University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.

Gordon had scarcely passed the door before Agatha
regretted the message she had sent; but it was now too
late to recall it, and she remained in suspense, listening
to every sound, until she heard his footstep reascending
the staircase. Her heart beat violently, and in vain
did she endeavour to regain her self-possession—for
she felt that by thus furtively meeting a man who was
forbidden her father's house, she was doing an act from
which her sense of propriety should revolt; and though
not criminal in itself, should it become publicly known,
it would be inevitably construed to her injury. Paul
ascended no higher than the first flight of stairs—pointed
out to Jurian the passage to the room in which he
had left Miss Morton, and withdrew. Jurian entered
with a faltering step, and Agatha, trembling with agitation,
rose to receive him.

“I should bid you welcome, Jurian, I should fly to
meet you, were it in any other place than this.”

“And I,” he replied, “would fly to meet you in any
place beneath the canopy of heaven. Agatha, you look
dejected; you do not rejoice at this meeting.”

“I could not feel otherwise than happy,” she replied,

“at meeting you after so painful a separation, but I
cannot relieve my mind from apprehension on your account;
why have you hazarded your life for a momentary
interview?”

“Because death itself would be preferable to the life
of suspense I lead.”

“This is romance, Jurian.”

“Call it what you will,” he exclaimed, “it may be
termed romance by those who can behold every earthly
hope fade around them with indifference; but as I conceive
that the only object in life is to be happy, when
happiness has fled, I do not consider it a romantic action
to hazard a miserable existence to regain it.”

“Nor do I; but no condition should render life of so
little importance to the possessor, as to induce him to
jeopard it upon every idle occasion.”

“And is this an idle occasion?” He paused, and
taking her by the hand, repeated, with increased earnestness,
“speak, my Agatha, do you consider this an
idle occasion?”

“I said not so; but surely you should not have hazarded
so much to meet me.”

He gently drew her closer to him, and after a struggle
to conceal his emotion, exclaimed—

“You do not love as I love. You are incapable of
entering into the feelings of my heart, or you would not
think any sacrifice too great to effect a meeting. What
I most dreaded has been accomplished. You are no
longer the same being that you were. Our separation
has entirely estranged you from me, and your heart is
now ready to quaff the flattery of another.”

The elasticity of spirit, natural to his character, had
disappeared. His recklessness of manner had given
place to unaffected melancholy, and he spoke in a tone
of earnestness that proved his sincerity. Disappointment,
and a sense of degradation, had completely
changed his nature. He felt that they no longer met
on equal terms, and that by his own folly he had rendered
himself unworthy of her.

“Speak not of that, Jurian.”

“Is it not so?—But why should I ask you to confirm
my forebodings!—I feel it cannot be otherwise—
and perhaps I do not deserve that it should be.”

Agatha withdrew herself from his embrace, and
scarcely articulated—

“Was it to reproach me that you are here? If so,
rail on, but if not, do not embitter the few moments we
are together.”

“True, my thoughts are bitter enough, God knows,
without poisoning the few moments that might be rendered
otherwise.”

“I have never seen you thus, even in your saddest
moments. What means this change?”

“I am indeed a wretch! Fallen in my own esteem,
and meriting the contempt of the world.”

“So pale and spiritless! Jurian, what has happened?”

“Ask me not. My tongue would cleave to the roof
of my mouth before it would betray my shame, even to
you, Agatha, who have known my thoughts from childhood.
My soul is on the rack, and what adds to my
torments is the fear that you will join in contemning a
wretch who seems to have been ushered into existence
for no other purpose than for the finger of scorn to point
at.”

“Why doubt me now?”

“You are surrounded by those whose prejudices
have descended from one generation to another, until
they have become inseparable from their nature. Your
mind is a delicate plant, Agatha, and if that blight
come over it, it will wither—there is no hope for you
in this world. Your heart is mine; at one period perhaps
I deserved it; then be cautious how you imbibe
the prejudices of others, for rational as they may
appear, they cannot fail to terminate in sorrow.”

“You caution me against sorrow, and yet make me
wretched. Whither does this tend?”

