a man

like you, so that I believed the illusion—and then there came - mad with rage and you flew to meet him- and I -stabbed her, stabbed him, saw them fall- and so came here to die. And now I find you only to cause your death. Oh, misery! misery! that you should die through me!"

And Djalma, this man of formidable energy, began again to weep with the weakness of a child. At sight of this deep, touching, passionate despair, Adrienne, with that admirable courage which women alone possess in love, thought only of consoling Djalma. By an effort of superhuman passion, as the prince revealed to her this infernal plot, the lady's countenance became so splendid with an expression of love and happiness, that the East Indian looked at her in amazement, fearing for an instant that he must have lost his reason.

"No more tears, my adored!" cried the young lady, exultingly. "No more tears - but only smiles of joy and love! Our cruel enemies shall not triumph!"

"What do you say?"

"They wished to make us miserable. We pity them. Our felicity shall be the envy of the world!"

"Adrienne-bethink you

Listen to me, my

"Oh! I have all my senses about me. adored! I now understand it all. Falling into a snare which these wretches spread for you, you have committed murder. Now, in this country, murder leads to infamy, or the scaffold -and to-morrow-to-night, perhaps, you would be thrown into prison. But our enemies have said: 'A man like Prince Djalma does not wait for infamy — he kills himself. A woman like Adrienne de Cardoville does not survive the disgrace or death of her lover-she prefers to die. Therefore a frightful death awaits them both,' said the black-robed men; and that immense inheritance, which we covet

999

"And for you-so young, so beautiful, so innocentdeath is frightful, and these monsters triumph!" cried Djalma. "They have spoken the truth!"

66

They have lied!" answered Adrienne. "Our death shall be celestial. This poison is slow- and I adore you, my Djalma!"

She spoke those words in a low voice, trembling with passionate love, and, leaning upon Djalma's knees, approached so near that he felt her warm breath upon his cheek. As he felt that breath, and saw the humid flame that darted from the

large, swimming eyes of Adrienne, whose half-opened lips were becoming of a still deeper and brighter hue, the Indian started - his young blood boiled in his veins - he forgot everything his despair, and the approach of death, which as yet (as with Adrienne) only showed itself in a kind of feverish ardor. His face, like the young girl's, became once more splendidly beautiful.

"Oh, my lover! my husband! how beautiful you are!” said Adrienne, with idolatry. "Those eyes-that browthose lips-how I love them! How many times has the remembrance of your grace and beauty, coupled with your love, unsettled my reason, and shaken my resolves even to this moment, when I am wholly yours! Yes, Heaven wills that we should be united. Only this morning, I gave to the apostolic man, that was to bless our union, in thy name and mine, a royal gift—a gift that will bring joy and peace to the heart of many an unfortunate creature. Then what have we to regret, my beloved? Our immortal souls will pass away in a kiss, and ascend, full of love, to that God who is all love!" "Adrienne!"

"Djalma!"

The light, transparent curtains fell like a cloud over that nuptial and funereal couch. Yes, funereal; for, two hours after, Adrienne and Djalma breathed their last sigh in a voluptuous agony.

THE RED FISHERMAN; OR THE DEVIL'S DECOY.

BY WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED.

[WINTHROP MACKWORTH PRAED, English writer of "Vers de Société," was born July 26, 1802, in London. A boy of great early brilliancy, he was prominent in school journalism at Eton, and had a wonderful career at Trinity College, Cambridge. He won a fellowship, contributed much to Knight's Quarterly, became a private tutor, entered the law, took to politics, and was member of Parliament for most of the time from 1830 till his death. His collected "Poems" contain several pieces of permanent popularity.]

"Oh flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified." Romeo and Juliet.

THE Abbot arose, and closed his book,

And donned his sandal shoon,

And wandered forth, alone, to look
Upon the summer moon:

A starlight sky was o'er his head,

A quiet breeze around;

And the flowers a thrilling fragrance shed,
And the waves a soothing sound:

It was not an hour, nor a scene, for aught
But love and calm delight;

Yet the holy man had a cloud of thought
On his wrinkled brow that night.

