sunk into his soul, and nothing of all the world most worships could add aught to their value. Not without long intervals of doubt and fear, however, not without many resolutions to leave the castle and win renown and fortune, did he admit the beautiful, cheering hope. Yet he lingered still, for he dreaded his brother's wiles, his father's commands, and shrank from leaving alone and unprotected her who was dearer to him than life.

Impelled by a restlessness he could not subdue, he one day took his harp and sought a glen, which, though quite near, was hidden by overhanging trees. A little stream played among the mossy rocks, the flowers offered their cups of perfume, birds sang to each other, the rustling leaves whispered pleasant things of the shady forest, and over all streamed the genial sunshine. But he saw nothing of all this-his heart echoed not to the sweet melody, for he was thirsting for a deeper, holier communion. He sat down beneath an oak, tuned his harp, and with unsteady hand swept the strings. The strain was solemn, lofty, but infinitely sad-a requiem for his broken heart. The rocky wall behind him prolonged the wailing cadence, but when it died away, another voice stole up from below in answer.

The young man started from his seat and listened with strained ear and eager gaze. There were love-warm notes in the response, and they thrilled his spirit. Gladly it acknowledged a want satisfied, a deep, passionate desire fulfilled. His attitude became easy, the fever flush faded from his cheek, and his pulse became quiet and regular as that of a sleeping infant. Slowly he bent his steps toward the farther extremity of the glen, and laying his instrument upon the grass, seated himself at the lady's feet. She bent forward and looked into the dark, melancholy eyes uplifted to hers, and quickly, truly she read that subtle language too delicate for speech-that language to which alone the soul entrusts its most precious

secrets.

She knew that she had soothed the fearful pain which had almost severed the young man's heart-strings, knew that she filled to him the place of parent and family, that she had become the shrine of his idolatry; nay, his very life. With a sudden joy she learned that she had accomplished that for a fellow-being which none other had attempted-that she had brightened a path, before scarcely visible for the tempest-clouds which gathered in blackness over it. Should she destroy her work? No! ah, no! and into her long gaze her thought crept gradually till it fully revealed itself, reviving with its light and warmth the withered buds of the youth's heart, until they grew green and fresh, and leaf by leaf expanded into rarely fragrant blossoms.

But at length the maiden drew back startled at her own discoveries. The crimson flooded her

brow, and, to hide her embarrassment, she pulled a lily in pieces and scattered its petals over her purple robe. Again the youth felt the darkness closing around him. The old, wasting loneliness returned, doubly terrible for this momentary hope.

"Lady," he said; but his voice was sharp and shrill, and he paused to allow his emotion to subside. 66 Lady," he began again, and the tone was low but very sad; "Lady, there hangs in my turret chamber a shield, upon which is traced in careless and broken characters, The Unloved.' But a few moments are required to smooth the surface and inscribe upon it in letters deep and bold a more auspicious motto."

He stopped once more and then continued, "Misfortune nestled in my cradle, it has clung to me at each step toward maturity; yet may I hope that when some measure of renown, some gallant deed shall have furnished a device, you will supply a motto of less fearful significance?"

He was answered by a glance, one which he could well interpret, and which, far more expressive than words, made the silence eloquent. At length Agnes drew two rings from her finger and offered one to him as a souvenir. Her hand trembled, the second rolled down the slope and disappeared. Holy Virgin!" she exclaimed, "it was my mother's dying gift!"

Eustace sprang to his feet, and after searching a few moments, said, "It must have fallen through the stones into the dungeons. Ho! Lawrence, the key and a torch!"

"The key is kept by Sir Bertrand, and he is away."

"But the lower entrance?"
"Has been shut these five years."

"We will batter down the wall then. Forward! forward! Nay, never fear for thy doublet, man. See, here is gold will buy thee a dozen such!"

"It is not the doublet," said Lawrence, refusing the proffered coin; "but what can hands do with such a wall as this?"

"But tools are plenty. Be swift and secret."

Though formidable in appearance, the wall occasioned them but little trouble; the negligence of the workmen and the dampness of the vault alike aiding them in their efforts. The ring was not found; but Agnes explored the dungeons, and learned the secret of the spring which confined their dreaded doors; a secret never before communicated to any one not claiming affinity with their haughty owners. Enjoining strict silence upon their attendants, they returned through the aperture and carefully closed it with the stones they had displaced.

