Here, plunging in a billowy wreath,
There, clinging to a limb,
The suffering, Hunter gasp'd for breath,
Brain reel'd, and eye grew dim;
As though to whelm him in despair,
Rapidly changed the blackening air
To murkiest gloom of night,
Till naught was seen around, below,
But falling flakes and mantled snow,
That gleam'd in ghastly white.

At every blast an icy dart

Seem'd through his nerves to fly, The blood was freezing to his heart

Thought whisper'd he must die. The thundering tempest echoed death, He felt it in his tighten'd breath;

Spoil, rifle, dropp'd; and slow As the dread torpor crawling came Along his staggering, stiffening frame, He sunk upon the snow.

Reason forsook her shatter'd throne,He deem'd that summer-hours Again around him brightly shone

In sunshine, leaves, and flowers; Again the fresh, green, forest-sod, Rifle in hand, he lightly trod,

He heard the deer's low bleat;

Or, couch'd within the shadowy nook, Was lulled by music of the brook That murmured at his feet.

It changed;-his cabin roof o'erspread,
Rafter, and wall, and chair,

Gleam'd in the crackling fire, that shed
Its warmth, and he was there;

His wife had clasp'd his hand, and now
Her gentle kiss was on his brow,

His child was prattling by;

The hound crouch'd dozing near the laze, And, through the pane's frost-pictured haze, He saw the white drifts fly.

That pass'd;-before his swimming sight Does not a figure bound?

And a soft voice, with wild delight,

Proclaim the lost is found?

No, hunter, no! 'tis but the streak

Of whirling snow-the tempest shriek-
No human aid is near!

Never again that form will meet

Thy clasp'd embrace;-those accents sweet Speak music to thine ear!

Morn broke;-away the clouds were chased,
The sky was pure and bright,
And on its blue the branches traced

Their webs of glittering white.
Its ivory roof the hemlock stoop'd,
The pine its silvery tassel droop'd,

Down bent the burden'd wood; And, scatter'd round, low points of green, Peering above the snowy scene,

Told where the thickets stood.

In a deep hollow, drifted high,
A wave-like heap was thrown,
Dazzlingly in the sunny sky

A diamond blaze it shone;
The little snow-bird, chirping sweet,
Dotted it o'er with tripping feet;

Unsullied, smooth, and fair,

It seem'd, like other mounds, where trunk
And rock amid the wreaths were sunk,
But, O! the dead was there.

Spring came with wakening breezes bland,
Soft suns, and melting rains;
And, touch'd by her Ithuriel wand,

Earth bursts its winter chains.

In a deep nook, where moss and grass,
And fern-leaves wove a verdant mass,
Some scatter'd bones beside;-

A mother kneeling with her child,
Told by her tears and wailings wild,
That there the lost had died.

HENRIETTA MARIA, QUEEN CONSORT OF CHARLES I.1

THE Character of Henrietta Maria has never been favourably regarded by English historians. Even the friends of her unfortunate husband looked upon her with aversion, as having contributed by her counsels to the unhappy policy which terminated in his ruin; while by the Puritan party, the presence of a person of the Romish faith so near the throne, and exercising an important influence on public affairs-who, besides, took no pains to conceal her zeal in behalf of her own religion, was regarded as an intolerable offence to the Protestant feelings of the nation, and they attributed to her without scruple every possible enormity. She has at length, however, found a more favourable chronicler in one of her own sex. Miss Strickland, who has had the advantage of access to some new sources of information, has, in the last volume of her Lives of the Queens of England, presented the character of this much-reviled Queen to us under an aspect which, without disguising her faults, brings out into prominence many points and features which command very high admiration. We incline the more to rely upon the justice of this representation, that the picture which it places before us is in every particular an harmonious one. There are no virtues ascribed to her which it is difficult to reconcile with her acknowledged faults. On the contrary, both her virtues and her errors are easily traceable to a common source, to a peculiarity of temperament, from which, if it sometimes disqualifies for acting prudently in difficult emergencies, there as often flow the most noble and generous qualities. .