“Answer me, is the stain upon my birth so indelibly
stamped that the ocean of tears I have shed cannot
wash it away? Speak and satisfy me. Though you
appear in the form of an angel, are you still a creature
of this calculating world?”

“Think not so basely of me, as to imagine me insensible
to your worth, and incapable of estimating the
many acts of friendship received at your hands.”

“Still friendship! Beloved of my soul, had you sighed
for one of the stars—expressed a wish, however
wild and fantastical, I would have stretched to the utmost
extent of my nature to have accomplished it. My
pulse has throbbed in accordance with your own. My
heart has discarded its own, and adopted the feelings
of your bosom. My sympathies and antipathies were
all imbibed from you; and yet you say this is no more
than friendship—if so, what is love?”

“A passion, Jurian, that it would have been well had
we never dreamt of, and now, perhaps, it may be criminal
in us to cherish.”

“And wherefore criminal? Is a passion as holy as
the sainted entertain for each other, less pure on earth
than it would be in heaven? Whatever my faults may
be, Agatha, want of devotion to you is not among the
number.”

Every muscle of his countenance quivered with emotion,
as he struggled to suppress the intensity of his
feelings. His bosom heaved, and his respiration became
thick and difficult.

“A pure stream seldom flows from a corrupted
fountain,” replied Agatha.

“The blight of heaven is on me,” he exclaimed,
“and it is in vain for me to struggle, since every created
thing rises up to spurn me. How have I merited
this? What act of mine has called down the wrath of
heaven? Why am I doomed to bear the unceasing persecution
of mankind? But I submit.” He took her
hand within his own, and after a pause, said—“My

dream of madness is over, and I awake to despair.
Farewell, and if you can, forget me.”

“Your heart is full.”

“Even to breaking, Agatha. The last blow is given,
and I am now prepared to meet every affliction the
world can impose. My nature is changed; my mind
is crushed to the earth, for it has been lashed with scorpions
so long that nothing can now excite it.”

The ardour of his feelings appeared to have completely
subsided, and he addressed her in a calm and
melancholy tone.

“Jurian, I would not have you part from me thus.”

“How should we part? Surely not as we last parted,
when you promised to be mine.”

“My promise was never to become another's—but
not thine.”

“And wherefore not mine? Your heart is not estranged
from me.”

“Startled, but not estranged. Act as you may, it
can never be estranged.”

“Then why will you not promise to become mine?
You long have loved me, and love me still; then why
not promise?”

“Because—because”—her voice faltered, and her
cheeks became more pallid.

“Speak on, dear Agatha. Though a cloud now
darkens my destiny, it may yet be removed. Brighter
days will break upon me. Speak on, my love.”

“Because another has a stronger claim than mine.”

“What other? What stronger claim can there possibly
be on earth?”

“Oh! Jurian, why play a double part with me? I
should be the last in the world towards whom you
would act with duplicity.”

A voice was heard from an adjoining room, singing a
plaintive strain. The notes were wild and thrilling,
and yet so low that they seemed to proceed from a
greater distance.

“That voice, so wildly sad! It thrills to my very
soul. Who is it, Agatha?”

“Miriam Grey.”

“She here? Good heavens! When did she come?”

“A few hours ago.”

“Poor misguided girl!”

“Fatally misguided, indeed.”

“Wherefore is she from her home? What does she
here?”

“She asks for shelter for the night. You best can
answer why she has deserted her mother's roof.”

Jurian felt confused. He perceived that she was acquainted
with what he most earnestly wished to be concealed.
But why had Miriam sought shelter there?
Suspicion answered the question—Gordon resided beneath
the same roof, and it was natural that she should
seek him at such a time. He was now convinced of
the faithlessness of Miriam.

“How does the poor girl seem?”

“Broken-hearted, yet struggling against her feelings.
There is no sight so melancholy as to behold a mind
like hers crushed as it has been.”

“Crushed, even as the flower by the rude ploughshare—never
to blossom again! and yet it sends up a
grateful incense in return. O Miriam! what a mind
was thine!”

“And now to behold its ruins! Jurian, you have
much to answer for.”

“Much! but not that, Agatha, not that.”

