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Ah no! how false the thought ! how vain the sigh!
No guilty passion sojourns in the sky.
Cut off from hope above, or joy below,
A weary prisoner in this world of wo,
Then let me seek for consolation bere,
Nor fruitless call the ever-flowing tear ;
Of love and thee, Lorenzo, ever dream,
And be thy constancy the cheering theme
The only light that through this world of gloom
Shall lead me onward to the friendly tomb,
Where thou with me shall hail the calm release,
And our cold ashes mix at last in peace.”

“ This letter conveyed to Lorenzo the certainty of Maria's consenting to fly with him: the means were soon concerted, and they fled. She renounced the Catholic faith, and they were married by the priest of his regiment. Misery is sure to follow such an error. In a skirmish with the troops of France, Lorenzo was killed, and his bride became a prisoner. In the confusion of a night march, she again made her escape, and in crossing the little stream by whose side her lover had fallen, fatigue and despair overcame her, and she

sunk

sunk into the waters, that kindly bore her last remains to the spot where Lorenzo had died. In the morning they were found by the peasants, and they now lay side by side in the same grave; where some kind soul, forgetting their errors, and pitying their sorrows, has placed over them a wooden cross, with these words:

. From hope, fear, joy, and pain, here rest at last!

The dream that blest ye for an hour is flown : Life, love, and youth, with all their sweets, are past,

But with their sweets their sorrows too are gone."

CHAP

CHAPTER X.

It is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden,
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say it lightens. Romeo and Juliet.

The Rencontre.

It is as dull a road as ever was travelled, from Lisle to St. Quentin-all flat and uninteresting; it offers scarcely one object to call the mind of the stranger away from the preoccupying subject of his thoughts, which he may indulge to the full without any chance of interruption, except from some of the accidents that will at times occur in every journey; and indeed there are times when some casual difficulty or slight mishap would prove a relief to the tedium of the hours: but nothing of any kind whatever happened to

dispel

dispel the monotony of Mr. Melville's onward course.

Mr. Wilmot was in one of his most silent moods, and remained buried in thought the whole way, while Charles a thousand times wished that a strap would come undone, or wheel come off, or any thing, in short, to break the one sensation of shaking onwards, which the paved, flat roads of Flanders inflict upon the traveller. But no such thing happened; all was disagreeably right, and dully regular, till their arrival at St. Quentin, where Mr. Wilmot roused himself to put Charles in mind of the battle gained there by the duke of Savoy and count Egmont, adding some curious particulars respecting the conduct of Philip.

After dining here they were soon again en route, proposing to pass the night at Cambray, and Charles calculated upon falling asleep for the rest of the way, if the country proved so uninteresting, and his companion continued so grave. But, however, they had not gone far, when he

perceived

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perceived another carriage coming rapidly towards them. By the French law, each vehicle should give up half of the paved part of the road in the centre, to another in passing it. But at this time a complete thaw had succeeded to a very hard frost, and the unpaved sides of the road, which a few days before had been covered with snow, were now little better than quagmires. In consequence of this, neither of the postilions chose to go farther off the firm part than he could help, and driving quickly along, the two carriages were dashed violently against each other. The English vehicle, being far the strongest, kept its ground, while the other was upset in a moment, which catastrophe was followed by a scream, evidently from female lips. Instead of attempting to render the least assistance, the postilions began to belabour each other with their whips, sputtering forth all manner of French oaths, while the servants employed themselves in parting them. But Mr. Wilmot was

out

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