The merit of these royal biographies by Miss Strickland is too generally acknowledged to require any attestation of ours. The volume now in our hands, containing the lives of Henrietta Maria and Catharine of Braganza, is to us one of the most interesting of the series. Such of our readers as have an opportunity of seeing it, will not fail to read these delightful narratives in the authoress's own pages. To others it will not be uninteresting to receive here a slight sketch of the leading events detailed in one of them. A great part of our object, in laying it before our readers, will be served, if it contributes to subdue their minds to a tone of forgiving sympathy, in contemplating how very speedily the interval between the highest worldly grandeur and the lowest depth of misery, may be traversed. In perusing such a history as that of Henrietta Maria, whom we see at one time nurtured in a palace, and surrounded by, all the luxury and observance which unbounded wealth and power can command; and then reduced to fly for her life, even in the hour of woman's greatest weakness and trial, and to take refuge in a mean hovel, and make her bed on straw; and again, sitting shivering and starving in the winter's cold, without money to purchase a bit of wood or a crust of bread, and glad to keep her child all day in bed, because wanting means to kindle a fire to warm her, should she get up: in contemplating such things, we see grandeur and misery alike divested of their imposing or revolting externals, and exhibiting the undisguised human heart

(1) Lives of the Queens of England. By Agnes Strickland. Vol. viii. Containing the lives of Henrietta Maria and Catharine of Braganza. London: Colburn. 1845.

within; and so we learn to look upon the mean with less contempt, upon the great with less envy, and upon all with more of the feeling of our common brotherhood.

HENRIETTA MARIA was the youngest child of Henry IV. of France, and of his second wife, Marie de Medicis. She was born on the 25th November, 1609. She was the most lovely of a lovely family, the darling of her illustrious father, being the child of his old age, and his name-child; and she resembled him in features and liveliness more than any other of his family. She was destined, however, to be deprived of her father's affection and care long before attaining the age when she could derive any advantage from them. She was not six months old when he fell by the knife of the maniac regicide Ravaillac. misfortunes of her after life. Her mother was weak, To this irreparable loss may be traced many of the bigoted, and petulant, full of absurd notions of the infallibility of sovereigns, and thus, of all persons, the worst calculated to train a future queen-consort for England. The religious education of the princess was guided by an enthusiastic Carmelite nun, called Mère Magdelaine. She visited this votary at stated times during her childhood, and consulted her constantly respecting her conduct in life. "It is possible," says Miss Strickland, "that the Carmelite might be sincere and virtuous, and yet not calculated to form a character destined to a path in life so difficult as that of a Roman-Catholic queen in Protestant England." In other respects her education does not appear to have been very wisely conducted. She was carefully instructed in the fine arts, for which she had an hereditary taste, painting, music, and dancing; but the more solid branches of education were neglected. In after life she lamented her ignorance of history, declaring that she had had to learn her lessons of human life and character solely from her own sad experience, which was acquired too late, when the irrevocable past governed her destiny.

On the 21st of May, 1625, when consequently she was in her sixteenth year, she was married to the ill-fated Charles the First, who had just ascended the English throne. On bidding her farewell, her mother put into her hands a letter, the composition of which had been the occupation of her sick chamber during a dangerous illness, by which she was attacked immedaughter's departure for England a fortnight, condiately after the marriage, and which had delayed her taining her last instructions for her future conduct in life. The letter, which is preserved, concludes with the following words :-

"You are the descendant of St. Louis. I would recall to you in this my last adieu, the same instruction that he received from his mother, queen Blanche, who said to him often, that she would rather see him die than to live so as to offend God, in whom we move, and who is the end of our being. It was with

such precepts that he commenced his holy career; it was this that rendered him worthy of employing his life and reign for the good of the faith and the exaltation of the Church. Be, after his example, firm and zealous for religion, which you have been taught, for the defence of which he, your royal and holy ancestor, exposed his life, and died faithful to Him among the infidels. Never listen to, or suffer to be said in your presence, aught in contradiction to your belief in God, and in his only Son, your Lord deign to be the mother of your soul. And in honour of her who is and Saviour. I entreat the Holy Virgin, whose name you bear, to mother of our Lord and Saviour, I bid you adieu again and many times.

"I now devote you to God for ever and ever: it is what I desire for you from the very depth of my heart.

"Your very good and affectionate mother."

Of this letter, Miss Strickland says, very justly, that notwithstanding the maternal tenderness which it breathes, and even the sublime moral truths which occur in it, its spirit was a very dangerous one to instil into the mind of an inexperienced girl, about to undertake the station of queen-consort in a country where the established religion differed from her own; that a comparison is drawn in most eloquent language

between Henrietta and the English, and her ancestor St. Louis and the heathens; and that instead of inculcating a wise and peaceful tolerance, the utmost zeal of proselytism is excited in a young and ardent mind. She adds, that to this letter may be attributed the fatal course taken by the young queen in England, which aggravated her husband's already difficult position as the king of three kingdoms, each professing a different faith.

