It appears that Dominga in the fervour of her zeal was happy during the first two years of her residence in the monastery; but at the end of that period she began to pine under the severities of the Order. Physical privations had restored order to her thoughts; but tardy reflection was also the parent of tears for the fate she had so obstinately sought; for the self-will wherewith she had refused advice forbade the hope of sympathy. The unhappy Dominga therefore, having no resource, concealed her sorrow, and thought only of death. Each day she passed in the convent (now considered as her prison) the palled hue of sickness grew on that cheek, where once the rose tint was so dazzling. Her soft, large dark eyes lost their wonted brilliancy, and became hollow, as though exhausted by penetential austerities.

One day at the end of the third year, it being her turn to read in the refectory, Dominga happened to hit on a passage of the life of Saint Theresa, where it is stated as an example of the artifices of the Devil, that a recluse of Salamanca yielding to the temptation of escaping from the convent, had placed in her cell the corpse of a woman, to make the inmates believe that the had died; and thus aided by the aforesaid Evil one in the form of a fine young man, she had quitted the convent without the danger of being pursued. From this moment a ray of hope entered the heart of Dominga. The weariness and uniformity of the conventual life were no longer felt, busy as she was with her new project; and suspense seemed but for a day which to-morrow she would dispel. The task, however, was arduous and of difficult execution. She had to impart her secret to the Porter, thus incurring the danger of being betrayed; she had to bribe the out-door servant, and then evade observations and the strict rules of the convent.

The necessity of communicating her scheme to the Porter was what presented the greater difficulty, for the Nuns are elected to this post every two years, and Dominga's secret could only be trusted to one of long and tried friendship. Eight years passed from the time Dominga conceived her project to the time she carried it into execution. At every new election she endeavoured by assiduous attentions and marked kindness to gain the heart of the Porter, but alas! perhaps when the unfortunate Dominga thought she had attained her end, something happened to convince her that had she unbosomed her secret, she would have been lost for ever. Dominga then shuddering at the idea of the peril relapsed for many months into despondency and despair. Just perhaps as soon as she became sure of the sympathy of a Porter, the latter was replaced by a sort of fury, whose voice alone made her shiver. At the end of eight years spent in these agonies and fears, Dominga, perceiving that her strength was fast failing her, determined to open her heart to one of her companions who had been elected. Happily the new Porter merited her confidence, and Dominga assured of her assistance, proposed her plan to the negress or out-door servant. This latter under the promise of a handsome remuneration was to bring the corpse of a woman into the convent, and then wait at the end of the street until the young fugitive should appear. The introduction of the dead body was to be preceded by other articles, such as a dark lantern, and a common female dress. One evening the negress informed the Porter that she was furnished with the corpse of an Indian girl: and being admitted, deposited her charge on the place indicated by the Porter, and then repaired to her post at the end of the street; while the Porter having feigned to fasten the gates, went to the Prioress' cell to deliver the keys, as it was the custom; and thence proceeded to Dominga's cell.

When Dominga was apprized that the negress had introduced the corpse, she fell on her knees and kissed the earth in a rapture of pleasure and thankfulness; such was her desire to return to that world which bereavement had once rendered so obnoxious to her!

At midnight, when she perceived all the nuns profoundly asleep, she quitted the dormitory, leaving her dark lantern in her bed or tomb, and went to fetch the corpse. It may be supposed that at any other time her strength would have been unequal to such a burthen; but in this crisis, Dominga, as would happen to any other woman, derived a supernatural force from excess of peril and anxiety. She deposited her horrible load on her bed; dressed it in her own habits, and herself in the garment she had obtained; set fire to her tomb, and then almost breathless with agitation hurried totteringly from the

convent.

I have already stated that I used to visit Dominga clandestinely. Her plan had so far succeeded that the day she left Santa Rosa the remains of the Indian girl were consigned to the grave with all the ceremonial used at the funeral of nuns, and for many months after, it was firmly believed in the convent that she had been burnt to death by some accident. But the persecution of the convent, its bars and gates, were not the severest obstacles to her freedom. She had to contend with bigotted opinion, which, on the fact of her existence being ascertained, rebounded against her with the force of a torrent, compelling her to hide herself, and extenuate her crime by close confinement within her own residence.

