wildly beseeching but not quailing. "Speak, was a wanderer on the face of the earth, ay, woman," he muttered, hoarsely. Ere she could say another word he dashed her from him. "Blasphemous traitress, thou deservest death, but still I cannot slay thee. This day leave my degraded home for ever, and quit my realm. Woe betide thee if thou darest ever again set foot within its bounds." She glared at him fiercely defiant that moment she could have killed the man who doubted her the next she thought on Pilate's judgment hall, and what her Lord had borne. The fury melted from her heart, and like her Master she held her peace and meekly obeyed. Slowly she quitted the hall, Taland noiselessly gliding behind her. She turned round at the door, thus confronting him by chance. She shrank back shuddering, but mastering herself, she laid her hand on his arm, its icy touch thrilled through all his veins: "Taland, God will yet judge between us." She spoke in a low voice, yet her words rang in his ears like a funeral knell. One moment she paused on the threshold for one last lingering look at her husband. He turned away, but still the anguish of that white face, the beseeching reproaching gaze of those wild eyes, tearless from agony too great for weeping, haunted him for many a day. She passed into the outer hall, where her children were at play. Wildly she rushed forward to strain them to her breast for the last time. Taland stepped between. The little creatures stretched out their little arms and struggled in his grasp. One shriek broke from Hildegarde, more like the death groan of some stricken wild thing than the cry of a woman, and she fled from the palace. A The cool air on her bare face recalled her faculties. She marked the wondering stare of the people in the streets, and remembered that she was hurrying on alone and unveiled. church door stood open, and she entered with no thought but to take refuge from their gaze. She sank on her knees before the altar, and strove to pray, but she could neither think nor pray. Her brain reeled, her eyeballs burned, and no blessed tears came to her aid. Slowly the truth dawned upon her that she and branded with infamy, viler, more degraded than the wretchedest outcast in the land. She thought of her husband and of the days of their early love, she thought of the helpless children she had left exposed to Taland's wiles, and she sank down on the altar steps, wringing her hands and moaning piteously. She sat thus for hours, half stupified, till roused by actual bodily discomfort. She was literally choking with thirst. She tottered feebly from the church into a yard behind, where she saw a clear well. Stooping to drink, she beheld her image in the water, and started at the sight her costly robes, her jewelled hair, shone in ghastly mockery of a face wan and drawn already, as from whole years of woe. Hours had done the work of years, yet she gazed unmoved on the wreck of her loveliness. What cared she for the glorious bloom of her youth, when he who had loved that beauty was lost to her for ever? To slake her burning thirst she had filled her two hands at the well; raising the water to her lips, her eyes fell on two rings, the wedding ring and the ring of betrothal. At such a moment these pledges of a severed bond smote her to the heart. Wildly she strove to drag them off, but her trembling fingers failed her. As they tightened on the golden circlets, her thoughts rushed back to her wedding-day, and the vows then spoken, that nothing can cancel but death. "I am his wife, his own true wife, till death do us divide," she murmured. This one ray of comfort came like a blessed sunbeam to the dark night of her anguish, and she wept. When tears had somewhat eased her heart, she began to think and act. She pulled off her gems, all but the two rings, wrapped face and figure in her mantle, and thus disguised ventured into the street. twilight befriended her, and she gained unnoticed the shelter of a friendly roof, where she found also means of changing some of her gems for money. In the grey of the morning she started on her long wanderings. Fly she must from her husband's realm, and by forced and toilsome journeys she gained her native Swabia, the province she had quitted as mighty and as happy a woman as ever the sun shone on. Her sister, the Countess Adeline, received the poor wanderer with open arms, fully believing in her purity. The Hildegarde might have passed the sad remnant of her days among her own people, but somehow their very pity galled her, and the indignation they expressed against her hus band, ill though he had treated her, stung her to the quick. Besides, how could she, with such a blight on her life, dwell in her triumphant. He could not sleep at night, and fifty times he started from