“Shame on thee! Do not add falsehood to crime.”

“Has she accused me of wronging her?”

“No; what I have learnt was from broken sentences
that escaped her in her anguish.”

“Nor will she accuse me, Agatha.”

“Of that I am aware. Her heart may break, but
pride will tie her tongue. If you have not the honour
to do her justice, she will never urge her claim.”

“My heart bleeds for her.”

“Hers has been broken for you. Do an act of justice,
and heal them both.”

“You know not what you urge. It is now too late.”

“It is never too late to repair a wrong.”

“The voice of an angel pleading for the fallen!”

“But the fallen is less guilty than he who is supplicated
for mercy. Remember the time must come when
you too will require a mediator—then turn not a deaf
ear to me.”

“O! Agatha, to hear you pleading for another, convinces
me that the sacred ties between us are forever
broken.”

“Those ties can never be broken. They have been
too long cherished now to be destroyed. They may be
weakened, but not destroyed. I may find myself deceived
in you, Jurian, but change as you may, you will
be to me as a brother still.”

The hope that Agatha would at some period return
his affection with equal ardour, was now extinguished.
He believed her regard for him to be still unabated, but
the manner in which she had interceded for Miriam
convinced him that this would avail him nothing. A
sense of his own unworthiness also tended to his depression
of spirit. He stood silently leaning upon her
chair, loath to depart from the only being whose presence

could diminish the acuteness of his feelings.
Agatha remained motionless, without venturing to raise
her eyes from the floor upon which they were vacantly
cast, lest they might betray the struggle she had undergone
in pursuing the course she had adopted. They
were startled from this situation by a burst of a full
band of music, immediately beneath the window. After
an overture, the following verses were sung by a clear
and melodious voice, to a lively Scotch air:—

The song over, the instrumental music continued.
Jurian recognised the voice; he cast a look at Agatha,
their eyes met, but he said nothing. His feelings had

already received so severe a blow that no additional
disappointment could rouse him to complaining. Another
song was now heard from the serenaders, which
was shouted forth in a manner that would have justified
the rage of the Thracian matrons towards the poet of
the Argonauts. As the poetry was as rude as the minstrelsey,
we shall not commit it to our pages. The sound
of Mr. Morton's voice below alarmed the lovers, and a
full sense of Jurian's situation flashed upon the mind of
Agatha.

“My father has returned,” she exclaimed, “and
should you be discovered!”—

“Fear not for me; fate has done its worst.”

“To remain here is madness. Hark! he is inviting
the serenaders in. He will bring them to this room,
and you must be discovered. Come, this way, this
way.” She seized hold of his hand and led him hastily
towards the door. “O! heavens! they are already
ascending the stairs. Quick, or we are lost.”

They glided rapidly through the dark passage that
led from the room, and ascended another flight of stairs,
unperceived by the revellers, who had not yet ascended
more than half way towards the first landing. The gruff
voice of the major was heard—

“By my hilts, you may ridicule my vocal powers,
for compared to colonel Lindsay, I am no more than
an owl to a nightingale at these amatory matters, but at
a hunting or drinking song, I would not cry peccavi to
old Orpheus himself.”

“Having practised at Donnybrook fair,” replied
Lindsay, laughing. “Who was your poet, major, for
really he deserves as much credit as the singer.”

“To be sure he does,” replied the other, “for myself
was the man. You may scout at my music, but
don't treat my poetry uncivilly, for I will be bold to say
I have seen much worse from the pen of a laureat on
the king's birth-day.”

“That you may safely assert, although he has a pipe
of malmsey to inspire him.”

“By the powers!” continued M`Druid, “in my mind
the reader stands more in need of the wine than the
poet to wash it down. It is a mighty pretty thing to be
a poet to the king, and get your inspiration wholesale
from the vintners, free of expense. I should like the
trade of all others, for if there be inspiration in a hogshead,
let me alone for bringing it out.”

“We shall not dive quite as deep for it to-night,”
replied the 'squire, as he arrived at the top of the stairs,
“but we shall see whether another bottle of anno domini
'65 will not make you poetical.”