The last time I saw her was on the eve of my departure: I went in the evening and found her alone. Oh! never had I seen her so'rife of charm ;' so resplendent in beauty! She was dressed (pardon a lady's minuteness) in a gros de Naples,chequered pink and black; low body, and short sleeves: half of her round and well-formed arm was covered with black myttons, through which her delicately white fingers were seen to great advantage about her neck she had a rich pearl necklace, her glossy ebony hair fell upon her shoulders in tresses intermixed with pink satin ribbon; and a little black lace apron completed the whole of her attire.

When I entered, she ran to me saying, in a tone that penetrated me with sadness," Is it true, my dear Florita, that you are going to France?" "Yes, cousin, I come to bid you farewell!"- "Ah! Florita, how happy you must be! How I envy you!" "Dearest Dominga, are you then so miserable?” "More so by far than you can imagine; more so than ever I was at Santa Rosa,"—and she clenched her hands, uplifting to heaven her large melancholy eyes. "How can it be, Dominga," retorted I, “ free, beautiful, elegantly attired, and living amidst luxuries, can you be more unhappy than when you were a prisoner?" She drew back and regarded me with a sorrowful smile. "I Free! In what country, Florita, do you suppose that a feeble creature, on whom rests the enormous weight of prejudice, can be free ? Here, Florita, in this drawing-room, and dressed thus, Dominga is still the nun of Santa Rosa! If once I venture into the street, they point me out as a culprit, and their maledictions fall upon me. If I dare to show myself in any place of amusement, they tell me this is not the place for the spouse of the Lord : return to your convent; go to Santa Rosa ! &c. Florita, through courage and constancy I escaped my tomb, but the coarse woollen veil still weighs on my head! It hides me for ever from the world! In vain have I quitted the cloister; the public voice sends me back to its gloom."

The countenance of Dominga as she pronounced these words, made me shudder: exasperation seemed to have touched its zenith. She threw herself on the sofa, and I suffered her to remain in silence until her mind should recover some degree of calmness. Time passed on, and it was late in the evening when a knock was heard at the door. Dominga rose quickly, and made a few steps. Oh! how lovely her figure; how slender, how elegant! How delicate her ancle, how captivating her little foot! So many charms, thought I, so many elements of happiness lost, because fanaticism, like a vulture, has pounced upon this most graceful creature!

A youth now entered the room: it was a young Spaniard who had assisted the negress in procuring the corpse. Dominga presented her hand to him, saying with emotion-" Alonzo! Florita is going, and I......" "And you will also go," said he; "a little more patience, and you will see my beautiful Spain, and my kind mother, who will love you as her own child." At these words Dominga sighed a smile re-appeared on her lips, as she said, with an accent of love and hesitation-" May God hear you, Alonzo! But alas! I fear so much happiness is not reserved for me!"

Her prognostic was agreeably unfulfilled: the Spaniard (who, as well as her first treacherous suitor, was a physician,) contrived the means by which she accompanied him to Europe. Dominga loved him with all the fervour of her natural character, and he was worthy of her love. On the second day at sea they were united by the chaplain of the vessel; and when I last visited them at their chateau in Andalusia, they seemed to me to possess more than a common allotment of that bliss whose germ is nourished only in the confidence of mutual affection.

THE SEA.SPIRIT'S SONG.

The tempests sleep,

O'er the tranquil deep,

And the winds are lull'd to rest; I speed through the waves, From my coral caves,

To dance on the ocean's breast.
While the orb of night
Is rounded and bright,

Enthroned in a scene of blue;
And the stars are pale,
And the breath of the gale

Is sweet with the evening dew.
My lute is a shell,
And wild is the spell

That over the waters floats;
But they know not the while,
How deep is the guile

That lurketh in all its notes.
I comb my long locks,
Whose bright colour mocks
The Caspian's golden sand;
And braid them beneath
A red coral wreath,

Or sparkling amber band.
For treasures are mine

That glitter and shine

In many a grotto of spar,

Far, far in the deep

Where the sea-birds sleep,

And the sea-god's mansions are.
There gardens bloom,
And are rich with perfume

Beyond earth's fairest flowers;
They spring from the rock,
Bear the tempest's shock,

And need nor sun nor showers.
Then who would not come
To the sea-nympth's home,

And see where my treasures be?