his bed to grope his way to his brother's room, tell all, and be quit of his victim's haunting presence, were the moment of avowal to be his last. But when sister's house, where the sight of her sad face damped all mirth? Her bleeding heart recoiled from all earthly solace, and the passionate love lavished on him who had spurned it turned to her Maker. Deprived of her husband and her little children, the poor, he came to the point, he would chide himself lady's pent-up tenderness vented itself on the suffering and the needy. And when she found herself a kill-joy in her sister's lordly home, that same charity prompted her to consecrate herself to a life of self-abnegation and good works. She could not bear to stay in her fatherland, so replete with memories. Despite the countess's entreaties she left her, and again set out on her lonely pilgrimage. This time Rome, the great home of Christianity, was her goal. She crossed the snow clad Alps, the burning plains of Italy, and took up her abode in the great city. She spent her whole time in prayer and fasting and tending the sick. Filth, squalor, disease, had no terrors for her; poor wretches covered with sores and crawling vermin were tended by her royal hands. Anguish, blasphemy, despair, all horrors of body and soul that can throng round a death bed never daunted her; nay, in softening the pangs of others she learned to bear her own. Diseases seemed to yield to her skill or her prayers, none could tell which. Numbers of sick, particularly those affected in the eyes, were healed by her, and even some blind people regained their sight through her means. Do what she would, these cures could not remain long secret, and as she glided along on her errands of mercy, men pointed her out to each other, gazing reverently on the wan beauty of her earnest face, and calling down God's choicest blessings on the banished northern queen. Pilgrims from her own land saw her and heard of her cures, and returning, told the people at home. Her memory was still cherished among them, and many a household groaned under Taland's tyrannical exactions. For a short time he had enjoyed the full triumph of his wickedness, when, by some strange visitation, his hitherto keen sight began to fail him, and his life was rendered wretched by a painful and loathsome disorder in the eyes. The royal physicians had employed all their herbs and simples to no purpose. The voice of conscience, stifled' in happier hours, now upbraided him without ceasing. As sick and alone he sat in the gloom of darkened chambers, brooding on that helpless blindness fast growing on him, he used to fancy that Hildegarde's face peered at him from the darkness, not as he had last seen it, touching in its patient anguish, but now mocking and gibing, now glaring at him fiercely for such sickly fancies, and go on stoutly, bearing his burden of guilt. He kept his own counsel till the last glimmer of sight had left him, and he was stone blind. Then the pilgrims' tales of Hildegarde's wonderful cures kept constantly recurring to his mind. То be healed by her, even at the cost of having to confess his guilt, became his ruling wish. He was so sick of life, such as his then was, that he cared little about putting it in jeopardy for the chance of seeing once more. It was with feelings of intense relief he heard that business of great import summoned Charlemagne to Rome. Taland so besought him to let him go too, that the Emperor could not bring himself to refuse his entreaties; though, in truth, the great Emperor was sorely puzzled to know how Hildegarde, if guilty, could be such friends with God that He should grant her the gift of healing; and, if innocent, how she could ever be induced to cure Taland, who had hunted her down as the hound hunts the quarry. In his secret heart the husband longed to think her guiltless: despite the seeming proofs of crime, he could not always think her quite lost. Her last looks and words, her blameless life, perpetually upbraided him with rashness, violence, and haste. Of all these jarring thoughts he said nothing then, nor do we hear aught of the journey. No sooner had the Emperor and his train reached Rome, than Taland sent to seek after Hildegarde, whose lonely dwelling was easily found. Cunning as he was, he did not know that his footsteps were dogged, and that his too trusting brother had at last begun to suspect him. Taland had himself guided to the dilapidated old mansion where his victim had fixed her abode. His attendants had left him, and he deemed himself alone in the great old hall where the sick used to await her coming. He little knew who had tracked him thither, and stood but a few paces back. They were alone, and it was as much as Charlemagne could do to keep his hands off Taland, and force an