Grace rose hastily, and said," Yon's her, auld Nickie Mathers; bonnilie she scuds along in her cockle-boat;-she has been up the water, I'll warrant, and over the sea, nae doubt. Mony a braw carouse I have had wi' her, but her boat never durst swim by Saint Bees. I maun rin now and lay her in her grave again, else she'll come to me when I dream, and drag me out of my bed; mony a time she has done it. Away to your wark, Johnie Paul, away to your wark-the strong hand and the sharp steel, and dinna be fleyed for blood -the gowans will grow the better on't,-and hae na dreadour o' death; there's braw fun i' the grave, else dead folk lie to me." And away she went, skipping and dancing, down the Solway-side, and waving her hands, with many a shout and hail to her imaginary acquaintance.

Lord Dalveen now coming forward, replaced his hat and mantle, returned his sword to its sheath, and held out his hand to Paul, saying,-" For hasty and hot words let there be forgivenessthere's my hand.” Paul also sheathing his sword, said," It will be the wisest way for us to part and meet no more-we are both too fiery to be friends and far too proud to be obedient to the numerous calls which friendship makes on patience. Besides, my lord, you have been accustomed to lead and command-you are of old and high descent, which you always remember when you speak to me, if I was born at your footstool

it was not to be spurned. Your lordship still Look down that moon

holds out your hand. light-shore-yon poor bewildered girl is part of the wreck you have wrought-she knows not that her deluder is returned-she prays at your very knees for your safety-the prayers of a heart most barbarously crushed. This was no sacrifice which low vanity made to rank-she was fairwas virtuous, and she loved you,-how you practised against her, and how you succeeded, is betwixt God and you; but this I say, that Grace Joysan, stained as she is, and touched in mind because of your cruelty, is worth you and your rank to boot, and that hand of mine shall not touch, save for harm, the man who wronged her."

The hat and cloak flew from Lord Dalveen, and his sword was bared in a moment; nor was Paul less slow in preparation. With earnest hands and gleaming eyes they recommenced their interrupted combat. I have said that they were well matched for strength, activity, and skill; they seemed so no longer. The passion which possest young Dalveen animated and inspired him, and a demon's power appeared to be added to his vigour, agility, and knowledge. His science grew more active, more subtle, and more dangerous; his sword moved with the quickness of lightning, and it required all the skill and presence of mind of Paul to elude the attempts that were repeatedly made to destroy him. Nor did he altogether escape; his

right arm was slightly touched, and his left side razed; and drop of blood followed drop, till the grass around was sprinkled as with dew. His temperate valour and steady resolution gave him a fair chance of escaping with life, and he conceived that the storm which assailed him would soon subside.

After a combat of ten minutes' continuance, during which the hot sweat dropt from their locks and brows as if a thunder-storm had fallen on them-one thirsting for life and the other defending it, the contest changed its character. feelings began to subside in the bosom of Lord Dalveen-the dark demoniac hue which clouded

Evil

his looks departed-a more benevolent light glanced in his eye; and though his strength was not worn, nor his skill and activity impaired, he seemed now only anxious to disarm his opponent. This seemed to be no easy task. Paul made a sure and a skilful defence, and disappointed every attempt to master his weapon, with such good science and good fortune as excited the wonder of his antagonist.

While this was passing in the Mermaid-bay, mirth and music, and song and dancing, abounded in the castle of Dalveen. The young owner's return from a foreign land was celebrated with all the pomp and circumstance of earlier times. Two huge oxen were roasted entire on immense wooden spits, and sheep and poultry were presented to the multitude of guests in all the varied charms of

culinary knowledge. Wine gushed from many a pipe, and several hogsheads of fine ale stood with tops staved in and cups swimming. There was meat to allay the most ravenous hunger, and drink capable of pacifying the most clamorous thirst. When the day was done, and night had arrived, the large hall was lighted up with a multitude of torches; while from the castle top and the narrow windows the festal lights gleamed far and wide— sparkling on the neighbouring rocks-glancing amid the green boughs of the groves-flashing upon the broad and swelling frith, and increasing the cold splendour of the moon with a grosser and more fitful light. The din of the dancer's heel, the sound of many instruments of music, the shout, the laugh, and the clapping of hands, told that among the multitude care was forgotten, toil despised, and that one hour of present enjoyment was reckoned well worth all that hope could bring.

Among his servants, dependants, and companions, no one had been more joyous than Lord Dalveen. His absence from the dance was not remarked for some time; the ceaseless motion of the brandy-cup, and the whirling agitation of the dancers, kept speculation silent; and the whispers among a few of the menials, of hasty words with John Paul about the choice of a tune, or a lady's hand, or some such trivial matter, had not floated to the ears of the Lady Emeline, the grandmother of the young lord. Indeed, it would have

been a marvel if it had; for that aged and stately dame, a daughter of the noble house of Dalzell, had seated, or rather throned, herself apart from all inferior spirits, where, glittering in the courtcostume of the last of the Stuarts, she seemed a breathing image of supreme dominion, which disdained communion with aught below the mark of demi-gods.

To a livelier and younger spirit the absence of Lord Dalveen and Paul gave pain amounting to agony. The Lady Phemie Dalzell, the cousin of the young lord, was in her twentieth year,-a dark-eyed beauty, the glance of whose eye would haunt one's thoughts for a lifetime. She had a quick wit, and a witching grace of manner, which won the hearts of old and young. The aged men blessed her as she passed them on the way to the kirk; and, at the close of the psalm and the sermon, many a youthful eye was glanced towards her seat, to catch a look of so much loveliness. A little community of worthy and austere Cameronians, as they passed her on their way to the mountains, on the Sabbath morn, lifted their hands to their grey heads, and said,-"The daughter of our old enemy's house is beautiful exceedingly." Even the venerable pastor of her native parish, Seth Mackie, was heard to declare, that if the Lady Phemie continued to invade his pulpit with her large, lustrous, and loving eyes, she would charm away all his gift in extemporaneous preach