I will twine him a braid

That will never fade,

Of blossoms from under the sea.

THE DESERTED MOTHER.

"If you please, Sir, will you call and see my mother to-day?' said a pretty little black-eyed girl to me, one morning, on my answering a slight tap at the surgery door.

I was interested in her appearance and manners, for there was something that spoke of better days, which, added to her extreme beauty, instantly gave her a claim to my attention.

She was about sixteen-her figure, like a Venus, approaching indeed the beau-ideal of woman's form-her features classically beautiful; her raven hair hung in a profusion of glossy ringlets down a neck like the driven snow in whiteness, and a few stray curls half shaded a brow of dazzling purity; her cheeks were suffused with the crimson blush of modesty, and her black eyes bent on the ground, when she observed the attention and admiration with which I regarded her. Her dress was plain and homely, but was most scrupulously clean, as if there was a desire to accommodate herself to an altered situation.

No, Sir; my mother shall never become chargeable to a parish. I will pay you, Sir.'

I felt hurt that I had asked her a question so repugnant to my feelings, yet so necessary in the situation in which I was placed; and, apologizing for it in the best manner I could, promised to call in the course of the day.

It was night when I sallied out for the purpose of keeping this appointment. After threading numerous lanes and alley, I arrived at my destination. The little garden in front of the lowly dwelling was full of pretty and every-day kind of flowers; and, as far as I could learn by the light of the moon and the solitary lamp, the most scrupulous attention had been paid to its plats and borders. Everything around me wore the air of comfort, tidiness, and simple elegance, forming a striking contrast to the neighbouring houses, whose little plats, instead of being ornamented with flowers, presented nothing but an inclosed piece of dust, through which vile cinder paths led to a dirty door-way: not a flower reared its except in the garden before me and here there was a profusion. Throwing back the little gate, I knocked at the green door, which was opened by the interesting girl I had seen in the morning, who invited me into a little parlour, scantly furnished, but still wearing that striking air of neatness which had so charmed me before. I looked round expecting to see my patient, but was disappointed. On inquiry, I was informed by my companion that she was unable to get up.

But, Sir,' she exclaimed, bursting into tears, I have one request to make; do not wound my mother's feelings; she would sooner die of want than become a dependent on parish bounty.' I, of course, promised to obey her request, and proceeded up stairs to my patient. She was sitting up in bed, her features still retaining the marks of extreme beauty, but with a melancholy placidity, and extreme emaciation; a bright hectic flush on the cheek too plainly indicated that the being before me was doomed to an untimely grave.

After various questions had been asked by me, and answered in the most elegant manner by my fair patient, in whom I began to take an increasing interest, I took my leave, promising to call again on the morrow; and returned home ruminating, as I went, on the reverses of fortune, and the uncertainty of happiness in our world.

The morrow came; 1 called again, The next day I also called; and I continued my visits for some time, finding that they became every day more interesting and pleasing to me. I

found my fair patient and her lovely daughter, upon a closer intimacy, to be highly accomplished and sensible-friendly to me, and extremely affectionate to each other.

My attention and seriousness gained their confidence, and I quickly discovered that my visits were looked forward to with as much delight on their part as it was on mine. I felt deep regret when, coming in unexpectedly one morning, I found my patient looking much worse. Indeed, the season of the year was coming on most trying to consumptive patients; and I saw, and believe she felt, that the flowers of May would blossom over her tomb. She clasped my hand affectionately, and her eyes filling with tears, she began to talk of her approaching end. I tried to rally her; but fixing her gaze on me, she said, solemnly.

'Talk not to me of life; tell the young and joyous of that: it possesses no charms for me, I shall leave this world without a sigh of regret, save for my daughter. She is young and beautiful; and as such is exposed to danger and peril. Without a friend, without a protector, what will become of my dear child?'

'Has she no relations?' I inquired.

Stop, Sir,' she exclaimed, I have long seen with admiration your delicacy in abstaining from prying into the affairs of others, even when circumstances have occurred sufficient to warrant your inquiries. But as the time is coming when my errors, if errors they have been, will be forgotten, it is but right that you should be able to bear witness to facts which may at some future time concern my child. Will you spare me a few minutes, while I briefly relate the tale of my short and stormy life?'

