ing their truth, reflected aright, he would have seen that such pride, and self-esteem, and selfishness as his, deserved punishment. But he saw no faults in himself:—whatever faults there were, they all lay with other people.

She lured

"She does love me!" he would mutter. "I, tooalas! I love her still. But she shall not know that I do so. She has fallen into the pit she dug for me: -there let her stay! It is my consolation, now I know all. She did not intend to love me. me on, intending all the while to cheat me. She has been forced, despite herself, to love me in return. Let her love me, and-love in vain, as she would have made me love!" And then he would laugh, and hug himself for the discernment which had prevented him from falling.

Then, beyond all this vexation, and the bitter anger which comes from wounded vanity, was rage, as he thought that he was cognisant of the meditated treachery to the Montforts, and yet had no power to warn them, or help to defeat it. How much honour might he not win, if he were only free! But here he lay, imprisoned;-while the Event was rushing onward as on wind-wings!

These, and such thoughts, kept him in a constant frenzy and excitement. Self was the centre of his

world; and, as far as he cared, everything revolved upon that centre.

Suddenly, however, as the lamp burned ever lower, as his thoughts seemed to come hotter upon him, as the night stole on-suddenly, I say, a loud shout as of many voices reached his ear. He started. He lay quite still. His heart beat wildly. The shouts continued. The enemy were entering the town. It was all over!

Almost at the same moment the bar over his door fell with a heavy crash. That door opened,-and Alice de Léon came into the room.

Her step was hesitating-her air at once eager and retiring. He frowned as he saw her. He did not offer to speak; and she was confused, and knew not what to say.

At last "This has been a terrible business," she said. "I tried to see you before, but was prevented." She stopped. He made no reply.

"You have been deceived," she began again. But he interrupted her now. His heart seemed full and mad with rage, for the tone of fierceness in which he spoke was totally disproportioned to the words he used. "Leave me !" he cried. "Do not speak to me― do not speak, I say. I will not hear you. I will not listen. Leave me. Away!"

"At least," she said, "you will let me release

enemy in the town? Release me? Never! Do not come near me ! Bound though I am, I may do you some harm! Never, I say! Death rather! Away!”

"Oh, Geoffrey!" she said, in such tones of sorrow, that they must have gone to his very soul if he really knew how to love one like her. "I respect this anger in you. If you had not been angry after

"Away!" he cried.

"No more of this folly! I have awoke. Leave me or be silent; or I will drown your voice with mine. Away!" And his eyes gleamed wildly, and she thought his brain must be affected. She made one more effort to obtain a hearing.

"You said you loved me," she said, in a low tone. He leaped up, bound though he was, on the bed, and immediately sank back again, laughing.

"And I told the truth!" he exclaimed; "and it would be a lie now, and I say you shall not speak. Cozen others. Make fools of others. Why do you not go?" She turned sorrowfully away.

"Indeed you are unjust," she said, sadly. He did not answer-for she was going. But at the door she stopped and looked round at him.

"Not a word. Not a word more!" he cried. The great tears were rolling down her face. Did he see them?—perhaps not. But she did not attempt to say anything further. She stood so for a moment, looking through those hot and blinding tears at him; she loved him still-perhaps more than ever, because she thought his anger virtue. Then, once more turning, with a deep sigh, she passed away out of the chamber. Poor Alice! Nay-poor Geoffrey, rather! For she was true, and thought she loved the true; but he was not the true, and did not deserve her love.

Almost before she could have reached the end of the corridor, the sound of rapid footsteps was heard: -then a noise as of struggling, and a heavy fall. The next moment the door of Geoffrey's room, which she had thoughtfully closed, was burst violently open, and Arthur Danton and Lovell sprang in.

CHAP. V.

A CONTRAST.

After these two noble fruits of friendship (peace in the affections and support of the judgment) followeth the last fruit, which is like the pomegranate, full of many kernels; I mean aid, and bearing a part in all actions and occasions.

Bacon. Of Friendship.

Look here, upon this picture—and on this.

Hamlet.

SHALL I trace the workings of Arthur Danton's mind, minutely ;—or shall I leave something to that knowledge of human-kind which may be presumed in the auditors of my little drama. If I do the first, I must go back to his capture. If I do the last, I may be blamed for slurring over a delicate business. I think that the majority among you would rather have me go right on, by the shortest road, than pause to elaborate my sketch of Arthur's character. I bow, like any other manager, to the majority, and-follow my own wishes. I shall be as brief