"What! ho! Sir Eustace, hast indeed arrived? Well, if one cannot be the wine, it is something

to be the foam on its brim. If thou canst not wear armor, thou canst, at least, sing a song."

"Give me a just cause and a fair field, and see if I do not bear myself as gallantly as becomes my birth. If I do not show myself with thy bands, it is because might triumphs over right, and honor and fame are forgotten in the paltry thirst for gold."

"Ha, ha!" shouted the count, moved to laughter by that which in sober moments would have roused his ire to phrenzy. "Ha, ha; is this same grave confessor about to shrive us? Nay, he resembles not good Father Arian, nor the grim priest of St. Leu. By the mass! but it is our own beardless son! Drink, youth, and then give us the song."

The unfortunate young man had risen in token of reverence when first addressed, and still stood motionless, his right hand pressed hard upon the table, as if to prevent it from grasping the handle of his sword. Without changing his position, he pressed his lips still more tightly together, and muttered hoarsely, "Never!"

Bending his shaggy brows till they seemed almost to touch the prominent cheek-bones, but that they could not hide the eyes glowing like burning coals beneath them, the count seized a battle-axe, and drew his brawny limbs into a position to hurl it at his son. But he, without any symptom of fear, advanced and kneeling offered his neck to the stroke. " Another," he said, "might have suffered at that distance; here only the victim will fall! "

Astonishment arrested the count's arm, and with the admiration which the brave man ever feels for bravery, he let fall the weapon. "Nay," he said, "thou at least art not the coward I mistook thee for. Begone, and if within two years thou bringest back tokens of skill and prowess, thou shalt have aught thou wilt, even to the hand of the lady Agnes. Here is my pledge."

He placed a small gold crucifix in the hand of Eustace, who was already half way down the hall when Bertrand whispered a few words in his ear. They had probably their designed effect, for the count again clenched the battle-axe with iron grasp, and called fiercely, "Stop! I cancel my promise! I recal my pledge! Away with him to the dungeons, and let the bell toll and the priests chant. See he has a confessor, Bertrand. He shall die at noon to-morrow!"

Friendless, desolate utterly in his father's castle stood Eustace de Ribeaumont. His lips moved as if he were about to speak, but no sound issued from them, and innocent yet condemned, without word or gesture he again went forward. Preceded by the savage Maret, the unfeeling executioner of every dark design, and followed by his bitterest enemy, the brother whose machinations promised

Had I been earlier listened to, it had not been so rusty," said Bertrand, casting a look of undisguised hatred toward his victim. "But the more difficult to open, the easier to shut," and adding his strength to that of Maret, the great key turned in the lock.

A cold, damp air rushed up from below, and the blazing torch wavering and flickering added horror to the black abyss. Scarcely had the foot of the foremost struck upon the narrow stair, when the deep wail of the miserere was heard, and then the solemn tones of the death-breathing bell. A slight shudder passed over the young man, but no other evidence of emotion escaped him. The sounds from above grew fainter and fainter, but the dash of the stream was deafening. The wall of rock against which it lashed itself to fury increased its roar a hundred fold.

"There," said Bertrand, pointing to an aperture cut in the solid stone.

"There?" responded Maret, inquiringly.

"Yes, there, man. Do you dispute me? My father has of late lodged his prisoners too choicely. This suffices for mine."

The menial drew back and producing some chains glanced significantly at the prisoner.

"It needs not," said Bertrand; "the devil himself would be safe here, had he the smallest particle of substance about him ;" and with malignant joy he went out and closed the ponderous door. The spring caught easily, and he muttered, "I have kept it oiled a twelve month for this."

Secure in his guilt he returned to the hall, and lest into his father's heart might creep a feeling of pity for his youngest born, he assumed the direction of the revels, and with flashing wit, with low buffoonery, with strange tales, he quickened the circulation of the wine cup when it seemed to flag.