avowal from him. However, he contained himself, but his hurried breathing did not escape the blind man's hearing, “Who is there?" said Taland. There was no reply. But thus warned of the need of more caution, Charlemagne stepped warily into the deep shadow of a pillared door. These two men waited minutes, which to them seemed hours, then they heard a light step, and Hildegarde wan, worn, but beautiful, with the peace of God beaming from her face-stood before them. She did not know Taland, who stood with his back to the light, and face and figure muffled in a cloak. "Poor man," said she, in the Frankish tongue, "they tell me thou comest from the fatherland, know ye aught of my children?" "Lady, they are well, for love of them I beseech thee heal me." "Good God, man, art thou Taland?" cried the lady springing towards him. She pulled the mantle down, and scanned his face. One searching look and she was rushing from him, but he clutched her gown, and fell down on his knees. "Unhand me, Taland!" Still he held her fast. "Oh, lady, hear me for the Saviour's sake. God has judged between us, and he struck me blind; but if thou ask Him, he will give me sight. Have pity on a helpless man?" He saw hear the very throbbing of his heart. "Sweet Saviour," cried the lady, "heal him for thy mercy's sake." Straightway the scales dropped from his eyes and Taland saw. With a cry of delight he grasped her hands to press them to his lips, but suddenly they turned cold as stone, and her face grew ghastly white. Starting to his feet, he turned roundthe Emperor stood behind him. Charlemagne sprang forward, dashed him aside, and clasped the lady to his breast. Taland was stealing off. The stern mandate, "Stir at thy peril," nailed him to the spot. Tenderly the Emperor raised his wife's head from his shoulder and wiped away her happy tears. "My sweet wife, tell me all," he She stood motionless, and he let go her whispered; "trust all to my true love." gown, and grovelled at her feet. "Blind-helpless," she murmured; "blindhelpless for the Saviour's sake." She said his words again, like one speaking in sleep. She seemed striving to recall their import, to realise the change that made her bitterest foe a suppliant at her feet. "Oh, Taland," she cried aloud, "what did I ever do to thee that thou hast stolen my husband's love and reft me of my little ones?" The blind man only heard the spoken words. Wildly, despairingly, he called out: "Woman, hast thou no mercy? Hildegarde, look at me, hast thou no pity left? Look at the wreck I am now, and all thy doing. Why didst thou spurn my love until it grew to very hate, and for revenge I forged the lies that stole thy good name from thee; and then because of this great wrong to thee, God smote me in his wrath. Oh, Hildegarde, by that fierce love I bore thee, that love mine own undoing as it too was thine, I conjure thee let me see. Let me but see thy face once more, then tell thy lord my treason. Kill me if thou wilt, but let me see the blessed light of day before I die." Taland," replied the lady, and her voice was soft and low, "fear naught from me, I have pardoned thee this many a day. Repent thy sins, then perchance God will heal thee, and I too will pray that He may." "Hildegarde, Hildegarde, God in heaven bless thee. Ask Him. He loves thee, He cannot refuse thy prayer." Hildegarde sank on her kness beside him, and prayed with her face hid in her hands. So dead was the silence, Charlemagne could In broken words the lady told her story. Rage, pity, and wonder filled his soul by turns. He cursed his own blind folly, and again and again besought her pardon for the most grievous wrong that he had done her, his own true wife, the stainless mother of his children, the dearest thing he owned on earth. Loving looks and sweet caresses sealed his ready pardon, and Taland was forgotten for a while. But even bliss could not long blot out the memory of his deed. The Emperor's own remorse made him doubly ready to crush the vile slanderer whose tool he had been. He broke from Hildegarde, and in his fury would have struck Taland dead at her feet, but she threw herself between them. Her clinging arms held him back, till her soft words melted his wrath. She so besought him to spare Taland's life he had not the heart to gainsay her, and sentence of death was changed to lifelong banishment. No words of mine can fully relate the Emperor's glad return to his new city with his own true wife. The people, who had cherished her memory, rent the air with shouts of joy as she came back to them, riding by her husband's side, dazzling with gold and gems, beautiful, smiling, and gracious as an angel. In thanksgiving for God's great mercies, she built the church and convent of Kempfen. A saying of hers has outlasted its solid walls "How