“I shall not answer for that,” replied the major,
“but it will set my eye `in a fine frenzy rolling,' which
is the next thing to being poetical, for while in that
state, by my hilts, I can imagine more things in half an
hour, than will come to pass in half a century.”

“Excuse us to-night, sir,” said Lindsay, “it is now
nearly twelve.”

“And are you to be frightened by twelve o'clock and
a bottle of wine, young morality?” said the 'squire.

“I despair of ever making a man of him,” exclaimed
the major. “By the time he has seen as much service
as I have, he will discard these nursery notions,
and not wait until pleasure has given a second invitation.
She is an arrant jilt, colonel, and you should
always take her at the first smile.

There's authority for you, and no man in his senses
would ask for a better, with a bottle of old wine before
him.”

They entered the parlour, and again seated themselves
around the table they had left but a few hours

before. As the wine circulated, the loquacity of the
major increased.

“It is said that one good reason is sufficient to justify
any act, but for drinking I always have three, which
I cannot surmount, or I might possibly become as temperate
as the colonel.”

“And what are your reasons, major?” demanded
Lindsay.

“The first is being thirsty.”

“But you are not always thirsty, and yet always
ready to drink.”

“O yes, I am always thirsty when the second reason
appears—good wine.”

“So the first reason arises out of the second. Pray
what may the third be?”

“A boundless love for it. A growing attachment
that increases with years. It is one of the few passions
that age cannot weaken.”

Miss Buckley entered, with a countenance unusually
smirking, and expressed her gratification occasioned by
the gallantry of major M`Druid and the other gentlemen,
in serenading them. She concluded with a low
curtsey.

“By my hilts, this is rich reward for minstrel labour,”
replied the major. “It is an unexpected treat
to be favoured with the smiles of the fair at this late
hour.”

The spinster dropped another curtsey, and replied—

“The troubadours of old, were a gallant people, major,
and I am glad to see their spirit reviving in modern
times.”

“That was an age indeed, madam—the only true
golden age, when a man could live upon music and
love; but in these degenerate times, we require more
substantial aliment; such as roast beef and porter.
Who could be poetical and feed thus grossly!”

“And yet we are told that the chivalric knight-errant,
Sancho Panza, was fond of the flesh pots, and his mind,

you know, was strongly imbued with poetic fervour.
His romantic attachment to his charming Teresa, is a
glowing picture, major.”

“Every way calculated to make a bachelor deplore
his celibacy,” replied M`Druid, bowing.

The law passed by Diogenes king of Sparta to compel
bachelors either to marry or join the army, must
have had a very salutary effect upon the community,
major?” Miss Buckley was never at a loss for historical
matter in her conversation, and such was the variety
of her reading, that her hearers were sometimes
puzzled to comprehend her meaning. The major replied—

“That, madam, was a sure way to make them all
belligerant.”

“O, you savage! Socrates himself would not have
expressed so illiberal a sentiment.”

The 'squire, during the foregoing, had evinced repeated
symptoms of his old complaint.

“What is the matter, brother?”

“The gout, Becky—you understand. I feel as if I
should have a violent attack shortly.”

“What a distressing complaint it is, major,” continued
the spinster; “and must have been very prevalent
among the ancients, for even Cæsar's horse was
troubled with tender hoofs, and though some historians
say he had corns on his feet, I am disposed to think
that his complaint was the aristocratic disease.”

“Very possible, madam,” replied M`Druid, “for
doubtless he fed high.”

“Being an emperor's horse, major, it is more than
probable. Horses were astonishing creatures among
the Romans; I should suppose a widely different animal
from that of the present day, for at times they were
made senators, and took part in the deliberative councils.”

“In modern times we have seen senators made of a
more ignoble animal,” replied M`Druid.

“What animal, major.”

“An ass, madam, saving your presence.”

“This information is entirely new to me. I am
astonished how a fact so remarkable could have escaped
my notice. I have read that among he Houyhnhnms
the affairs of government were entirely managed by
horses, but it is no where mentioned that the ass was
admitted among them.”

“A modern innovation, madam; entirely a modern
innovation,” replied the major, bowing.