He gazed on the river that gurgled by,
But he thought not of the reeds;
He clasped his gilded rosary,

But he did not tell the beads;

If he looked to the heaven, 'twas not to invoke
The Spirit that dwelleth there;

If he opened his lips, the words they spoke
Had never the tone of prayer.

A pious priest might the Abbot seem,

He had swayed the crosier well;

But what was the theme of the Abbot's dream, The Abbot were loath to tell.

Companionless, for a mile or more,
He traced the windings of the shore.
Oh, beauteous is that river still,
As it winds by many a sloping hill,
And many a dim o'erarching grove,
And many a flat and sunny cove,
And terraced lawns, whose bright arcades
The honeysuckle sweetly shades,

And rocks, whose very crags seem bowers,
So gay they are with grass and flowers!
But the Abbot was thinking of scenery
About as much, in sooth,

As a lover thinks of constancy,

Or an advocate of truth.

He did not mark how the skies in wrath

Grew dark above his head;

He did not mark how the mossy path

Grew damp beneath his tread;

And nearer he came, and still more near,

To a pool, in whose recess

The water had slept for many a year,

Unchanged and motionless;

From the river stream it spread away

The space of half a rood ;

The surface had the hue of clay

And the scent of human blood;

The trees and the herbs that round it grew
Were venomous and foul,

And the birds that through the bushes flew

Were the vulture and the owl;

The water was as dark and rank

As ever a company pumped,

And the perch, that was netted and laid on the bank,

Grew rotten while it jumped;

And bold was the man who thither came

At midnight, man or boy,

For the place was cursed with an evil name,
And that name was "The Devil's Decoy"!

The Abbot was weary as abbot could be,

And he sat down to rest on the stump of a tree:

When suddenly rose a dismal tone

Was it a song, or was it a moan?

"Oho! Oho!

Above- below

Lightly and brightly they glide and go!
The hungry and keen on the top are leaping,
The lazy and fat in the depths are sleeping;
Fishing is fine when the pool is muddy,
Broiling is rich when the coals are ruddy."
In a monstrous fright, by the murky light,
He looked to the left and he looked to the right,
And what was the vision close before him,
That flung such a sudden stupor o'er him?
'Twas a sight to make the hair uprise,

And the lifeblood colder run:
The startled priest struck both his thighs,
And the abbey clock struck one!
All alone, by the side of the pool,
A tall man sat on a three-legged stool,
Kicking his heels on the dewy sod,
And putting in order his reel and rod;
Red were the rags his shoulders wore,
And a high red cap on his head he bore;
His arms and his legs were long and bare;
And two or three locks of long red hair
Were tossing about his scraggy neck,
Like a tattered flag o'er a splitting wreck.
It might be time, or it might be trouble,
Had bent that stout back nearly double,

Sunk in their deep and hollow sockets
That blazing couple of Congreve rockets,
And shrunk and shriveled that tawny skin,
Till it hardly covered the bones within.
The line the Abbot saw him throw
Had been fashioned and formed long ages ago,
And the hands that worked his foreign vest
Long ages ago had gone to their rest:

You would have sworn, as you looked on them,
He had fished in the flood with Ham and Shem!

There was turning of keys, and creaking of locks,
As he took forth a bait from his iron box.
Minnow or gentle, worm or fly

It seemed not such to the Abbot's eye;
Gayly it glittered with jewel and gem,
And its shape was the shape of a diadem.
It was fastened a gleaming hook about
By a chain within and a chain without;
The fisherman gave it a kick and a spin,
And the water fizzed as it tumbled in!
From the bowels of the earth
Strange and varied sounds had birth;
Now the battle's bursting peal,
Neigh of steed and clang of steel;
Now an old man's hollow groan
Echoed from the dungeon stone;.
Now the weak and wailing cry
Of a stripling's agony!

Cold by this was the midnight air;

But the Abbot's blood ran colder,

When he saw a gasping knight lie there,

With a gash beneath his clotted hair,

And a hump upon his shoulder.

And the loyal churchman strove in vain
To mutter a Paternoster;

For he who writhed in mortal pain

Was camped that night on Bosworth plain

The cruel Duke of Glo'ster!

There was turning of keys and creaking of locks,

As he took forth a bait from his iron box.

It was a haunch of princely size,

Filling with fragrance earth and skies.