Heir-apparent to a dukedom, he had sketched out for my brother, who was two years older than myself, the most flattering and ambitious course of life, and for me had indulged in the most splendid dreams of matrimonial alliance. Indeed, my father's ruling passion was ambition. At that shrine he worshipped, and at that shrine he would have sacrificed either of his children, tenderly as he loved us both. I thought little about the matter, and should probably have acquiesced in any match my father had thought proper to form for me. Upon the occasion, however, of a vacation, my brother came home from Oxford, bringing with him, as companion, a young gentleman, whose acquaintance he had there contracted. This young man, Sir, was like yourself, a medical student. He was of a rather obscure origin, and of manners by no means polished. We at first wondered how my brother, who was confessedly the most elegant and polite young man in the country, could form such an acquaintance; but our wonder ceased when we knew that it was he who, by an act of daring bravery, which we had before heard of, had succeeded in saving my brother's life. Upon some occassion or other, my brother had been out late in the country, and had lost his way, when four ruffians springing upon him, robbed him. Moreover, irritated by his resistance and his recognition of one of them, they shot at him, and were about to extinguish the ramaining spark of life by cutting his throat, when Mr. Beauville came up, and instantly comprehending the nature of the attack and the intention of the ruffians, by the long knife which gleamed fearfully in the moonlight, threw himself manfully among them. Unarmed, with the exception of a walking-stick, with which he stunned one of them, he would have stood no chance, being a slight and graceful figure, but, in their hurry to engage with him, a bullet passed by his head, at which it was aimed, and lodged in that of one of the robbers. Seizing the cutlass with which the fellow, whom he had first stunned, and who was now recovered, had inflicted a severe wound in his head, Mr. Beauville sent another of his opponents gasping to the earth. The other

two, presenting their pistols, fired: one ball, whizzing by his ear, lodged in a neighbouring tree, and the other took effect in the fleshy part of his thigh. Thus wounded, and both his opponents remaining unhurt, he still continued to fight desperately with them, until by a dexterous blow he wounded one, who instantly fell back with a loud groan, the other then ran off. Mr. Beauville, though almost fainting from loss of blood, succeeded in crawling to a neighbouring farm-house, where he procured assistance, and a surgeon to dress his wounds and those of my brother. The young men, being put under a proper course, rapidly recovered, and I need not say that my brother felt that a vast debt of gratitude was due to his preserver, and contracted with him a close intimacy. Mr. Beauville was about twenty-two years of age, remarkably handsome, with beautiful hair curling in natural ringlets. There was a degree of animation and brilliancy in his eyes, that lit up his features, when subjects connected with poetical literature were introduced, that insensibly imparted to every one in the company the same enthusiasm.

He rapidly became a favourite, and as our familiarity gave him more confidence, (for genius is always unassuming), the rich stores of his comprehensive mind began to unfold themselves, and we saw in him not the mere unpolished tradesman's son we at first thought him, but the poet, the high-souled and intellectual philosopher, joined to all that makes the man noble, and exalts him above the mere animal. I need not say that I loved him,' she exclaimed, faintly, 'as I am sure you must have thought so from my praises of him. He had penetration enough to see it, and honour enough to avoid declaring a reciprocal affection. He became gloomy and wretched. The walks we had formerly frequented were abandoned. He came not as before to lean over me whilst I played the harp, and sung his songs glowing with the spirit of love and poetry. Our morning rides, our visits of charity to the neighbouring villages, our moonlight concerts on the lake, and every amusement in which he had participated seemed now to have become hateful to him. My father, with whom he was a favourite, rallied him on his altered looks, swore that he was in love with some pretty milkmaid, and declared that he every morning expected to hear that Mr. Beauville had shot himself.

My brother implored him to unburthen his bosom to him, and vowed that, let his grief be whatever it might, he would use every means in his power to lighten it; but all to no purpose; he laughed it off, and attempted to appear gay and cheerful as ever, but the struggle between his mighty soul and the all-powerful influence of love, became every day more apparent. His cheek grew pale; his eyes, though sunken, became more brilliant, and his hand trembled when he attempted to play on the flute or guitar.

