awaken; and then-it may be too late. Thou dost step here out of the pale of humanity; thou must either be a greater man, or thou art a devil. Yet again, my son!-if one spark of hope glimmer for thee any where else, leave this fearful band, where only despair enters, when undirected by a higher wisdom. One may be deceived, believe me; one may take that for strength of spirit, which yet, at the end, is but despair. Believe me-me! and hasten away.

Kos. No; I go no more now. If my prayers do not move you, hear the story of my misfortune. You will then yourself force the sword into my hand; you will-lay down on the ground and listen!

R. MOOR. I will hear thee.

Kos. Know, then, I am a Bohemian nobleman, and became, through the early death of my father, lord of considerable possessions. The place where my domains were situated was a paradise, for it contained an angel-a maiden, adorned with all the charms of blooming virtue, and chaste as the light of heaven! But to whom am I speaking? It passes over your ears. have never loved,-have never been loved.

You

SCHWEIT. Softly, softly! The captain is as red as fire. R. MOOR. Stop. I will hear thee at another time, in the morning, or-when I have seen blood.

Kos. Blood, blood! Hear me further, and I will tell thee of blood that shall fill thy whole soul. She was of citizen parentage, a German, but her look melted away the prejudices of nobility. With the most timid modesty she took the pledge-ring from my hand, and the next day I was to lead to the altar my Amelia. (Moor starts.) Intoxicated with the blessedness that awaited me, while I was dressing for the marriage, I was summoned by an express to the court. I went; they showed me letters, apparently written by me, full of treasonable contents. I blushed for the villany. They took my sword from me, and cast me into prison: all my senses were gone.

SCHWEIT. And in the mean time—go on, I smell roast meat already.

me.

Kos. Here I lay a month, and I know not what happened to I was tormented for my Amelia, who would suffer death each moment for my sake. At last the prime minister appeared, -congratulated me on the discovery of my innocence,-read me the letter of freedom, and returned me my sword. Now, to fly in triumph to my castle, to the arms of my Amelia ;-she was gone!

In the midnight she had been taken away, no one knew whither, and since then no one had seen her. Woe! It struck me like lightning. I flew to the town,-to the court; all eyes were turned upon me; no one could give me any information. At last I saw her through a secret window of the palace,-she threw

me a note.

SCHWEIT. Did I not say so?

Kos. Hell! death and devils! thus it was. They had given her the choice, whether she would see me die, or be the mistress of the prince. In the struggle between honour and love she determined for the latter, and (laughing) I was saved.

SCHWEIT. What did you do then?

Kos. There I stood, as if struck by a thousand thunderbolts. Blood was my first thought, blood was my last. Foaming at the mouth, I run home, pick out a double-edged sword, and rush with it to the minister's house, for he, he only, had been the hellish pander. They must have marked me in the streets, for when I entered, all the chambers were closed. I seek; I ask :

He is gone to the prince, is the answer. I go there; they know nothing of him. I go back, burst open the doors, find him; there spring five or six servants from behind, and wrest my sword from me.

SCHWEIT. (stamping.) And he didn't fight? and you gained nothing?

Kos. I was seized, accused, tried;-mark you,-I was, out of particular mercy, disgracefully banished; my goods went as a present to the minister; my Amelia remains in the clutches of the tiger, her life spent in sighing and mourning, whilst my revenge fasts, and must cringe under the yoke of despotism.

SCHWEIT. (sharpening his sword.) That's water for our mill, captain! That's fuel for us!

R. MOOR, (who has been walking up and down in violent agitation, springs up. To the robbers.). I must see her. Up,assemble. You remain, Kosinsky. Get together quickly.

ROBBERS. What? where?

R. MOOR. Where? who asks where? (Hastily to Schweitzer.). Traitor, wilt thou hold me back? But by the hopes of heaven SCHWEIT. I a traitor?-Go to hell, and I'll follow you.

R. MOOR. (Falls on his neck.) Brother! you follow me.. She weeps, she weeps; she mourns out her life. Up, quick, all. To France! In eight days we must be there.

[Exeunt.

(To be continued.)

THE

KING'S COLLEGE MAGAZINE.

DECEMBER, 1841.

ELLERTON CASTLE;

A Romance.

BY "FITZROY PIKE."

CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.

RELIEVES BRUTON OF A PLEASANT DELUSION WITH REGARD TO THE FAITHFUL PHILIP.

