waggons, a thought seemed suddenly to strike him. He gave orders that he should be removed to his house and cared for and as he watched the majestic figure of the Duke moving proudly away, he might have been heard to mutter, with a fearful oath, something not unlike a threat that those insulting words should be atoned for.

And they were atoned for.

PART II.

ALICE DE LÉON.

CHAP. I.

THE BROKEN DREAM.

And is thy soul so wrapped in sleep?
Thy senses, thy affections fled?
No play of fancy thine, to keep

Oblivion from that grave-thy bed?
Then art thou but the breathing dead
I envy, but I pity, too,-

The bravest may my terrors dread

Come, then I woo thee, sacred Sleep!

Vain troubles of the world, farewell!

Spirits of Ill your distance keep,

And in your own dominion dwell.

In vain I pray! It is my sin

That thus admits the shadowy throng;
Oh! now they break tumultuous in-
Angels of darkness, fierce and strong,

Oh! I am borne of fate along :

My soul subdued, admits the foe,

Perceives, and yet endures the wrong,

Resists, and yet prepares to go.

Crabbe's World of Dreams.

A SHORT time has passed. Every day since the one when my tale commenced has witnessed struggles at

the barriers.

But no more sallies of the same sort

have been made; no other general encounters between the enemies have taken place. It is night.

The sky is clear and placid; and a full moon hangs bright and high among the stars. The air is still. It seems as if it slept-but like a sentinel set up to guard the earth, who sleeps upon its post, it wakes at times suddenly, and with a start. The branches of the trees, half stripped of leaves, and fantastically twined together, stand out boldly in the moonlight; and, as seen through the narrow windows, look like fairy work traced with the finest threads upon the air.

All is silent in the town, save when some lated drunkard staggers, singing, to his bed; or, at the hours, watches go about the lonely streets and change the guard.

But all is not silent in Sir Hervé's house. One room resounds with groans and ejaculations, which "break rudely on the ear of night”—which sound more horrible because of the surrounding stillness.

They do not come from pain: the body lying on the couch there is robust and healthy. They do not come from thoughts of merit unrewarded, for Sir Hervé is a successful man. They do not come from those wakeful sorrows which drive sleep away, for Sir Hervé is asleep. Those groans come out freely from