I was weeping in sorrow over my hopeless passion one evening when my brother came in unaccompanied by Beauville. · His cheek was flushed, and in spite of his endeavours to appear otherwise, he was much agitated. The evening passed away before I could summon up courage to ask George where Beauville was; when to my astonishment, he answered with much emotion, Beauville's gone to France.' 'Good God!' I cried, but instantly checking myself, enquired why he did not come to take leave of us.

'Circumstances prevented his doing so,' was the answer.

I afterwards found that he had told my brother his unfortunate love for me, and had proposed going to the Continent for a few months; there amid the classic scenes of Rome, and the poetical glories of the Rhine, to forget his hopeless passion.

My brother tried to dissuade him from his project, and wished him to join him in a tour through England, but tọ no purpose; and advising, imploring him not to see me before his departure, they had parted. I retired to my chamber, but had not been there long, before the low hushed sounds of one of Beauville's songs was almost whispered from the balcony without my window.

I could not be mistaken in the rlch musical voice, and with trembling fingers I pushed open the window, and stepped out into the balcony. Beauville was standing there; and after leading me to a seat, and apologizing for his intrusion, he told me that he could not leave without wishing me good bye.

Overcome by my emotion, I answered not a word, but a tear stole silently down my cheek, and dropped on his hand, which was extended sorrowfully to bid me adieu. This indiscreet, though involuntary act of mine, caused his affection to bear down every barrier of prudence and honour, and falling on his knees before me, with the eloquence of despair he declared his love for me.

Some hours were spent by us in this situation, suffice it to say that I agreed to fly with him the next night. The next night soon arrived; I kept my engagement, and by a clandestine marriage sealed the ruin and destruction of my family.

My father on hearing of my elopement, died in an apoplectic fit, brought on by excess of passion. My dear sainted mother lived but one year, aud died in fruitless efforts to soften my brother's resentment.

When the funeral obsequies of my mother were over, and my brother had by some means obtained a clue to our retreat (for my husband was practising his profession under an assumed name), he sought us out, and breathing vengeance for the death of his father and mother challenged Beauville out. In vain did my brother insult my husband. In vain did he call him coward, reptile, and apply every term that was calculated to arouse the anger of a man, telling him to take back the life he had only preserved to torture.

Beauville remained unmoved, and at last told him that he would stand up and receive his fire, but never would he raise his hand against the life of one he loved. Fiend-like, my brother shouted with joy at the proposal. The grouud was marked out, they took their places, Beauville, with his hands crossed upon his breasts, calmly awaited the fatal word that would separate him from all he loved on earth. The signal was given. brother fired, and Beauville stood for a moment with his hand extended, and fell to rise no more. Flinging the pistol from him George came up, and bending over him wept bitterly, calling in distracted accents on his dear friend-his preserver.

My

Beauville's hand was instantly extended in token of forgiveness, and murmuring Oh, my Julia, my dear wife-take, protect my wife and my child-George I forgive you-God bless you, George,' he expired.

Starting from the ground my brother stared wildly round-bis doom was for ever fixed-he was a madman. Need I paint to you the agony I felt when I beheld the corpse of my murdered Beauville, and saw my brother stand over it, and wildly play with the rich hair, calling the inanimate form coward, scoundrel, seducer; and then bursting into a loud laugh at my agony, rush out of the house. My reason unable to sustain the shock, gave way, and when, after the lapse of a year it returned, I beheld my child depending on me for support and maintenance. I aroused myself and learned to trust in him who has promised to protect the widow and the fatherless. I felt that I had still something to live for; and by the assistance of God, we have been enabled to support ourselves up to the present moment, without any other cares than those which memory perpetuates-except the prospect of my death, which I now begin to dread only on behalf of my child." Here my fair narrator finished her interesting tale, which gave her, if possible, a still greater claim to my respect.

of

But in the course of a month, the beautiful and accomplished Julia was no more. Death which ever softens down all errors, confirmed her tale. I followed, as a real mourner, the corpse the unfortunate Julia, from her lonely dwelling to that mausoleum whete "The wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest." I afterwards used every endeavour, and at last succeeded in prevailing on the trustees of her uncle's estate, to allow the motherless daughter a handsome stipend, and one of the family mansions in Hertfordshire.

WOMAN'S LOVE.

Oh! tell me not that woman's love
Is like a summer's flower,
Springing to life and blossoming,
Then with'ring in an hour.
Oh! tell me not that woman's love,
Like Morning's golden ray,
But shineth for a little while,

Then flickereth away.

