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kets from the other side fell on our ears; and, at a wave of her hand, the bullets rattled on the rocks, and all was still again.

"I have not trusted myself within your reach, Monsieur Tranchcoeur," said Iminild, flinging herself carelessly on an ottoman, and motioning to Percie to keep his stand, "without a score or two of my free riders from Mount Semering to regulate your conscience. I am mistress here, sir! You may sit down!"

Tranchcœur had assumed an air of the most gentlemanly tranquillity, and motioning to one of the slaves for his pipe, he politely begged pardon for smoking in the countess's presence, and filled the enamelled bowl with Shiraz tobacco.

"You heard of Yvain's death?" she remarked, after a moment, passing her hand over her eyes.

"Yes, at Venice."

"With his dying words, he gave me and mine in charge to this Englishman. Mr. Tyrell, Monsieur Tranchcoeur."

The pirate bowed.

"Have you been long from England?" he asked, with an accent and voice that, even in that brief question, savoured of the nonchalant English of the west end.

"Two years," I answered.

"I should have supposed much longer from_your_chivalry in St. Etienne, Mr. Tyrell. My countrymen generally are less hasty. Your valet there," he continued, looking sneeringly at Percie, "seems as quick on the trigger as his master."

Percie turned on his heel, and walked to the edge of the platform as if uneasy at the remark, and Iminild rose to her feet. "Look you, Tranchcoeur! I'll have none of your sneers, by heaven! That youth is as well born and better bred than yourself, and, with his consent, shall have the authority of the holy church ere long to protect my property and me. Will you aid me in this, Mr. Tyrell?"

"Willingly, countess !"

"Then, Tranchcœur, farewell! I have withdrawn from the common stock Yvain's gold and jewels, and I trust to your sense of honour to render me at Venice whatever else of his private property may be concealed in the island."

"Iminild!" cried the pirate, springing to his feet, “I did not think to show a weakness before this stranger, but I implore you to delay!"

His bosom heaved with strong emotion as he spoke, and the colour fled from his bronzed features as if he were struck with a mortal sickness.

"I cannot lose you, Iminild! I have loved you too long. You must” She motioned to Percie to pass on.

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By heaven, you shall!" he cried, in a voice suddenly become hoarse with passion; and reckless of consequences, he leaped across the heaps of cushions, and, seizing Percie by the throat, flung him with terrible and headlong violence into the river.

A scream from Iminild, and the report of a musket from the other side, rang at the same instant through the cavern, and as I rushed forward to seize the pistol which he had struck from Percie's hand, his half-drawn sabre slid back powerless into the sheath, and Tranchcœur dropped heavily on his knee.

"I am peppered, Mr. Tyrell!" he said, waving me off with a difficult effort to smile, "look after the boy, if you care for him! A curse on her German wolves!"

Percie met me on the bridge, supporting Iminild, who hung on his neck, smothering him with kisses.

"Where is that dog of a pirate?" she cried, suddenly snatching her ataghan from the sheath and flying across the platform. "Tranchcœur!"

Her hand was arrested by the deadly pallor and helpless attitude of the wounded man, and the weapon dropped as she stood over him.

"I think it is not mortal," he said, groaning as he pressed his hand to his side, "but take your boy out of my sight! I minild!"

"Well, Tranchcoeur !"

"I have not done well-but you know my nature-and my love! Forgive me, and farewell! Send Bertram to stanch this blood-I get faint! A little wine, Iminild !"

He took the massive flagon from her hand, and drank a long draught, and then drawing to him a cloak which lay near, he covered his head and dropped on his side as if to sleep.

Iminild knelt beside him and tore open the shirt beneath his jacket, and while she busied herself in stanching the blood, Perdicaris, apparently well prepared for such accidents, arrived with a surgeon's probe, and, on examination of the wound, assured Iminild that she might safely leave him. Washing her hands in the

flagon of wine, she threw a cloak over the wet and shivering Percie, and, silent with horror at the scene behind us, we made our way over the bridge, and in a short time, to my infinite relief, stood in the broad moonlight on the portico of Mynheer Krakenpate.

My carriage was soon loaded with the baggage and treasure of the countess, and with the same swift horses that had brought us from Planina, we regained the post-road, and sped on toward Venice by the Friuli. We arrived on the following night at the fair city so beloved of romance, and with what haste I might, I procured a priest, and married the Countess Iminild to gentleman Percie.

