upon the mind of the solitary stranger that paced the chapel of Ellerton Castle on the night following the village feast. He looked not with a stranger's eye upon the ruined columns and fire-burnt walls; he saw not with unconcern the prostrate monuments of the dead, against which his foot struck at every step. The moon, high in the starry firmament, poured its light into the roofless enclosure; it illumined a tomb, of all others most unwelcome to his sight,a plain, unsculptured tomb, fissured along its whole extent by the flames that had consumed less solid objects. Oh, that the moon would hasten its course, and, by varying its shadows, cast that sad object into obscurity! But there it stood in the white light, and on it was distinctly legible the single name that formed the only inscription

BEATRICE.

BEATRICE! To an unconcerned eye, there would have been nothing in that name to awaken such emotions as those by which the midnight visitor was mastered. To him the wellknown sound had once been rapture, but now,-no matter what it was. Suffice it that they had loved and wedded; he had hated, she had died. There, in the tomb that opposed itself so prominently to his gaze, there were her remains deposited, and there also was prepared his own last resting-place when his life of turmoil should have ceased. Let us leave the stranger, whom we may introduce as Sir Richard Ellerton, while we take a slight view of the ruins among which we find him, and learn as much as was then commonly known concerning the affairs of Ellerton Castle. Of the Castle itself there is little to be said d; nothing was presented to the eye but the bare and blackened outline of what had been a solid monument of feudal splendour. Its situation, half way up the hill, and, as it were, in one of nature's parks, overlooking the village below, has already been mentioned. On the lower side was a massive archway, once protected by gates which now stood constantly open on the broken hinges. The court-yard, where formerly the sound of the clarion and the shouts of collected vassals had resounded, was now deserted, overgrown with weeds, and choked with blackened fragments that had fallen from the burning pile. The castle itself, with its lofty entrance and small portals, loopholes and gothic windows, mossgrown turrets and ivy-clad walls, was such as the reader, expert in ruins, may easily picture to himself. The family to which the

castle, with its estate and appended title, had belonged, was ancient and honourable. The barons of Ellerton were famed in story for every heraldic virtue; had died and received the burial rites in due succession, until a short time previous to the period of our story, when the lady of Ellerton was united to another noble house; the result of this marriage was a daughter, Beatrice, who in early life inherited the baronial honours. Beatrice, baroness of Ellerton, having married for love one Richard Benstone, the latter received, by courtesy, the title of Sir Richard Ellerton. After this marriage, the villagers knew little of affairs at the castle; a child was born, that lived but a short time, and Sir Richard left Ellerton soon afterwards. His wife, thus deserted, sent to her half-brother, who attended her summons, and remained in the castle until his sister's death, which occurred not many days after her husband's departure. She was buried in the chapel, in the tomb which we have already seen, raised by her husband in their days of love for himself and Beatrice. Her name only was inscribed on the marble; her virtues were already indelibly graven in the hearts of her sorrowing vassals. Her half-brother, Sir Hubert de St. Fay, then (although the estate and title fell to the crown) assumed, by royal warrant, the direction of affairs, which he retained for a period of more than ten years, until, about twelve years prior to the date of our story, the castle was burned to the ground, and he, as was supposed, perished in the flames. From that time forth nothing more was heard of the Ellerton family.

Returning to Sir Richard, whom we now find, after being lost for more than twenty years, within the walls of his former dwelling, it will be necessary to delay our narrative while we slightly describe him.

His age, at the period to which we now refer, was about fifty; his features were defaced by time and care,-still more, however, by a malignant scowl, that no art could conceal; his hair was grey; and, contrary to the usual custom, his upper lip was clothed by moustaches. A cap, adorned with a single plume, was on his head; and his whole body was wrapped in a cloak of grey fur, that concealed the armour in which he was cased.

Such was Sir Richard Ellerton, in whose character few good traits prevailed, and whose whole soul was tinged by a superstition, common to the age, that now, as he paced the lonely chapel, worked violently upon him.

"Would that these men were here," cried he, "l or that they

possessed one half of the impatience that burns within my soul! They would not then have delayed their coming to await the tardy step of an appointed hour." Then, after a pause, during which he had rapidly paced the chapel, he leaned with his back against the tomb of Beatrice.

"I will not see it, since it can thus disturb me! Why should I be moved at the sight of a marble vault ? What do I care who rests within? She must be dust ere this."

A faint groan, at this juncture, echoing among the recesses of the tomb, fell upon the ear of Sir Richard. Starting, he turned towards the spot-" Ha! Beatrice, dost thou hear me; and is thy spirit troubled at my approach? Thou shalt not scare me hence! If thou canst hear and understand that for which I this night am here, greater pangs shall be thy portion. If thou knowest him I seek, tremble when I tell thee that, though heaven and hell were armed in his favour, he shall not escape me!"

