"Your Emily!-Harkee, sir, do you never again venture to name that trollop in my presence: I forbid you to see her, to speak to her, -even to think of her."

"Not speak to her!-not think of her!-not think of Emily-my love! Should I strain every nerve to obey the mandate, I needs must fail. Why! I do think of Emily all day long: there is not an hour in it,-nor a minute in its hours, in which my thoughts are not with her; and when I lie down at night, I dream of Emily. -Oh! the delight of sleeping is, that I then always fancy her to be within my arms!"

Finding, from this conversation, that he could entertain no reasonable hope of inducing his son by fair means to forego the object of his young affections; but that, so far from being willing to oblige him in this particular, he even traitorously insisted upon dreaming of her, de Mauny returned, in order to consult with his dame how he might best contrive to withdraw his son's attention from what he deemed so worthless an object; and by her advice it was, that he went to the Baron de Bavay, his vassal, under whose

protection Emily had grown up, and with whom she then lived, and commanded him to send away, he cared not whither, this orphan maid who caused him so much annoyance.

The Baron, though much distressed at this peremptory and cruel order,—for Emily, by her beauty, and, more than that, by her amiable and affectionate manners, had endeared herself both to him and to his dame,-being fearful of his Lord's resentment, promised obedience, and said that ere twenty-four hours had elapsed, she should be removed from the neighbourhood of Bavay.

With this reply de Mauny departed; but the Baron, feeling that the promise had been extracted from him by an undue exertion of power, and contrary to all justice; did not deem himself obliged to keep it to the letter; and therefore contented himself with requiring his protégée to keep out of sight of any who might give notice to his Seigneur that he had disobeyed his injunc tions.

In one of the turrets of the castle, there was an old chamber, seldom occupied, which received light from a single window, looking upon the

gardens; and here he resolved to enclose her for

the present.

Emily was then about sixteen years of age; her hair, of a light colour, fell in natural ringlets upon a neck, which some persons would think fit to assimilate to snow, but which, in fact, differed widely from that substance, and by no means gave the beholder an idea that, had he touched it, it would have produced a sensation of cold.

Her eyes were of that hue which poets have ascribed to those of Minerva, but in them might be seen the soft languishing look of the Queen of Love, rather than the stern commanding glance of the warlike goddess. Her figure was light, her motion easy and graceful, whilst her waist was so small, that it might almost have been encircled by the hands of one who had desired to measure it.—Scarcely had ever been seen a more lovely performance of nature than Emily.

Having at an early age been deprived of her parents, she was received into the Baron's family, and educated by his lady, who, having no children of her own, bestowed on her all that fond affec

tion, which parents are apt to lavish on an only offspring; and which Emily repaid with that grateful love and reverence which benefits always inspire in the bosoms of those who are not unworthy of them.

Having from her earliest infancy been in the constant habit of seeing Gaultier, a mutual affection had, almost unknowingly to themselves, grown up between them; and this was no sooner found out by the Seigneur of Maunay, than he used his best efforts to interrupt it. In this endeavour he had to a certain point succeeded; that is to say, he had prevented the lovers from meeting so frequently as they were once in the habit of doing; but he had not in any wise diminished their mutual affection, which, on the contrary, seemed to receive new force from the difficulties it had to encounter: so that Gaultier, maddened at the injustice which he conceived his father was doing him, made the vow which has been mentioned;-never to take lance in hand, for the defence of his father's citadel, till he had obtained from him a promise of being suffered to marry Emily.

CHAPTER X.

FINDING herself, as has been said in the last chapter, thus suddenly cut off from her usual society, and debarred from all intercourse with her lover, Emily gave herself up to those feelings of despair so natural under like circumstances; but they, fortunately, produced not in her the violent passions of anger and revenge against her persecutors, which they are apt to inspire in less happily constructed minds. Hers was a gentle sorrow a quiet resignation to the injustice of her enemies, and her chief concern was for her lover, whom she feared might be in as bad a condition as she herself.

No sooner did she disappear from amid her companions, than a thousand conjectures were