to account for its being in his possession; it was not, he affirmed, the weapon of murder: this was mysterious, but he refused to explain. The peasants shook their heads doubtfully, for his tale the most credulous could not believe. They all agreed his motive was obvious. Young Bampierre had been his rival, and although an unsuccessful one, jealousy, that monstrous passion, had doubtless urged St. Pierre to aim at the life of his opponent. Further parley was therefore thought useless, and Henry St. Pierre, the friend of the poor, the host of the houseless, became the tenant of the gloomy dungeons of the criminal.

CHAPTER II.

"O for a tongue to curse the slave
Whose treason, like a deadly blight,
Comes o'er the councils of the brave,

And blasts them in their hour of might!
May life's unblessed cup for him
Be drugg'd with treacheries to the brim,
With hopes that but allure to fly,

With joys that vanish while he sips,
Like Dead Sea fruits that tempt the eye,
But turn to ashes on the lips!

His country's curse!-his children's shame!
Outcast of virtue, peace, and fame!
May he at last, with lips of flame,
On the parch'd desert-thirsting die,
While lakes that shone in mockery nigh
Are fading off, untouch'd, untasted,
Like the once glorious hopes he blasted."

Moore's Lalla Rookh.

DAYS rolled away, and the dungeons of Lyons yet contained the hapless Henry. Twice only he had breathed the pure air of heaven, to undergo the examination of the ministers of justice. The hour of trial at length arrived. The hearts of his friends beat with fear; the soul of St. Pierre throbbed with hope; and the attention of all was fixed upon the important and singular case about to be decided. With a firm and manly step, St. Pierre advanced through the assembled group to the bar. Every eye was fixed upon him.

His

cheek was faded, his eye appeared dim, but his countenance was placid and unruffled. Once only the hectic flush crossed his cheek,-it was on meeting the eye of Annette, who, with her father, attended the trial. On the other hand appeared the two Bampierres, the young one with hatred sparkling in his eye, the elder with a meek and downcast look, as though it anguished him to aim at the life of a fellow-creature. They made their depositions: the younger Bampierre swore to the person of St. Pierre; the peasants deposed to his entrance into the cottage, to his agitation, to the remnants of his garments hanging to the neighbouring bushes, to the discharged pistol, to the finding the hat of St. Pierre in the hand of Henry. He was called on for his defence. He solemnly asserted his innocence. He admitted having been in the wood of Basque, admitted having therein found the hat of Bampierre, and he acknowledged the footsteps to be his, but he denied the attempt to murder, denied all knowledge, participation, or idea of the crime. More he would not say. In vain his friends implored him; in vain the beautiful Annette bent her knee to her betrothed; in vain even the judge exhorted him to explain the mystery: deaf to all, he persisted in his silence. The verdict was decided; it was a verdict of guilty. The awful sentence of the law was passed upon him, and the judge impressively pronounced on St. Pierre interminable imprisonment.

The beautiful Annette fell lifeless at the feet of her parent. The spectators raised her, but her heart had ceased to beat, her lip was pale,—the blood had rushed from her cheek to return no more! The heart of affection was broken! Annette, the betrothed, had perished! St. Pierre was borne from the court, in the arms of the attendants, to his prison home, and the weeping and horror-struck spectators retired to their several abodes.

Maurice, the venerable Maurice, to whom Annette had been the prop of life, the staff of declining years, followed her to her eternal home, to leave her no more.

He had shed no tear at her death, had uttered no exclamations of sorrow, but had sunk beneath the afflictive blow with all the silence of despair.

Three days passed away, and still the attention of the people of Lyons was occupied in guessing at this mysterious event; on the fourth, when the sun had set, and darkness was over the city, a cry of fire roused the slumbering inhabitants from their beds. The city prison was enveloped in flame. The devouring element, despite of every exertion, raged in its progress. The door was broken down, but its vacuum was instantaneously supplied by a barrier of flame, which made the hardiest shrink from entering. Screams were heard from the dungeons, where the captives in the midst of the flames were perishing. All attempts to save the tenants of the prison were known to be in vain. Even the jailor perished in the devouring element, and it was not until the following night that the bodies of the sufferers could be removed. At length, the ruins were explored, and in the cell of St. Pierre, whose stony walls had most resisted the heat, a mutilated body was found, and consigned to kindred earth. A small tablet was reared to tell the passing stranger of the catastrophe, and to convey to posterity the remembrance of the event. Albert, the brother of St. Pierre, a dissipated, thoughtless youth, as nearest of kin, succeeded to his moderate income, which the king in mercy had granted to his kindred; and as years rolled away, the circumstance, the crime, and the victim, were alike forgotten.