All the knight's superstition was roused, and his mental struggle against the fear that overpowered him was indeed most violent; but his resolution prevailed, and he stood calmly, but deathly pale, when those whom he had appointed to meet him entered the chapel. These were two men, muffled in dark cloaks of black cloth; the head of one was covered with a hood, the other wore a bonnet of fur. He with the hood was a tall, spare man; his face had been handsome in days of innocence, but now it was disfigured by the traces of vice and evil passion that were stamped upon it. The other slunk behind his companion, and remained concealed by the shadows in the porch.

"Art thou the man whose presence I have sought?" inquired Sir Richard.

"I am Andrew Westrill," replied the other; "an old friend of thine whom better couldst thou have wished to see?"

"Friend!" muttered the knight, between his set teeth,—“ friend! And is it among such men as these that—no matter! Then continuing aloud,-" Ay," said he, "thou art my good, my tried friend; but I would try thee yet farther; I have service on which to engage thee."

"I know it," answered Westrill.

"Know it!" exclaimed Sir Richard; "know it! from whom couldst thou have heard a design that my lips, till yet, have not dared to utter; my brain even scarce dared to conceive.”

"I know nought of thy plan," replied Andrew, "nor care

I much to learn it :-of this only I am certain, that, unless thou hadst need of my services, thou wouldst have been too proud to remember, much less to seek, my companionship."

"Why should I tell thee otherwise?" cried the knight; "why should I lower myself in thy sight by vainly attempting to deceive thee? What if I own I care not for thee? Thou art useful to my plans; I have need of thee,-will pay thee well; and that last secures thy faith."

"Thou art right, Sir Richard," replied Westrill; "therein doth my faith most truly rest; I am not hurt by thy candour."

"Then hear me," continued the knight; "my design is terrible; the dead, Westrill, the very dead have risen from their graves to implore mercy; I have refused it. Last night I was in this chapel; I measured its length with my paces, as I pondered on my plans when, lo! from that marble vault, that contains— thou knowest whom she came, clad in grave-clothes, and warned me to desist; I scorned the thought,—she vanished. Again, this night, have I heard the voice of the dead."

“This is delusion," cried Westrill; "the vision that thou sawest was but a waking dream, the offspring of thy disturbed mind, unworthy of thine attention."

"It may be so," replied Sir Richard Ellerton; "but I had rather join her in the grave, than once more behold her thus!"

66

Enough of this!" interposed Westrill. "It was not to be told thy dreams that I was summoned hither. What is the nature of the service in which thou wouldst employ me?"

"Let us, then, proceed to this matter," said the knight: "is thy companion true?"

"I am,” replied the person alluded to, from the obscurity of the chapel.

"And thou wilt assist in carrying out my design?"

"Do thou but pay," replied he, "and fear not that I shall shrink in aught."

"Then approach nearer. If the souls of the dead dwell in the tombs that contain their mortal part, if she whom I this night heard yet dwelleth here in spirit,—she shall hear our plans." "To the point!" interrupted Westrill, impatiently.

"Hear me, then," continued the knight; "know ye, among the young men of the village, one, proud and reserved above his station, one-Heringford, I believe they call him?"

"Do I know him!" cried Westrill; "is it to plunge a dagger

in his heart that thou wouldst now engage me? No task could have suited more with mine inclination."

"In brief," replied Sir Richard, "such is my desire." "It shall be done!" cried Andrew.

"Stay!" interposed the third party; "if Westrill be eager for this young man's blood, not so am I. commit a murder without pay, not so I. Richard!"

If Westrill be willing to
Thy price, thy price, Sir

"Be it what ye will!" replied the knight; "I will pay any price for the dagger that hath sped his life away; prove to me that he is dead, that ye have slain him, there is nothing I will refuse ye."

"Five hundred marks is my price," stipulated the man; for Westrill five hundred more ;-is it agreed?"

66

" and

"It is thine," cried Sir Richard; a thousand marks between ye for his death, though it cost me a fortune to solve the debt."

"Be it so," said Westrill; "the reward is acceptable, though I had rather lose it than my vengeance. To-morrow night, Kate's lover shall be a corpse. I had done this, Sir Richard, without the aid of thy spur; but may I ask, wherefore thou dost thus track his course, and seek to end it ?"

"He hath given me mortal offence—”

At this moment, a series of the most preternatural howls, yells, and hissings proceeded from the tomb; then a sound, as of a heavy body falling-and all was again still.

"The spirits of evil are among us!" exclaimed the knight in alarm.

66

Say rather, some trifler hath thus made his presence known," cried Westrill.

New fears arose in Sir Richard's mind.

"It is even so," he cried; "our conference hath been overheard; the listener must not live to tell the tale!" and, throwing aside his cloak, he leapt, sword in hand, into the tomb, that but now, under other feelings, he had shuddered to behold.

No trace of life could he discover; no motion, but the flickering of the moon's light, as it fell, through the riven marble, upon the coffins of his wife and child.

(To be continued.)