Gloomy indeed were the reflections of Eustace. All his high hopes had vanished in the brief period which had elapsed since the last setting sun. "Had my short life," he exclaimed, " been marked by but one great action, I would thank Heaven for its close. Yet wherefore should I regret even this? The flowers droop with the first breath of Autumn, the waters of the stream ever flow on to lose themselves in the billowy, boundless sea, the birds are sacrificed to the appetites of man, the swift deer and the timid hare alike fall before the hunter. And since all things fade, since even the sun and moon must at length find an end, the grand and beautiful with the insignificant and weak, wherefore should I hesitate? What matters it that my death be to-day or to-morrow, instead of three-score years hence? I am already weary, wherefore should I shrink from the quiet slumber of the grave?"

As he spoke, the door flew open. The glare of the torch dazzled him, at first, but nothing could blind him to the malicious glance of Bertrand. He covered his eyes till a hand was laid kindly upon his shoulder, and, looking up, he beheld Father Laveau ready to confess him.

He knelt before him and then said, " Cannot we be alone? Speak to my brother, father, that he remain without."

Bertrand curled his lips half in scorn, half in exultation; "Whatever is said," he answered," must be said also to me. No treason shall be hatched up between you, and no message shall reach the lady Agnes which first meets not my ear."

Without either complaint or remonstrance Eustace arose and addressed himself to the confes

sor.

"There will come a time," he said, "when my father will regret his scorn of the last gift of a wife, whom, living men say, he loved, or, at least, hated not. Then when the iron mood has passed and he would fain recal an act hastily committed, tell him I lingered in his halls neither from treachery nor weakness, but because I could not go without his blessing. If, as I suspect, evil has been spoken of me, say I was true to him, and in my last hours sighed but for one token of tenderness. Say to the lady Agnes, that I long ago gave her all I had to give. Tell her too to regret me not, for the weary voyager hath at last found a home. In the turret-chamber I have called mine are some small articles of value. Let them purchase masses for my soul. And now, father, give me thy blessing; since alone thou canst not receive my confession I will make it unto God.”

The good father wet with tears the raven locks of the youth as he bestowed upon him his benediction, and then with a heavy heart he followed Bertrand from the cell.

It was past midnight, and the storm which had all day brooded over the mountains arose in its might. The wind came in furious gusts, and the rain poured in torrents, occasionally pausing for a moment to gather new force. The thunder threatened to rend the massive walls, and the prolonged and vivid lightning struck terror into bosoms which never shrank from the wildest tumult of battle.

Robed in a grey suit which, even by day, was scarcely distinguishable from the rocks around the castle, and partially screened from the weather by a dark cloak and hood, Agnes glided out at a little door opening from the chapel into the courtyard. The sentinel usually stationed there had been driven from his post, and, unchallenged, she approached a breach in the wall overlooking the precipice. "Life and death," she murmured. "Life and death," answered the faithful Lawrence, and, lifting her as if she had been a feather, he placed her on the narrow ledge beyond. "Step

cautiously, lady," he whispered. "Cling to the sharp points of the wall till the lightning shows the way."

As he spoke, a peal of thunder seemed to shake the very earth itself, and with it came a fierce, blinding flash, lighting with fearful intensity of splendor every thing around and beneath them. At another moment Agnes would have hidden herself from the sight, but death trod closely upon her footsteps. Unawed she examined the nature of her path, and then grasping firmly the projecting rocks, paused for a brief petition. The flashes became more and more frequent, and by them, though not without imminent hazard, she gained the angle of the wall. A fragment of rock had fallen, leaving no support for her footsteps, but without waiting for her fears to gain the mastery, she swung herself round the point. Thence her course was comparatively easy, for a narrow terrace led almost to the river's brink. But there were here fewer projections to assist her during the weight of the hurricane, and she was repeatedly compelled to crouch before the blast. Weary, wet, almost exhausted, she was obliged, though unwillingly, to pause before entering the ruined passage. She employed the moments well, however, in recalling every circumstance of her former visit, and again commending herself to Heaven, she stepped cautiously forward. The spring, after several attempts, yielded to her pressure.

"Pause not an instant," she said; "out by the ruined entrance! Fly like the wind! life and freedom are before you! danger and death behind!" "Not till I am sure of your safety. Rather shall they "

Fly!" she said impatiently; "I am safe; but fly!" and seizing the young man's hand she drew him rapidly after her.

In vain he besought her to wait a single instant, he spoke only to the winds, for she was gone.

Then, indeed, he reaped the benefit of his early wanderings, for by paths known only to himself he sped on, and long ere his flight was discovered he was safe from the keenest and most vigorous pursuit.