The 'squire could no longer keep his seat. He
moved towards the sideboard, under pretence of getting
another decanter of wine, but in fact to give a seasonable
hint to his loquacious relative.

“Becky, all things in nature require rest; even the
sun himself on one occasion stood still; but, zounds!
there is no stopping a woman's tongue when once set
in motion.”

“I understand, brother.”

Miss Buckley had perceived the 'squire's uneasiness
for some time, and had endeavoured to touch upon no
subject that might tend to increase it; but there is a
facination in error difficult to subdue. There was a
favourite topic that she determined not to broach. This
caution had taken full possession of her mind, and she
was repeatedly compelled to bite her lips, to prevent
that which was uppermost in her thoughts from escaping.
The hint of the 'squire had concentrated her
thoughts upon that single idea, and its force became
irresistible. He had scarcely resumed his seat, before
out it bolted, as abruptly as a tippler from an ale-house
without paying his reckoning.

“There was a custom, major, among the ancient
Chaldeans”—

The 'squire interrupted her by desiring her to call
his daughter, that she might thank the serenaders in
person for their gallantry. The spinster rose in confusion
at having trespassed on forbidden ground, notwithstanding

her resolution to be guarded. She curtseyed
herself out of the room, to every one of which M`Druid
returned a profound bow, remarking, as she closed the
door, that he had not met with any female on this side
of the Atlantic, who adhered so strictly to the rules of
genuine politeness.

Miss Buckley had not left the room many moments,
before the whole house was alarmed by a violent
scream. The company hastened into the hall, and the
'squire hobbled up the stairs as rapidly as his gout and
potations would admit. He met his sister-in-law descending,
and trembling with affright.

“What is the matter?” demanded the 'squire.
“Speak, Becky, what the devil ails you?”

“There is a robber in my niece's chamber,” she replied,
and hurried past to escape the imagined danger.

“A robber!” exclaimed all present.

“Yes, a ferocious one. The sight of him has shocked
my nervous system to such a degree, that sal volatile
itself will not restore my pulse to its pristine equilibrium.”

“Curse your equilibrium!” muttered the 'squire, and
hurried up.

“It is well, major, that the ring of Gyges, spoken of
by Plato, has been lost, or there would be no safety for
us in these degenerate days.”

She dropped a curtsey, and bestowed a gracious
smile as she rustled past the major towards the parlour.
M`Druid acknowledged her presence by a respectful
bow, and when she was out of hearing observed—

“So, a robber in my niece's chamber! Some lusty
Hercules has got into the garden of the Hesperides,
put the dragon to flight, and unless speedily prevented,
bids fair to carry off the golden fruit.”

Agatha, in her alarm lest Jurian should be discovered,
felt justified in taking any step that might insure his
safety. She dreaded the consequences of his being
apprehended, and should have considered herself instrumental

in any evil that might befall him. Her first
thought was to conceal him for the present, and when
all had retired to rest, he might escape in safety from
the house. But where could she conceal him from the
prying eyes of the domestics? No place was so sacred
from intrusion as her own chamber, and though rigid
propriety might condemn the measure, yet she felt as if
the life of a brother were in her hands, and it would be a
crime to weigh the consequences in attempting to save
him. When Miss Buckley hurried unexpectedly into the
room, the first object that presented itself was Jurian.
She uttered a shriek, and withdrew more hastily than
she entered.

When Mr. Morton reached the chamber, he discovered
Jurian apparently insensible to his situation. He
remained seated, unconscious of the presence of a
third person.

“Who are you?” demanded the old man, “and what
is your business here?” Jurian raised his eyes at the
sound, and they fell vacantly upon the countenance of
the other.

“Ah! is it you, thou puddle of creation? is it you?
Help there!” cried the 'squire, and colonel Lindsay and
the major hastened to his assistance. “Colonel Lindsay,”
he continued, “seize upon that traitor to his
king.”

As he pronounced the name of Lindsay, Jurian
started to his feet. His form became erect, and his
dejected countenance animated. His eyes shone with
an unnatural wildness, and his lips curled with a demoniac
smile, until his teeth were bare. He remained
silent until Balcarras spoke—

“Do we so soon meet again?”

