ill, her senses and powers were rapidly failing,-each instant her hold became weaker, she could see nothing, and had but enough consciousness left to utter a dying prayer to the God of mercy, when a hand firmly grasped her by the arm, she was raised suddenly to the ground, and Simon Byre drawn forcibly backwards. Edward Heringford it was who offered this timely assistance; Mat Maybird had discovered Kate on the face of the cliff, and, trembling at her peril, pointed it out to Edward; to have been seen by Kate would, they feared, have distracted her attention and caused her fall,-to ascend to her assistance was impossible. They saw the bolt of Andrew Westrill strike the cliff, though they knew not the hand from whence it came: fearing other danger they hastened to meet her at the summit. At what time they arrived there we have seen. Spenton, when he saw them approaching, fled, struck with fear; but Simon Byre, intent upon the victim, noticed not their coming: Kate was drawn up by Edward, and Simon Byre suddenly forced back, before the timely assistance was perceived. "On, villain!" cried Edward, roused at Kate's danger, the doom thou hadst prepared for this defenceless girl." on to "He hath escaped!" cried Mat, as Simon suddenly eluded Edward's grasp.-"There! There! He must break his neck over that sheer descent.-Now! Now! Come, Heringford, and see him fall.-By Saint George, he is going to leap! Fool! Madman! He is safe!" Mat turned round; Heringford was supporting Kate, still dizzy; her powers so long kept painfully on the stretch, could no longer preserve their tension, and Kate Westrill, thus suddenly rescued from impending ruin, after all the harassing cares of the last few anxious hours, fell back senseless into the arms of her preserver. CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH. THE LAST TRIAL. It was an interesting group that stood above the cliff, exhibited in all the light and shade of the bright moonlight. The fair girl, pale with anxiety and privation, rescued from the most horrid fate, and, overcome now by feelings so long urged to action, supported, apparently lifeless, in her lover's arms; that lover, kneeling as he raised her head from the ground, gazing anxiously into her face, half fearful lest life, so long goaded, might suddenly have fled; Mat Maybird, standing beside both, his happy face partly clouded by anxiety for Kate Westrill, partly lighted up by triumph at the success of their intervention, looked by turns at each of those friends in whose feelings he felt so warmly interested. It was long before the united efforts of Edward and his friend succeeded in restoring animation to her they had rescued; they feared she was snatched only from one death, to have fallen victim to another, and that from the shock she had received Kate Westrill never would recover. At length, however, consciousness returned, and she was led slowly through the wood into the village. "I will hasten forwards," said Mat, "and prepare the good priest to receive her; we can find no better home." Heringford coinciding, Mat Maybird hurried on. Kate Westrill, although sufficiently recovered to walk mechanically whither Edward led, was yet unable to comprehend what passed around her. She spoke, indeed, but her words testified that her thoughts were elsewhere, and that she knew not whither she went, nor by whom she was supported. Edward looked fondly and sadly in her face; she returned his gaze, but gave, by word or action, no sign that she had his features in remembrance. "Whither leadest thou me?" asked she, looking vacantly around. "To thine old friend, Kate," replied Heringford; "to one that loveth thee fondly, and will tend thee well, with whom thou mayest find rest after thine afflictions,-to Father Francis." "Father Francis!" muttered Kate, who seemed to have understood only the idea those two words communicated; "Father Francis! a kind-hearted old man, that once I loved and revered his is one heart that will regret my loss. Thank God! It is a sad thought, young man, that one should quit this bright world so very, very soon! but there is love as well as hatred in this world.