The young queen was received by her royal husband with an affectionate gallantry, which very soon ripened into the most passionate attachment. Her affection for him appears to have been equally strong; although she, during the early period of their marriage, suffered their domestic happiness to be disturbed by an ungoverned vivacity of temper, displayed chiefly in contending for points in relation to her religion and her French attendants, her standing up for which, in opposition to her husband's wishes, and to the known feelings of the whole nation, can only be excused on the ground of her extreme youth and inexperience. Her first serious act of opposition to her husband's will was her refusal to be crowned. She would not conquer her religious prejudices sufficiently to be consecrated by the prelates of the English Church. She was the first queen of England who had ever refused to be crowned. This piece of bigotry was at once most injurious to the king, and of mischievous consequences to the queen herself, since it gave occasion for her enemies afterwards to affirm that she had never been recognised as the consort of Charles I. It also gave the death-blow to her popularity in England; for the people never forgave the contempt she had manifested for their crown.

The king found some difficulty in getting rid of the queen's French attendants, to whose evil counsel he attributed her obstinacy in the matter of the coronation, even after he had overcome her own opposition to their removal. They had to be expelled from Whitehall literally by force: the guard thrust them all out of the queen's apartments, and locked the doors after them, and they were conveyed to Somerset House until they could be removed out of the country. They contrived to delay their departure from day to day. They retained possession of the queen's clothes and jewels as perquisites, actually left her without a change of linen, and with difficulty were prevailed on to surrender an old satin gown for her immediate use they brought her in immensely in debt to them for purchases, which she (notwithstanding her par tiality in their favour) allowed to the king were wholly fictitious. At last Charles, exasperated by their struggles to remain in England, wrote to the Duke of Bucking ham, peremptorily commanding him to compel their departure, if necessary, by force.

It was not without some degree of force that, even after this, these foolish people could be prevailed on to quit the kingdom. Their expulsion was deeply resented by the young queen, in whose justification, however, this must be said, that there is good reason to suppose that in them she lost almost every individual with whom she could converse in her own language. She spoke no English; and as Buckingham, who had travelled, knew very little French, we may infer that the power of speaking that language was a rare acquire ment in the English court at that day. We must also recollect that she was not yet seventeen years of age.

She complained bitterly of the treatment she received to her mother, who was then queen-regent of France, and by whom the duke de Bassompierre, one of the old friends and fellow-soldiers of Henry IV., was sent into England to inquire into the wrongs of Henrietta, and to hear from her own lips a recapitulation of her injuries, which her banished household had represented to her mother as most flagrant. Bassompierre was an honest and sensible man. He soon saw where the fault lay; and, instead of flattering the queen, as her

| other counsellors had done, and encouraging her to think herself ill-used, he told her, with the freedom becoming her father's old friend, that he considered her much to blame. He repeatedly effected a reconciliation between her and the king, which, however, the provoking perversity of her temper as frequently broke through. He succeeded in getting her household satisfactorily arranged; but finding her still dissatisfied, and out of all patience at seeing her continue to play the vixen after all her grievances had been redressed, he told her his mind without caring for her rank. The following entry appears in his journal:-" Nov. 12. Came to the queen's, where the king came, who fell out with one another, and I afterwards with the queen on this account. I told her plainly that I should next day take leave of king Charles, and return to France, leaving the business unfinished, and should tell his majesty (Louis XIII.) her brother, and the queen her mother, that it was all her fault." The effect produced by this plain speaking is honourable to Henrietta's sense and real goodness of heart. "This," says Miss Strickland, was the best way of settling Henrietta's mind and affairs. She had been told by her flattering retinue, that all her little tyrannies and lover's quarrels with Charles were entirely becoming to a queen, and, what (as Napoleon truly said) was far better, a pretty woman. But the few plain words of her father's comrade informed her that she behaved unlike a wife, and that he should so report her to her own family. And this honest dealing secured the lovely queen nearly eighteen years of conjugal happiness, with undisputed possession of a true heart that adored her, till it ceased to beat-a rich reward for listening to a few words of truth from a real friend." The death of the duke of Buckingham, too, soon removed a perpetual source of disagreement between her and her husband. On the 13th of May, 1628, Henrietta gave birth prematurely to a son; but the child died on the day it was born. Rather more than a year afterwards, on the 29th May, 1630, another son was born, afterwards Charles II. The prince's appearance as an infant was thus described by his mother, in a letter to a friend: "He is so ugly, that I am ashamed of him; but his size and fatness supply the want of beauty. I wish you could see the gentleman, for he has no ordinary mien; he is so serious in all that he does, that I cannot help deeming him far wiser than myself." Her eldest daughter was born 4th November, 1631; and another son, afterwards James II., on the 14th October, 1633. The fondest attachment now subsisted between Henrietta and her husband: an increasing and lovely family cemented their conjugal union. Henrietta was a fond mother, and devoted much of her time to her nursery; occasionally her divine voice was heard singing to her infant as she lulled it in her arms, filling the magnificent gallery of Whitehall with its enchanting cadences. Queenly etiquette prevented her from charming listeners with its strains at other times.