Calais had fallen. The wounded governor, on a hackney, passed mournfully through the gate, followed by his warriors with arms reversed, and citizens with bared heads in token of unlimited submission. In the wide market-place, piled in gigantic mounds, glittered the battered armor. Through the streets choked with the dead and dying, with horns and trumpets, tabors and nakquayres, King Edward and his queen rode at the head of the English chivalry. Thence with sighs and tears and deep heart-breaking groans went forth, in long columns, the miserable Calesians. Old men leaning upon their sturdy sons, mothers carrying their

infants, maidens and little children grasping a robe or mantle to steady their tottering footsteps. Forth! forth the rich and poor, the robust and the fragile, the beautiful and unlovely, forth! forth! from pleasant homes, from sweet sympathies, from the relics of the departed, to poverty, despair and death.

It was the last night of the year 1348, and Sir Goeffrey de Chargny, believing he had bought the city, occupied the plain before it with five hundred lances. The winds sighed in the folds of the banners, and now and then the armor of the knights rang as they moved in their saddles; but no other sounds disturbed his thoughts, as he exultingly recalled his negotiation with Aymery de Pavie, and chuckled over the power of gold to dazzle and allure.

But he dealt with a double traitor. Instead of a quiet entrance, there were terrible strife and carnage, the shivering of lances and steel corslets, the thrust of pikes, and the flight of bolts and arrows. There were shrieks and groans, and the pæan of victory, and the morning of the new year found the earth piled with the slain, and the city crowded with prisoners.

Evening came, and the weepers were left alone, -for beauty, and rank, and valor, were bidden to the banquet of the English king. Never had that vast Gothic hall presented so picturesque and brilliant an assemblage. The martial bearing, the hoarse command, the high excitement of the morning hours were exchanged for the easy air, the low eloquent tones, the graceful animation of the social circle. Robes of purple velvet, of green, and blue, and scarlet, bordered with gold and lined with ermine, with tunics of silk and cendal, re-placed the heavy mail, and eastern rubies burned upon shoulders from which had glanced the arrow of the archer. Stately dames and lovely maidens, splendidly apparelled, swept through the hall. Jackets buttoned with gems and bordered with ermine or miniver, robes and petticoats of velvet, damasked satin, silk or cendal, cloaks lined with ermine or gold lace, rings and necklaces, jewelled girdles, coronets and garlands of gold, wrought flowers made the whole scene gorgeous beyond description.

Far along the vaulted roof, bringing out with strange distinctness the quaint devices and delicate tracery of its fretted arches, blazed a hundred torches. The long tables were crowded with gold and silver, and every wine flagon, every basin and carefully chased cup seemed to flash with its own, rather than with borrowed splendor. Minstrels were there, too, from the secluded lochs of Scotland, from the green mountains of Wales, from the English valleys, and vying with them, the Provençal with his melodious language, and the German more imaginative than all.

The tables were removed, and Sir Eustace de

Ribeaumont, a belted knight and lord of a fair estate, leaned against a pillar, seemingly watching the hurrying masses without. Yet he did not even see them. Two years before, on the same night, he had felt the bitterness of death, and the delirious joy of freedom. Two years, two little years, and the fugitive stood first in the ranks of chivalry; aye, had that day in the stern conflict twice stricken to his knee the royalty of England. Yet, all this was nothing, for he thought his betrothed was false. A twelve-month before he had heard the tale from a retainer of his father, and he believed it true. He had known so little of affection, had felt scorn and injustice so long and keenly, that he deemed a full, deep, happy love could be forgotten. So he buried anew his hopes, and half persuaded himself that his heart would grow cold and callous; that the first terrible pain over he should cease to suffer. But the desire for sympathy had been silenced only for a time; it awoke again and grew intense with the development of his nature. His turbulent life made him long the more earnestly for the quiet of affection, as we love a serene evening after a day of storms. And standing there in that regal circle, he felt that the utmost triumphs of ambition are less than nothing when no loving eye gazes, and no pulse beats responsive to one's own.

The frank, generous Edward roused him from his bitter musings. He was less richly clad than many of his suite, and in place of his diadem, wore only a chaplet of orient pearls. "Dost grieve thou art a prisoner, Sir Knight?" he asked; "thou hast no cause, for I won the victory right hardly. Take this," he continned, clasping the chaplet around his head, "in token that I have not found thine equal for skill and courage in the whole world. Rise! Thou art free. Thou art too nobly brave to be ransomed with perishable gold."