No, no, 'tis bold assertion all,

I'll not believe the tale;

The clouds shall melt, the mountains fall,
Ere woman's love shall fail.
The heart, where once the sacred fire
Hath raised its holy flame,
Retaineth still its fervent heat,

From year to year the same.
Content may lend its honied charms,
Or sorrow freeze her breast,
O'er her fond heart love reigneth, like
The Phoenix o'er its nest.

Oh! Woman's love, dear Woman's love!
It is a sacred thing;

More brilliant than the rainbow tints
Which gilds an angel's wing.

THE SIEGE OF DROGHEGA.

(Concluded from our last.Į

Still however he would have triumphed over brute force had not Oliver's foot slipped, and he was cast headlong to the ground. The Irishman, who knew his man, rushed forward with a wild yell of triumph to terminate the career of the greatest man modern times have produced. The fortunes of England would have been far different had not one of the officers before mentioned passed his sword through the body of the cavalier, and waving his reeking blade placed himself before the General who was borne off insensible. The parliamentarians retreated and the battery once more opened a heavy fire of grape shot on the devoted town.

As soon as Cromwell was restored again they mounted the breach, and again they failed. The besiegers were now well heated and began to feel courage, and muttered threats against the "accursed malignants." A third time the dismounted Ironsides rushed to the assault, each attempted eagerly to mount the wall first, when a cry was heard behind from one, "the hellkites are springing a mine beneath our feet."

"Back! Back!" shouted one of the soldiers.

"Forward! Forward!" exclaimed Cromwell pressing on, "Death or Victory."

This was a proof of the undaunted courage of the popular leader. Death in one of his, most terrific shapes he had been told was yawning beneath his feet, and although the body of men looked exhausted and fell back, he urged them forward followed by the young officers, one of whom had saved his life in the first assault. The men followed and the town was theirs. Now began the true horrors of the day, now war and desolation raged in all their fury, in spite of all the efforts of Cromwell and his officers; every person with arms in his hands or wearing the military garb was put to death by the enraged soldiery, but we will not endeavour to pourtray the bloody carnage scene, let us return to the beauteous and lovely Mary.

Again was old Somerville poring over the pages of his bible, once more was poor Mary endeavouring to embroider a scarf for the gallant youth, sore was her heart, and her eyes with weeping;

a strange presentiment of evil had taken a fast hold on her mind. During a short unnatural slumber she had snatched in an arm chair, she dreamed the Death of Cornwallis.

"Wherever Henry be?" at last said the old man raising his head from the book, "he should have come and wished us a good morning, for he knows well where we are."

"Truly father," replied Mary, "it is strange and I like it not, something out of the common has happened, or he would not have failed to come. And yet it may be the early alarm of the enemy has called him to his duty." Thus the really unhappy maiden, endeavoured to invent some excuse which might administer a moment's comfort.

"You forget," continued John, unconscious how he was wounding his daughter's heart, "he fights no more with the ungodly."

The booming of the cannon was now heard, each report pierced the soul of Mary Somerville, and made her blood run cold while her brain was almost on fire.

"Good God!" thought she, for aught I know one of those shots may be his death blow, one of those shouts his knell, and I not near him."

She listened.

"Ah! they have passed! again they fire, they shout, they shriek. Gracious heavens" she exclaimed "I can bear it no longer," and with the word she sprang forward and rushed from

the house.

Not a being disturbed the silence of the hour, not a sound was heard save the far off roaring of those dreadful engines

-"pregnant with infernal flame."

Which came like icebolts to her heart. The soul asked, where is Henry? and the echo answered here!

Knowing as she did all the streets of the town, Mary was not long in gaining the walls which displayed a warlike array. Her steps were directed towards the place where firing was heard. With trembling limbs she ascended the ramparts and hurried towards that spot. The near battery had hegun its fearful play as she was met by an officer who knew her by sight.

"And where away, Mary Sommerville ?" said he, his attention for the moment withdrawn.

"It matters little! but if you know ought of him, by your soul I conjure you, tell me where is Henry Cornwallis?"

"He has played the truant I hear," said the officer somewhat coldly, while he drew her by the hand into a spot out of danger. "I have a shrewd suspicion," added he, "Miss Somerville he dares not show himself, in fact that he is actuated by an unwillingness to fight."