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TOWARD the close of a chilly afternoon, in the latter part of November, I was travelling in Cornwall on horseback. The road was solitary and rugged, and wound along through a gloomy forest over abrupt and stony hills. Several circumstances conduced to my discomfort. I was not sure of my way, I had a hurt in my bridle hand, and evening was approaching, heralded by an icy rain and a cold searching wind. I felt a sinking of spirits which I could not dispel by rapid riding, for my horse, fatigued by a long day's journey, refused to answer spur and whip with his usual animation. In an hour after, I was convinced that I had mistaken my road, and night surprised me in the forest. I had been in more unpleasant situations, so I adopted my usual expedient of letting the reins fall upon my courser's neck. He, however, blundered on, with his nose drooping to the ground, stum. bling every moment, though ordinarily as sure-footed as a roebuck. So we plodded on for a mile, while the landscape grew darker and darker. At length, finding my horse less intelligent or more despairing than myself, I resumed the rein and endeavoured to cheer my brute companion. To tell the truth, I stood in need of something exhilarating my

self.

The sombre air of the trees struck a deathly gloom to my heart, as one by one they seemed to rise on my path, like threatening genii, extending their scathed limbs to meet me. The rain, fine and cold, bedewed me from head to foot, and I question if a more miserable pair of animals ever threaded their way through the mazes of an enchanted forest. I thought of the comfortable home I had left for my forlorn pleasure excursion, of that cheerful hearth around which my family were gathered, of music, love and the thousand endearments I had left behind, and then I gazed into the recesses of the shadowy wood that closed about me, almost in despair. I began to dread the apparition of some giant intruder, and was seriously meditating the production of a pair of pistols, when my quick glance caught the glimmer of distant lights, twinkling through some opening in the trees, and darting a beam of hope upon the wanderer's soul. My reins were instantly grasped, and my rowels were struck into the sides of my charger. He snorted, pricked up his ears, erected his head, and sprang forth in uncontrollable gallop. Up hill and down hill I pricked my gallant gray; and when the forest was past, and his hoofs sounded on the stones of a street leading through a small village, I felt an animation that I cannot well describe. A creaking sign-board swinging in the wind on rusty irons, directed me to the only inn of the village. It was a twostory brick building, standing a little back from the road. I drew rein at the door and dismounted from my weary nag. My loud vociferations summoned to my side a bull-dog, cursed with a most unhappy disposition, and a hostler whose temper was hardly more amiable. He took my horse with an air of surly indifference, and gruffly directed me to the parlour.

This apartment was tenanted by half a dozen rough farmers, and by the proprietor of the tavern, a bluff man, with a portly paunch, a hard gray eye, and a stern Caledonian lip. He welcomed me without much frankness or cordiality, and I sank into a wooden settle, eyed by the surly guests of mine host, and the subject of sundry muttered remarks. The group, as it was lighted up by the strong red glare of the fire, had certainly a bandit appearance, which, however delightful to a Salvator Rosa, was by no means inviting to a quiet traveller, who

had sought the bosom of the hills for pleasure. After making a few remarks, which elicited only monosyllables in answer, I relapsed into silence, from which, however, I was soon aroused by the entrance of the surly hostler, who, in no very gracious manner, informed me that my horse was lame and likely to be sick. This intelligence produced a visit to the stable, and the conviction that I could not possibly resume my journey on the ensuing day; which was somewhat disagreeable to a man who had taken up a decided prejudice against the inn and all its inmates.

Having succeeded in procuring a private room and a fire, I ignited an execrable cigar, and endeavoured to lose myself in the agreeable occupation of castle building while my supper was preparing. Alas! my fancy came not at my call. I had lost my power of abstraction the realities around me were too engrossing. Ere the dying shriek of a majestic rooster had ceased to sound in my ear, his remains were served up on my table, together with a cup or two of very villanous gunpowder tea and a pitcher of cider, with coarse bread and butter ad libitum. Supper was soon dispatched, and in answer to a bell, lightly touched, a vinegar-visaged waiting-maid, of the interesting age of forty-five, entered and removed the scarcely-touched viands the rudis indigestaque moles. I ventured to address her, with a request that I might be supplied with a few books, to enable me to while away the evening. I anticipated a literary feast from the readiness with which she rushed from the room; but she reappeared, bringing only Young's Night Thoughts, (very greasy,) a volume of tales with the catastrophes torn out, a set of plays consisting only of first acts, and an odd number of the Eclectic Magazine. This was sufficiently provoking; but I read a few pages and tried a second cigar, and made the tour of the apartment, examining a family mourning-piece worked in satin, a genealogical tree done in worsted, and a portrait of the mutton-headed landlord and his snappish wife. I counted the ticks of the clock for half an hour, and was finally reduced to the forlorn expedient of seeing likenesses in the burning embers. When the clock struck nine I rang for slippers and a guide to my bedroom, and the landlord appeared, candle in-hand, to usher me to my sleeping