A long, loud, generous acclaim followed, and then the martial strains of the minstrels in praise of both victor and conquered went swelling through the hall. The tones echoed from the arched roof, and lingering amid its carvings still prolonged the cadence, when, as if summoned by the haughty music, a lady entered, leaning upon Sir Walter de Mauny and the young Prince of Wales. All eyes were fixed upon her, and the spectators held their breath, lest the lovely vision should escape them. Her jacket of satin, bordered and striped with ermine and buttoned with pearls, her tunic of fine linen, her petticoat shot with silver, her girdle edged with diamonds, her cloak lined with silver lace, and fastened by an opal, and her garland of natural roses were all white as the driven snow; and amid that gorgeous throng she seemed a new blown lily in a bed of tulips. She was self-possessed, yet with just enough timidity to color a cheek paled by hopeless suffering.

She knew not why she was summoned-knew not that Sir Eustace was regarding her with all his sorrowing, despairing heart in his fixed gaze. She offered her homage gracefully, and the King, kissing her brow, whispered," we must claim our privilege, fair lady, though Sir Eustace looks envious enough," then placing her hand in that of the knight, he said aloud, "Heaven lay not to our charge the graves upon yonder plain, for we sought not the quarrel. But in the great joy of our victory we would fain make a more acceptable offering than gifts or processions, and such we judge to be the union of loving hearts."

Sir Eustace glanced from the King to Agnes, from Agnes to the King in delighted, yet perplexed surprise. "Art thou still mine?" he asked, in that low tone which the heart catches more quickly than the ear.

"Thine, now and forever."

To a softer yet more pleasing measure the minstrels tuned their harps, for love alone can truly inspire the musician and the poet.

The betrothed partook of the revels as long as courtesy demanded, but ere the laughter and song had ceased in that old hall, they had knelt before a holy man, and as one had received his benediction.

APART from its pretensions on the score of the picturesque, the scene presented in the engraving has the interest arising from association. Even the origin of the castle has a somewhat remarkable feature, viewed with reference to the present condition of the nations. It was erected by Henry the eighth, to protect his loving subjects and their wealth against piratical invasions! It must be remembered, therefore, that England was not, in his day, a great naval power, as now. Then, not as now, her coasts were not protected by those prowling guardian giants of which Washington Irving speaks, meaning ships of the line and gallant frigates, the "wooden walls" so proudly mentioned by all patriotic Britons, as her more efficient defences than towers and battlements. Hurst Castle was a place of great strength and reliance, at that far-away time, though now it commands attention only as an antiquity, and a pleasing object in the formation of the landscape.

Coming down to a later age, we find this sam. castle invested with an interest of more melancholy hue. Here Charles the first was kept in ward for a time, being brought hither from Carisbrooke Castle, after his surrender by the Scotch Presbyterians to the Parliament; and hence he was transferred to London, where, as every body knows, his head was cut off. A very terrible thing it has been considered, thus to abbreviate the longitude of a crowned king, but it has come to be understood, at last, that the ruin which fell upon the head of Charles was of his own calling down. A tyrant of the first grade in wish and purpose, and withal one of the falsest men that ever lived, he wrought out his own doom SO perversely that we scarcely know even how to pity him.

Later still Hurst Castle and its vicinity have been illustrated by the resort of eminent authors, Walter Scott and others.

Figure on the right.-Dress silk, trimmed with flowered gimp or braiding; hat made over foundation, puffed with lace; crape and lisse much worn; flowers, rose style.

Figure on the left.-Dress barége, with broad hem and tucks; trimming formed with gimpround boddice and sash. Silk dresses of the same form, trimmed with folds of the same. Lawn dresses, with braid; and white with inserting set

in plain. Bonnet, silk; shirs, divided with satin folds; trimmed with flowers and ribon. Lace mantilla.

Mrs. S. G. Wood, milliner and dress-maker, and importer of fashions, 313 Broadway; French artificial flowers, feathers, ornaments, &c., Lowitz & Becker, 34 John street; embroideries, ribons, laces, robes, &c., M. Chambers, 329 Broad

way.