ANOTHER day; were we to give rein to a moralizing mood, what a paragraph might we not write on the sad thoughts those words, at times, awaken: - another day! Another day; and morning came: the bright sun smiled upon the world, and millions of eyes were once more directed towards it: some men, on their knees, humbly adored it as a God; others, more happy, looked upon its face with joyful admiration as a daily monument of its Creator's mercy ;-to all who perceived its beams it brought a renewal of daily labour and social intercourse, hateful to those whose works had made them fear to meet their fellows, instilling joy into those that formed the nobler part of creation.

Heringford and Mat Maybird early left their tent, the cool breeze of morning was upon their cheeks, and the troubles of the past were scattered from memory as they enjoyed the fresh beauties of awakened Nature. As they walked through the avenues of the camp, on each side the inhabitants of the tents were in activity, some polishing and cleaning their arms, others tending the horses, others again busily preparing the morning meal: here a soldier at

his task, lightened its tediousness by the hum of a merry martial

song, or perhaps celebrated the charms of his English sweetheart:

there a little knot was composed of laughing men, enjoying the narration of their companions' adventures; archers were stringing their bows at the tent door,-few, very few, were sleeping,-these too, the shrill sound of the clarion, floating through the air, quickly awakened.

"Joy to our errand," said Mat Maybird; "what will thy friend Bruton say now to his faithful Philip! Lo and behold the object of our search !----Unfold! unfold!"

As Mat spoke these words Bruton advanced towards them, and, after rough and soldier-like morning greetings, invited them to his

tent.

"Ye have business with me," said he, when they were together; "I see it in your looks: Master Maybird's glances are quite portentous."

"Truly they are," replied Mat; "verily this is a mischiefmaking generation! I know a knight without honour, a domestic without a conscience, and a brother without a heart:

I know a tale."

"Concerns it me?" asked Bruton, smiling.

"The knight," said Mat, "is Sir Richard Ellerton."

of this trio

A flush rose in Bruton's face as he turned to Edward with an appealing glance.

"The domestic," continued Mat, "is thy faithful Philip; the brother is an acquaintance of Heringford and myself: the tale Ishall be told thee."

Mat Maybird then commenced the recital of the plot so happily detected, interrupted by frequent exclamations of anger and surprise on Bruton's part.

"They meet again," exclaimed he, when Mat had finished;

they meet again, say'st thou ?—I will be present. Thou hast done us good service, Maybird;- there is more in this than common aid-are my hopes true?" Stopping short thus suddenly, Bruton gazed in Edward's face, then turned away with undisguised emotion.

"Curts was with me before sunrise," said Mat Maybird; 66 I then excused, to his perfect satisfaction, my late neglect. Be with us before ten to-night, and I will conduct thee to the place of meeting."

Bruton assented, and Mat, obedient to a sign from Edward, immediately disappeared. When he was gone Heringford spoke on the engrossing subject of his thoughts:-

"Bruton-father, thou wouldst have me call thee,-wherefore conceal from me the cause of thine emotion? hast thou hopes, wherefore should I not share them? Thou hast suspicion of my birth, its knowledge may call up in my mind forgotten words, or things, or signs, that may add strength to a chain of probability : turn my thoughts into some channel, guide me from this turbulent ocean of uncertainty-"

"It must not be," said Bruton; "if I be right," he continued, taking Edward by the hand, and speaking in a kind, sad tone, "if I be right, the knowledge of thy birth can entail upon thee only sorrow and misery.-But it cannot be !"

"Strange things," urged Heringford, " may yet be true."

"No, Edward," replied Bruton, "it is better to live as a peasant's son, than to inherit nobility and wretchedness."

"My birth, then, is noble?" asked Edward, catching at the hint.

"If thou art he, my day-dreams would declare thee," replied Bruton; "thy family is indeed noble: nor shall Sir Richard Ellerton, with all his villanous crew, succeed in utterly destroying it."

CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.

EDWARD HEARS OF KATE WESTRILL THE CONSPIRACY MATURED THE PERSECUTOR AND HIS VICTIMS.

THE darkness of night was stealing over the land, the stars lit their lamps in the sky one by one, until the whole firmament was closely studded; sleep was upon the host, but not over all: among the few who watched were those now chiefly implicated in our story, those who were this night to weave a web of crime and iniquity, and those who hoped that by them that fabric would be destroyed; the persecutor and the persecuted, the instruments of villany and those that observed their plans, there slept not one of these.

At the appointed hour Bruton arrived at Edward's tent; his step was slow, his voice and manner sad, he appeared in every action like one entering upon a painful task, from which he was determined not to retreat. Few words were exchanged as he and