apartment. As I followed him up the creaking staircase, and along the dark upper entry, I could not help regretting that fancy was unable to convert him into the seneschal of a baronial mansion, and the room to which I was going into a haunted chamber. It seemed as if my surly host had the power of divining what was passing in my mind, for when he had ushered me into the room and placed the candle on the table, he said: I hope you'll sleep comfortable, for there aint many rats here, sir. And as for the ghost they say frequents this chamber, I believe that's all my eye, though to be sure the window does look out on the burial-ground."

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"Umph! a comfortable prospect."

"Very, sir; you have a fine view of the squire's new tomb and the poorhouse, with a wing of the jail behind the trees. And I've stuck my second best hat in that broken pane of glass, and there's a chest of drawers to set against the door, so you'll be warm and free from intrusion. I wish you good night, sir."

All that night I was troubled with strange dreams, peopled by phantoms from the neighbouring churchyard, but a bona fide ghost I cannot say I saw. In the morning I rose very early and took a look from the window, but the prospect was very uninviting. The churchyard was a bleak, desolate place, overgrown with weeds, and studded with slate-stones, bounded by a ruinous brick wall, and having an entrance through a dilapidated gateway. One or two melancholy-looking cows were feeding on the rank herbage that sprang from the unctuous soil, spurning many a hic jacet with their cloven hoofs. But afar, in the most distant part of the field, I espied the figure of a man who was busily occupied in digging a grave. There was something within that impelled me to stroll forth and accost him. I dressed, descended, and having ordered breakfast, left the inn, clambered over the ruinous wall, and stood within the precincts of the burial-place. The spot had evidently been used for the purposes of sepulture for a number of years, for the ground rose into numerous hillocks, and I could hardly walk a step without stumbling upon some grassy mound. Even where the perishable gravestones had been shattered by the hand of time, the length of the elevations enabled me to judge of the age of the deceased.

This slight swell rose over the remains of some beloved child, who had been committed to the dust with only the simple ceremonies of the protestant faith, bedewed by the tears of parents, and blessed by the broken voice of farewell affection. This mound of larger dimension was heaped above the giant frame of manhood. Some sturdy tiller of the soil, or rough dweller in the forest, perhaps cut off by a sudden casualty, had been laid here in his last leaden sleep-no more to start at the rising beam of the sun, no more to rush to the glorious excitement of the hunt, no more to pant in noonday toil. Over the whole field of the dead there seemed to brood the spirit of desolation. Stern heads, rudely chiselled, grinned from the grave-stones, and frightful emblems met the eye at every turn. Here was none of that simple elegance with which modern taste loves to invest the memorials of the departed; no graceful acacias, or nodding elms, or sorrowing willows shed their dews upon the turf— everything spoke of the bitterness of parting; of the agony of the last hour, of the passing away from earth—nothing of the re-union in heaven!

I passed on to where the grave-digger was pursuing his occupation. He answered my morning salutation civilly enough, but continued intent upon his work. He was a man of about fifty years of age, spare but strong, with gray hair, and sunken cheeks, and certain lines about the mouth which augured a propensity to indulge in dry jest, though the sternness of his gray eye seemed to contradict the tacit assertion.

"An unpleasant morning, sir, to work in the open air," said I.

"He that regardeth the clouds shall not reap," replied the grave-digger, still busily plying his spade.

"Death stalks

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sumed his employment, and that so assiduously, that in a very short time he had hollowed the last resting-place of Deacon Giles's consort. This done, he ascended from the trench with a lightness that surprised me, and walking a few paces from the new-made grave, sat down upon a tombstone and beckoned me to approach. I did so.

"Young man," said he, "a sexton and a grave-digger, if he is one who has a zeal for his calling, becomes something of a historian, amassing many a curious tale and strange legend concerning the people with whom he has to do, living and dead. For a man with a taste for his profession cannot provide for the last repose of his fellows without taking an interest in their story, the manner of death, and the concern of the relatives who follow their remains so tearfully to the grave."

"Then,” replied I, taking a seat beside the sexton, "methinks you could relate some interesting tales.'

Again the withering smile that I had before observed passed over the face of the sexton, as he answered

"I am no story-teller, sir; I deal in fact, not fiction. Yes, yes, I could chronicle some strange events. But of all the things I know, there is nothing stranger than the melancholy history of the three brides."

"The three brides?"