“We have soon met, and the sooner we part the
better for one of us,” replied Jurian.

“Seize upon the reptile; crush the serpent!” shouted
the old man with rage.

“Nay, beware of the serpent, Lindsay. Put not thy

heel upon his head.” As he spoke, his pale visage
became flushed. Lindsay paused, for he recognised
the changes that countenance had undergone during
their meeting in the arbour. The curled lip and
clenched teeth denoted that the same passions were
awakened, and he was loath again to encounter them.
“Stand out of the way,” continued Jurian, “and let
me pass.”

“Never from this house, but in custody,” exclaimed
the 'squire, and approached to seize him. Jurian put
him aside, and calmly said—

“Weak old man, that palsied hand ill becomes the
office you would impose on it. Go, and let me pass.”
He moved towards the door.

“Do not suffer him to escape. Draw your swords
if he dare to resist,” cried the 'squire. Lindsay stood
between Jurian and the door.

“Stand out of the way, sir. This is no place for
sword-play between us, and I have no more fables to
throw away on one so incorrigible. Stand aside, and
let me pass.”

The scornful smile was still on his lips, and he spoke
in a deep collected tone, that awed the soul of the Scot.
Lindsay drew his sword as Jurian approached, his
weapon still by his side.

“Stand back. You do not pass this way.”

“So said the rushes to the swoln stream, and still it
moved on.”

“Stand back.”

“Beware of the fate of the rushes. There's another
fable. Let it not be thrown away.”

Jurian advanced, and the Scot pointed his sword at
his breast.

“One step farther, and your blood be on your own
head.”

“So be it; and your blood, upon whose head shall
it rest?”

“That will I answer for,” replied Lindsay, astounded
at his coolness.

“Then on your head be it.”

With the quickness of lightning he sprang upon him,
and in an instant the sword was wrested from the hand
of the Scot. “This is no place for a drawn weapon.”
He seized Lindsay by both arms, and hurled him as
though he had been a child, to the further extremity of
the room. This was the business of but a moment.

As Lindsay fell, a loud scream was heard to proceed
from a dark corner of the room, accompanied by the
sound of a heavy weight falling upon the floor.

“O God! my child! my Agatha!” cried the old man,
and hurried towards the spot whence the sound proceeded.
The major drew his sword to prevent the
escape of Jurian, but the sound of Agatha's voice had
rendered the caution unnecessary. He evinced no disposition
to leave the room. Mr. Morton came forward
supporting his daughter, who had swooned, and desired
a window to be opened, that she might breathe more
freely. As his eyes fell upon the form of Jurian, he
cried—

“Lead the ruffian to a place of security. My heart
recoils at the sight of the poisonous reptile.”

“Deride and persecute me to the last, old man, for
it is your nature to inflict, but not mine to bear injuries.
Look there!” he exclaimed, pointing at Lindsay, who
still lay senseless upon the floor.

“Monster, do you threaten me?”

“You, the father of Agatha!”

Miss Morton, who had just revived from her swoon,
heard the tones of his well known voice.

“Who calls me,” she cried, starting from her father's
arms. “Where is he? You have not murdered him!
O God! there he lies—dead, dead!” She shrieked,
and threw herself upon the body of Balcarras.

“Agatha, beloved of my soul!”

“Take him away, take him away,” cried the 'squire

to M`Druid, “his presence will only tend to aggravate
her feelings.”

He raised his daughter from the floor, and bending
beneath her weight, was hurrying nearer to the open
window, in hopes that the night air would revive her.

“Stay one moment longer,” said Jurian, who imagined
he intended bearing her from the room, and that
it was the last time he should ever behold her, “stay,
I beseech you!”

“Wretch, you would not murder her too?” said the
agitated father.

“My own soul sooner. Proud man, I feel I am as
loathsome to your sight as the venomous toad. You
have spurned me as if I were unworthy of your presence.
But I have patiently borne my manifold injuries,
and in the bitterest moments I have forgiven you
for that lovely one's sake. Then do not fear that I
shall injure her, since the love I bear her has made
me pardon you.”

