BECKET.

PART II.–FROM THE COUNCIL OF CLARENDON TO

HIS DEATH.

1. The first event that claims attention in resuming our notice of Becket is the Passing of the Constitutions of Clarendon,

To show his anger with the primate, the King had deprived him of the rich preferment of the Archdeaconry of Canterbury (an office certainly incompatible with the archbishopric), and appointed a person hostile to Becket to it, together with the Abbacy of St. Augustine's, under the very walls of the metropolitical cathedral, Clérambault, the new abbot, refused to take the oath of obedience to the archbishop, and when Becket proceeded to compel him, appealed to the Pope, who confirmed the new abbot's view of independence, on the ground that before the Conquest the abbot had enjoyed complete and entire liberty.

This judgment, contrary to Becket's apparent interests, caused an entire change in his tactics, and proved a most effective instrument in clever hands like his own. He accepted the Pope's decision, and acknowledged his authority, and then proceeded immediately to act upon it by claiming for the see of Canterbury all the feudal and manorial rights it had possessed anterior to the Conquest. This involved him in quarrels both with the King and his nobles, wherein, while the royal authority to a certain extent prevailed, a bitter feeling was left between the primate and his sovereign.

In the following year, when he had held the primacy for about two years, Becket proceeded to put in force the privileges of the spiritual courts against the King's judges, and, while he administered punishment to an offending clergyman, defied and insulted the civil courts in taking the case out of their hands. The King forthwith summoned a solemn assembly of the nobles and prelates of the realm (the nearest approach to a Parliament since the Wittena-gemot of the Saxon period), and required them to re-affirm the ancient customs as established in the reign of the first Henry. This he thought would restrain Becket's encroachments, and said would repress the numerous delinquencies of which the clergy were rumoured to be guilty. The barons generally were ready enough to re-affirm them, but when the question was put to the prelates, they only assented (with Becket at their head) with this peculiar reservation, “Saving the honour of God and his holy church.” The King perceived the sting in the words, and broke up the assembly, leaving the question unsettled.

Henry succeeded, however, in strengthening his party, and secured the concurrence of Pope Alexander III.; and after receiving

concos

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