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Ay. Do you see three hillocks yonder, side by side? There they sleep, and will till the last trumpet comes wailing and wailing through the heart of these lone hills, with a tone so strange and stirring, that the dead will start from their graves at its first awful note. Then will come the judgment and the retribution. But to my tale. Look there, sir, on yonder hill, you may observe a little isolated house, with a straggling fence in front, and a few stunted apple-trees on the ascent behind it. It is sadly out of repair now, and the garden is all overgrown with weeds and brambles, and the whole place has a desolate appearance. If the wind were high now, you might hear the old crazy shutters flapping against the sides, and the wind tearing the gray shingles off the roof. Many years ago, there lived in that house an old man and his son, who cultivated the few acres of arable land which belong to it.

"The father was a self-taught man, deeply versed in the mysteries of science,

and, as he could tell the name of every flower that blossomed in the wood and grew in the garden, and used to sit up late of night at his books, or reading the mystic story of the starry heavens, men thought he was crazed or bewitched, and avoided him, and even hated him, as the ignorant ever shun and dread the gifted and enlightened. A few there were, and among others the minister and lawyer and physician of the place, who showed some willingness to afford him countenance; but they soon dropped his acquaintance, for they found the old man somewhat reserved and morose, and, moreover, their vanity was wounded by discovering the extent of his knowledge. To the minister he would quote the Fathers and the Scriptures in the original tongue, and showed himself well armed with the weapons of polemical controversy. He astonished the lawyer with his profound acquaintance with jurisprudence; and the physician was surprised at the extent of his medical knowledge. So they all deserted him; and the minister, from whom the old man differed in some trifling points of doctrine, spoke very slightingly of him; and by and by all looked upon the selfeducated farmer with eyes of aversion. But he little cared for that, for he derived his consolation from loftier resources, and in the untracked paths of science found a pleasure as in the pathless woods! He instructed his son in all his lore the languages, literature, history, philosophy, science, were unfolded, one by one, to the enthusiastic son of the solitary. Years rolled away, and the old man died. He died when a storm convulsed the face of nature, when the wind howled around his shattered dwelling and the lightning played about the roof; and though he went to heaven in faith and purity, the vulgar thought and said that the Evil One had claimed his own in the thunder and commotion of the elements. I cannot paint to you the grief of the son at his bereavement. He was, for a time, as one distracted. The minister came and muttered a few cold and hollow phrases in his ear, and a few neighbours, impelled by curiosity to see the interior of the old man's dwelling, came to his funeral. With a proud and lofty look the son stood above the dust and the dead in the midst of the band of hypocritical mourners, with a pang at his heart, but a serenity on his brow. He thanked his friends for their kind

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ness, acknowledged their courtesy, and then strode away from the grave to bury his grief in the privacy of his deserted dwelling.

"He found, at first, the solitude of the mansion almost insupportable, and he paced the echoing floors from morning to night, in all the agony of wo and desolation, vainly imploring heaven for relief. It came to him first in the guise of poetic inspiration. He wrote with a wonderful ease and power. Page after page came from his prolific pen, almost without an effort; and there was a time when he dreamed (vain fool!) of immortality. Some of his productions came before the world. They were praised and circulated, and inquiries were set on foot in the hope of discovering the author. He, wrapped in the veil of impenetrable obscurity, listened to the voice of applause, more delicious because it was obtained by stealth. From the obscurity of yonder lone mansion, and from this remote region, to send forth lays which astonished the world, was, indeed, a triumph to the visionary bard.

"His thirst for fame was gratified, and now he began to yearn for the companionship of some sweet being of the other sex, to share the laurels he had won, to whisper consolation in his ear in moments of despondency, and to supply the void which the death of his old father had occasioned. He would picture to himself the felicity of a refined intercourse with a highly-intellectual and beautiful woman, and, as he had chosen for his motto, what has been done may still be done, he did not despair of success. In this village lived three sisters, all beautiful and all accomplished. Their names were Mary, Adelaide, and Madeleine. I am far enough past the age of enthusiasm, but never can I forget the beauty of those young girls. Mary was the youngest, and a fairer-haired, more laughing damsel, never danced upon a green. Adelaide, who was a few years older, was dark-haired and pensive; but of the three, Medeleine, the eldest, possessed the most fire, spirit, cultivation and intellectuality. Their father was a man of taste and education, and, being somewhat above vulgar prejudices, permitted the visits of the hero of my story. Still he did not altogether encourage the affection which he found springing up between Mary and the poet. When, however, he found that her affections were engaged, he did not withhold his

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