“Lead him away.”

“One moment, and I have done.”

He moved towards the old man, who shrunk at his
approach. Jurian threw his arms around the insensible
form of Agatha, and passionately imprinted a kiss upon
her colourless lips.

“Pollution!” cried her father, and thrust him from
her.

“'Tis done, and I am ready to follow wherever you
please. Sheathe your sword, sir; I shall make no resistance
against any one but him,” said Jurian, pointing
at Balcarras.

“I am pleased to hear it,” replied the major, putting
up his sword, “for I am in no humour, I assure you,
to feel your grip at present.”

“Lead on.”

“Ah! he is still here,” cried Agatha, reviving,
“then they have not murdered him!”

“That would have been mercy.”

“Save him, dear father, save him.”

“My child, you know not what you ask. Lead him
away.”

“Whither would you lead him? Of what crime is
he guilty? Speak, father, speak.”

“Plead not for a ruffian. Look there, my child.”
Balcarras had risen from the floor, his face disfigured
with blood.

“Father, even the worm will recoil when trodden
on.”

“No more, no more. Take him from my sight.”

“Farewell, my Agatha. Heaven protect you!”

“O! Jurian, we shall meet no more!—and to part
thus, surrounded by your enemies! No one to mitigate
your anguish—no one to feel for you!”

“Not one, say you, Agatha?”

“O, yes! there is one—and she”—

“Is on my bosom.” Agatha tottered towards him,
and fell upon his neck. Jurian pressed her in his arms.

“Have I lived to see this!” exclaimed her father.

“There, old man, I restore your child to you again.
I have received from her a tear of sympathy—it is all
I ask, and God grant it may be the only tear she will
be called upon to shed in this world. Bless you, my
Agatha! farewell!”

He placed her in the arms of her father, and turned
to leave the room, accompanied by M`Druid. In the
door he beheld Miriam standing, pale and sorrowful.
She had witnessed his parting from Agatha. As he
passed her, she followed him down the stairs in silence.
When they had reached the lower hall, he said,
in a low voice—

“You here to reproach me too! The time is well
chosen.”

“No reproaches have yet passed my lips.”

“But your looks! they speak more than words
could utter.”

“I would smile, Jurian, if it were possible. But it
is hard to smile when the heart is aching.”

“Don't smile, for God's sake, don't smile!”

“Yet there was a time when you were pleased to
see me smile.”

“True, there was a time! But that melancholy
smile now indicates deeper rooted despair, than the
most boisterous complaints. Don't smile, don't smile!

“I will not, if it gives you pain.”

“How calm your features are. Somewhat paler
than formerly, and slightly changed, but as calm as
ever. How is this?”

“Would you not have them calm?”

“No; give full vent to your soul in reproaches, and
I can bear them all. But that look so calm, harrows
my very soul. Reproach me, and I will bless you,
Miriam, in return.”

“And wherefore should I reproach?”

“Better that I bear your reproaches than my own.”

“May you never experience either. You are in distress,
Jurian!”

“Fallen and disgraced; deserted and despised—
even by myself despised.”

“But not quite deserted. Is there ought that I can
do to serve you?”

“Peace, Miriam, peace.”

“If there is command me, and it shall be done.”

“Silence, I beseech you.”

“If any thing on earth could make my heart joyful
again, it would be in serving you.”

“You torture me! Thou poor deluded and deserted
one. Thou hast found the way to my heart, and thy
words are venomed!”

“Jurian!”

“No more, no more. Lead on to the prison, for if
I listen longer I shall become as a child. Lead on to
the prison: that I can bear, but not this.”

“I will follow you.”

Tears started into the eyes of Jurian, as he replied—

“No, remain where you are: you have endured too
much on my account already. Remain where you are,
Miriam.”

They separated, and the major conducted him to
a place of confinement. Jurian observed a profound
silence, notwithstanding the multitude of questions
propounded by the loquacious M`Druid, who was unusually
talkative, for wine was in and wit was out.

Miriam, after the departure of Jurian, repaired to the
chamber of Agatha, whither she had been removed, in
a state of extreme agitation, at the result of the night's
adventure.