CHAPTER III.

""Tis he, 'tis he,

Risen out of buried thousands !"

Leigh Hunt's Descent of Liberty.

In the month of November, a company of persons had assembled at the comfortable fire-side of the inn of the honest Jacques, from the chilling blasts of this

bitter month. They consisted of some of the principal inhabitants of the suburbs of Lyons, who nightly met there to talk of news, and listen to the marvellous relations of those travellers whom cold or hunger compelled to take refuge there. Among them was Albert St. Pierre. The host, as was his custom, filled his place in a huge arm-chair, which had served successive landlords until new backs, new legs, and new bottoms, together with sundry other repairs, had rendered its form and make so doubtful, that the most antiquated antiquarian would have been puzzled to fix the date of its creation. Mine honest host was raising his seventh cup of Nantz to that part of the head in which the lips are commonly placed, when a traveller, from a neighbouring room, sent that he might discharge his bill of entertainment ere he departed. When this business had been despatched, and the traveller was on his way, Jacques could not refrain describing the purse of golden louis-d'ors which the traveller had displayed, and gave a shrewd guess that his portmanteau was similarly furnished, from the great care with which it was guarded. Some few remarks followed, and the company shortly after broke up. Two hours afterwards, three peasants, passing along, observed in a retired part of the road the body of a man; they raised it; it was Albert St. Pierre, and they bore him to his cottage. He appeared to be unhurt; no wound was to be discovered, and every means were used to bring him back to sense. At length, with a sudden start, the eyes of Albert opened, and gazed with frantio rapidity on all around him. "I have seen him! I have seen him!" he exclaimed. "He stalks abroad in judgment on me! Henry! Henry! I will confess all; but do not, do not haunt me." The peasants were amazed; the words were repeated, and they reached the ears of justice; its minions entered the chamber of the now idiot St. Pierre; but in vain—no word did he utter but what betrayed the wanderings of alienated reason. At length the crisis arrived; the physician watched anxiously the sleep of his patient. He awoke." It is all over,"

said the physician; "he has his reason, but it is the forerunner of death." Albert was aware of this; he motioned for writing materials, and as he penned the conclusion of the following scroll, he sunk back on his pillow and expired.

"The vision of death is over me!-the cold grave yawns for its victim! guilt weighs down my soul, and all the horrors of a bleeding conscience rush over my memory y! I am the slayer of Henry! my silence was the signal of his death! But for me he might have flourished, his children be now encircling him, and his troubled spirit, which has crossed my path, be at rest. I saw Annette-to see her was to love her.-I dared to breathe my love, and was repulsed.-Dread of my brother's hate made me affect contrition, and by that the lips of Annette were sealed. I saw my brother my successful rival; I had long been the slave of dissipation; Bampierre was the companion of my revels; I squandered my patrimony; Bampierre was the secret foe whose specious friendship led me on to ruin! To him I unfolded the tale of my unrequited love, to him I opened the before guarded secret of my ruined fortunes. It occasioned mutual confidence-he, too, loved Annette. The villagers also spoke of his love, and laughed at his presumption; my brother was the bar to both-the object of our mutual hatred. I thought of his marriage with Annette; I saw in it the ruin of my love, and the destruction of my hopes of future wealth from his inheritance. My bosom harboured horrid thoughts-blood flitted before my vision-murder haunted my mind. Young Bampierre fanned the flame of hatred. Scheme succeeded scheme; his death and a division of his inheritance was agreed upon between us; each was to sue for Annette, and leave to fortune the result. The elder Bampierre soon agreed to our plan. It was my brother's custom, as soon as the shades of evening cooled the parched earth, to seek the wood of Basque. We had determined to watch his motions, and, when opportunity was given, to despatch him. Thrice we awaited with anxious impatience his approach to his customary retreat, but