- Poor Cicely too, Heaven comfort her!" Edward in vain endeavoured to dispel Kate's error, and teach her that she was now in safety. "The hour is almost ended," murmured she, in answer to his protestations. "It must be passed. Why comes not Spenton as he threatened?" "Thou art safe, Kate," urged Edward, "Spenton cannot, dare not, come to harm thee." "Dare not come !" replied Kate, with a bitter laugh; "does he fear me, then? and have the girl's threats alarmed him? will he not execute his villany? He is wise! he is wise! for had he come, every step near me would have been nearer death. Ha! ha! ha! It is a good jest! when the hunted hare turns upon these fierce pursuers-ha! ha! they fear to meet it-who is this?" Again Kate Westrill looked inquiringly into Edward's face. "Dear Kate,” replied Heringford, with sad emotion, "I am Edward, thine own Edward-and thou art safe. Look at me, I am Edward." "Edward!" muttered Kate, in a tone that showed her mind was wandering, "Edward is slain. They told me so long sincewhen he was in France. Thou art deceiving me, young man, for Edward, my own Edward, died a long time since, and now his Kate will follow him, faithful still!" Again Kate gazed at Heringford. "There is something noble in thy face," said she; "thou art not Spenton; but say not again thou art Edward, or it will break my heart. Hast thou not known, young friend, the pain it gives to hear a name we love idly repeated-the name of a dearly loved one that is dead?" "O God!" cried Edward, in bitterness, "spare me this anguish! —a curse light on the wretches that have ruined this fair temple! How shall I-Kate!-Kate Westrill!" He spoke, as far as grief permitted, in the soft tones that he had used of old. "Hark!" cried she, "hark! didst thou not hear him call? as he spoke when living, so now he summons me to his grave. Edward! dear Edward, I will come." "Hast thou not seen him," said Edward, forbearing to use his own name, "hast thou not seen him since they told thec falsely he was slain ?" "In dreams I have seen him," replied Kate; "I have had a long dream of happiness and sorrow-over now! he died in Harfleur— I did not see him fall. Alas! no-his own Kate, that loved him, was far off-he must be buried there-I will go to his tomb and die. It will be a sweet death-bed for a lover. He died in war and glory a sculptured monument in some cathedral aisle is my Edward's tomb. They will not allow a wretched girl to touch it; even his own Kate Westrill they will not suffer to come near it. But I will. I will go by stealth and die there, kissing the marble lips of his effigy. Ha ha! ha!-I have slept on a stone bed ere nowyoung man, it is very cold!" (To be continuel.) THE SONG OF THE BURIAL. "Lay her i' the earth ; And from her fair and unpolluted flesh May violets spring."-Hamlet. COME! let us make her grave Down by the stream, E'en where the passing wave Whispers its dream. There, where sweet flowers lie, Listing the melody Of the sad breeze's sigh Heavy and deep There, where old Autumn grieves, Through the long frosty eves, Over her fallen leaves, There shall she sleep. She was like Spring-time fair, E'en as a child, Gladsome and wild. Sweet 'twas to see her play, Through the long summer day Like the light ocean spray Oft would she leap: Lifeless and cold as lead; Sweet be her sleep! Oh! may the gentle wind, Leaving sweet flowers behind, Utter a sigh; And in the moonlight pale, Still may the nightingale Warble her tender wail, Tarry, and weep. Oh! may the fading rose Ofttimes at even-close Perfume her calm repose Sweet be her sleep! C. H. H. MUSIC. "JESSICA-I am never merry, when I hear sweet music. Or race of youthful and unhandled colts, If they perchance but hear a trumpet sound, You shall perceive them make a mutual stand, By the sweet power of music: therefore the poet Merchant of Venice, Act v. Scene 1. If there be anything which has the power, not only of delighting and entertaining the mind, but also of reaching the heart, at all times and seasons, whether in the hour of mirth or sadness,-of exalting and intellectualizing the former, and of softening and bettering the latter, it is music; I speak not of the science and the art of music, for music can exist without art. There is a music of nature which no well-taught strains, uttered from the lips of the most accomplished cantatrice, can equal. Who has not listened to the song of the skylark as she sings at heaven's gate, till he has burst into rapture, and exclaimed with the poet "Chorus hymeneal, Or triumphal chant, Matched with thine would be all But an empty vaunt, A thing wherein we feel there is some hidden want;" or who has not hung upon the strains of the love-lorn nightingale, as she poured out her sweet harmony to the moon when the world was asleep? This is the music of nature, and I doubt not that every living thing is created capable of its enjoyment. There is in nature even a silent music, which Shakspere has so beautifully described "Look how the floor of heaven Is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold :— But in his motion like an angel sings, Still quiring to the young-eyed cherubims." |