At this period the happiness of Henrietta was at the flood; she described herself to her friends as the happiest woman in the world: happy as wife, mother, and queen. All was peaceful at this juncture; the discontents of the English people, whilst Charles I. governed without a parliament, were hushed in grim repose-it was a repose like the lull of the winds before the burst of the electrical tornado; but she knew it not.

In 1638, the queen's mother, Marie de Medicis, took refuge in England from the unrelenting persecution of Richelieu, who owed his rise to her favour. She was received with the greatest respect and affection by both Charles and her daughter, and with as much observance as if she had been at the pinnacle of royal prosperity, instead of being a distressed fugitive, impoverished and hunted from kingdom to kingdom. The filial care of Henrietta was active in providing all that could contribute to soothe the wounded mind of her mother, especially in proving that, fallen as she was from her high

a queen than ever. Fifty chambers at St. James's were assigned to her as apartments, and furnished with particular care. But there was a personal trait of affection in Henrietta, that spoke more to the heart than any cost or splendour of reception could have done. When the royal carriage, in which were seated Marie de Medicis and her son-in-law, Charles I., entered the great quadrangle of the palace of St. James, queen Henrietta, at the first flourish of trumpets, left her chamber and descended the great staircase, to receive her august mother. She was accompanied by her children-the little prince of Wales, the duke of York, and the two princesses, Mary and the infant Elizabeth. The queen being then near her time, and in critical health, a chair was placed for her majesty at the foot of the stairs; but when she perceived her royal parent, such was her anxiety to show her duty and tenderness, that she arose, and, hurrying to her carriage, endeavoured with her trembling hands to open the door, which she was too weak to accomplish. The moment her mother alighted, she fell on her knees before her to receive her blessing, and the royal children knelt around them. Every one who saw it was affected to tears at the meeting.

Both Charles and Henrietta were but ill requited for their disinterested kindness. The restless spirit of Marie de Medicis, and the selfish turbulence of her numerous and hungry train, were a continual source of annoyance and embarrassment to them both.

The English troubles were now begun, and the bright sky of Henrietta's fortune became overcast never again to clear up. The death of Strafford was felt by her, as well as by her husband, to be the presage of their ruin. In the words of a narrative dictated by her to Madame de Motteville: "The king suffered extreme sorrow, the queen wept incessantly; they both anticipated, too truly, that this death would, sooner or later, deprive the one of life, and the other of all happiness in this world." She made the most strenuous exertions, though, perhaps, not the most wisely conceived, to save him; an yet Burnet, with his usual blundering recklessness of assertion, charges her with having induced the king to give him up to his fate.

During the king's absence in Scotland, in the autumn of 1641, when the queen was residing with her children at Oatlands, which had been a favourite dower residence of the queens of England for several centuries, "the parliament sent to her," her narrative states, "that she must surrender her young family into their hands during the absence of the king, lest she should take the opportunity of making papists of them." She replied, "that her sons were under the tuition of their separate governors, who were not papists; and, above all, she knew that it was the will of her husband that they should not be brought up in her religion." To remove all cause of complaint, she left Oatlands, and withdrew to Hampton Court, from whence she came occasionally to see her little ones, and thus gave up her constant sojourn with them. Then her enemies raised reports that she meant to leave the kingdom, and carry off her children. They sent orders to a gentleman who was in the commission of the peace at Oatlands, "to hold himself ready with a certain portion of militia," called by the queen paysans armés, to serve the king according to their orders." For, among the other anomalies of this revolution, almost to the last, all measures in opposition to the king were enforced in his own name, to the infinite mystification of the mass of the people, who were mostly well-meaning, though unlearned. The parliamentary order to the Oatlands magistrate, commanded him and his posse to wait till midnight in the park at Oatlands, where they would be joined by cavalry, whose officers would direct what they were to do. The magistrate immediately sought the queen, showed her his order, and declared his intentions to obey her commands. She thanked him warmly, but told him that she wished him to do exactly what parliament dictated, and then to