wondrous are the hidden ways of the All-seeing. The Lord forgot not his handmaid. He first gave me life and honour, and then, in spite of wicked men, he restored my fair fame and preserved my love. Blessed be his name for ever." occasionally, and sometimes had large parties at seven o'clock on Tuesday next, and will staying at Knockgriffin when they were at hope to see you then. home. "Yours truly, "DENIS BARNETT." I wrote an immediate reply accepting the invitation, and having deputed Travers to take my military duties during my absence from Cashel, made some slight preparations for the important visit. Infatuated though I was, my "His father met with an unhappy end, did better sense often represented to me that it he not?" “Oh, no, sir ; he died in a moment, without any suffering to speak of. They killed him at once, by the first shot." "And probably Sir Denis expects the same bright fate, Mrs Conan ?" I was an unwise act to throw myself thus rashly into the society of a woman to whom I could scarcely dare to aspire. Report said that Miss Barnett's fortune was large (how I wished she had not a penny !), her brother was proud : her family had all been so. People had coupled her name with high alliances already. There were rumours afloat that she had refused a certain viscount, and was even now receiving the addresses of a man of very large fortune in the county, a Sir Percy Stedmole, an "I hope not, sir; he may chance to escape, at all events, for a number of years yet; he's a very fine young man, and his sister is a sweet lady. For her sake I trust he may be spared many a long day over Knockgriffin." Amen," murmured I from the depths of Englishman, who had lately become a landmy heart. While so deeply pre-occupied as I now was with my love dream, I became fond of solitary walks. The Rock" was a special resort at that time, and it is partly owing to this that I still entertain a peculiar reverence and affection for the memory of the ancient ruins round which I wandered, thinking of her whose image was daily becoming more and more impressed upon my mind. How often have I emerged from the barrack gate and strolled out alone towards this favourite point, passing the wretched lanes and hovels that led to it, climbing the stile beside the old gate, gazed at curiously by the cow that was always grazing among the graves; sometimes sitting on a tombstone, sometimes looking at the view of the surrounding country, with the Galtee mountains-Slieve-na-muck, Slieve-naman, and the Comerragh Hills-bounding the landscape, or more frequently still, looking through my telescope in the direction of Knockgriffin, whose woods were thus brought distinctly to my eye. Heigh ho those were happy hours, passed away for ever, with all else that is lovely in the days of our first youth, leaving only a bright remembrance to gild the later years of life. Imagine my happiness on receiving at length the following note from Sir Denis Barnett :— "DEAR CAPTAIN STAPLETON,-Will you give us the pleasure of your company for a few days at Knockgriffin? We expect some friends to remain with us from Tuesday next for a few days' fishing, &c., and would feel most happy if you would join our party. We will dine owner in Tipperary, though he only visited his estate there rarely, and was thinking of disposing of it. Mrs. Conan had told me all this, and it was not encouraging. Hopeless though my love might be, I could not resist plunging myself into deeper danger. Worlds would not have tempted me to refuse this invitation to Knockgriffin. Behold me, then, duly entering the gateway of the demesne at half past six o'clock on a fine summer evening, my heart beating with pleasant anticipations. A week of happiness was before me beyond that I dared not venture to look. I found the drawing-room at Knockgriffin full when I entered it. The guests had already assembled there. They were chiefly men; two elderly ladies in gorgeous caps being the only representatives of the fair sex, besides the peerless enchantress of the mansion. There were cne or two dragoons from Cahir, three Tipperary gentlemen, and the (to me) odious baronet Sir Percy Stedmole, towards whom I instantly conceived a violent aversion. He was a fine-looking man about five-andthirty, dressed well, and with the air of a wellbred gentleman; yet I did not like his countenance; perhaps I viewed him with green eyes, and was determined to find something wrong in his appearance. When I entered the room he was talking to Miss Barnett, and as she came forward to greet me I saw that he stood watching us with curious eyes. In those days, reader, I was not a bad-looking young fellow, my height was above six feet, my features tolerably well cut, my tournure-well, I do not want to be thought too egotistical, so I will |