"'Tis false!" exclaimed Mary, with as much fierceness as was in her nature, while rushing to the battlements and straining her eyes to see if she could mark him amongst the enemy, "Henry is no coward!"

"For his sake then, Miss Somerville," said the officer, "with. draw from here. Perhaps it is that he will not fight for the king, I heard it rumoured about that he had told the Marquis as much; may be, therefore, he is in the town with the reserve. In the Market place you will find them."

"No" she replied energetically, "if he was alive or in the town at all events, I should have seen him this morning. He is with yonder godly men," pointing with her finger to the republican force, which was however obscured by the smoke, "and what I have to dread is that he may meet his fate there."

"But for Heavens sake quit the battlements, or " a cannon ball struck his arm as he spoke, shattering it to atoms, and with a reproachful glance at Mary the wounded man sunk into the arms of one of the soldiers.

She paused but a moment to see that he was taken care of, and then turned to regain her home. Her physical powers were however fast failing her, under the effects of anxiety and thǝ

bloody scene she had just quitted. She perceived that she was about to faint, and by a desperate emotion was enabled just to reach the welcome shelter of an old ruined hovel, as she fell upon the ground insensible.

How long she remained in that state she could not tell, when however she felt her senses returning, she heard strange voices near her, she had not courage to open her eyes, but she listened eagerly.

"Faith, she is a delicate wench," said one whom she recognised as a cavalier by the terrible oath that accompanied his words, "and one fit for the mate of a prince."

"Per tuttos los diabolos," said a gruff voice near, with a horselaugh, "some wandering lindabrides, but thou art a cursed fool to be trifling with a petticoat when the roundhead rascals are thirsting for our blood. Up man and be doing! Away for the postern gate!

"Damme!" replied the other firecely, "but I'll carry the girl home to my lodging, come what may of it. If she bogles at becoming the mistress of a natural son of the Marquis of Ormond, with right noble blood in his veins, why I have only force to apply."

"What fancy will render you invisible Captain. Do you think that these damned crop-eared puritanical knaves will give you free passage, especially on such an errand? no, they would catch you were it only to lecture on the heinousness of sin.

“Tut! man tut,” continued the profligate soldier, “this gentle or simple woman, as the case may be, goes with me. Do you imagine you dull clod-pate that there are no by-ways by which to cheat the knaves in the pay of Old Noll."

At this moment before the other could speak a word in reply, Mary started suddenly on her feet and made for the door. "Where away!' cried the soldier seizing her by the arm, "whither away so fast?" "For heaven's sake let me go," said Mary in a faint voiee, while struggling to ease his grasp.

The cavaliers burst into a loud laugh, that rang in her ears like the shriek of a tormenting demon.

“And so," said the first speaker, whose clutch was like that of a vice, "you thought to get off so easily did you? In the first place I claim a kiss for restoring you to life."

As he attempted to accomplish his purpose, the unfortunate girl shrieked aloud, bringing thus a third person to the rescue, who first with a pistol shot dispatched the more passive offender, and then engaged with the infuriated and baulked captain. The struggle was short for the cavalier soon fell.

Mary turned (she had rushed to the corner of the hovel) to thank her deliverer, a commonwealth officer, in the uniform of the plain but dauntless and ever victorious Ironsides, and inquired to whom she was so greatly indebted.

"To the ever merciful Lord of Hosts, who protecteth the innocent and destroyeth the ungodly,” replied the Independent mildly 'will it be unbecoming curiosity if I say How came you here?'

Mary briefly narrated as well as convulsive sobs would permit her what the reader as already heard, her auditor paid the deepest attention.

"Thou art a goodly maiden," said the soldier of God in the mildest tone which he could put on, "and lacked comfort even as Job did in his time of trouble. And I think that the lord has given me the power to render unto thee such as neither Eliphaz, nor Bildad nor Zophar gave unto him. What is the youth's name?"

"Henry Cornwallis!" said she breathlessly.

"The same! and thine Mary Somerville." "It is."

"Even this day," replied the future lord protecter of England, "did the Lord God of Israel make him the instrument of my earthly salvation. Fear nought child, he is safe.

In the first wild transport of joy, she fell on the soldier's neck and wept.