she sent promptly to the principal officers on whom she could rely in London, who were absent from the army on furlough, and she entreated them to be with her before midnight, with all the friends they could muster; then she summoned all her household capable of bearing arms, not even excepting the scullions in her kitchen. Without showing any inquietude, she proposed to spend the evening in Oatlands-park, where her muster arrived and joined her party. The night, however, wore away without the threatened attack from the adverse powers, save that about twenty horsemen, on the road near the park, were seen prowling around, and watching till daybreak; but these, perhaps, had only hostile intentions against the deer." There is no doubt but that the queen would have done battle in defence of her little ones, if need had been for such exertion. The family, which the royal mother was thus personally guarding, somewhat in lioness fashion, by nocturnal patrole round Oatlands-park, was numerous and of tender ages. They were soon after separated, never again to meet on earth in their original number.

The Irish Rebellion broke out the same autumn, with one of those atrocious massacres which are the usual consequence of a long series of civil strife and religious persecution on both sides. The Roundhead party, founding their accusations on similarity of religion, accused the queen of having fostered the rebellion and encouraged the massacre: not one particle of real evidence has ever appeared to support these calumnies. In fact, it was a deadly calamity to the royal cause, and the queen ever deemed it as such.

(To be continued.)

THE MARTYRED TEMPLAR.
(Concluded from page 46.)

How? where are you going in such a hurry?" exclaimed Gilbert, after silently scanning the youth for a moment. "Return, I beg, my worthy guest. The weather is unpleasant. A cold wind blows from the sea, and the appearance of the sky is more like winter than summer."

"The gentleman wishes to leave us," interposed Blanche. "In my ignorance I have given him offence; or else our humble accommodation is not to his taste."

Gilbert gazed at the youth with a calm and steady glance, which penetrated to his soul. Dear Sir," said he, at last, to Guy, who stood like a detected culprit before him, " you will not surely affront me before my neighbours, by thus suddenly leaving my house, without even explaining the business which led you here. See ! I have brought you beautiful fish, which the steward of the estate has kindly permitted me to catch from the pond. Blanche shall cook them, and you shall have as good a dinner as the Templars themselves could have had."

With these words, he emptied the net in which he carried the fish, into a large vessel filled with water, and busied himself in assisting his wife in her preparation. Meanwhile, a sudden resolve darted into the mind of the youth, and earnestly he grasped the hand of his host. "A word with you!" said he, in a meaning tone. "Now.... instantly it must be spoken! I wish to be without witnesses."

"As you please," replied Gilbert, calmly; and making signs to Blanche to remain behind, led his guest to a verandah, which opened on the garden, and commanded a view of the desolate ruins of the hospital. "Here I think we shall be unheard," continued he to his moody and stern companion. Speak on."

"I will," replied Guy, in constrained tones. "I dare not take a place at your table, eat your bread, and drink your wine, and afterwards do the deed which I am commanded to execute. Cast aside your disguise, brother

Perrail; runaway companion of the Templars! I myself will do it. Grasp, sign, and password, have already revealed me to thee as a brother; hear now my name. I am called Guy de Montfort, and am the nephew of Aumont, the Grand Master of those who, escaped from the sword of the persecutor, have sworn once more to build up the Temple of Solomon, in defiance of the powers of darkness. I, who am yet but a neophyte, am sent here by our noble brotherhood to thee, thou perjured master of our order! Canst thou divine my errand ?"

Young man," replied Perrail, with dignity, 'judge me with the heart which God has implanted in your breast."

"But your oath !" interrupted Guy.

"Hear me," said Perrail, "before you unsheath your dagger, and avenge your injured brethren; for a noble fire gleams from your eyes, and I should wish you to compassionate, not to despise me. Driven by the cruelty of tyrants from our homes, and saving nothing but our lives, I sailed with Aumont, the successor of our murdered Superior, to a more hospitable shore. These events occurred before I had taken the solemn vows of our order; and my doing so was deferred until Providence should send us brighter days. Meanwhile, on St. John the Baptist's Day, we swore to avenge ourselves upon our enemies. As the blood of the holy Baptist watered the foundation of the glorious temple of Christianity, so we hoped that ours should prove the cement of that new temple which should be built in place of Solomon's, in the land which had been the cradle of our order. Years, however, passed away, and all our enterprizes failed. King, Emperor, and Pope, were all against us, and, with untiring severity, enforced the edicts for our annihilation. Even the people refused to sympathize with us, for the misdeeds of some of our more unworthy brethren; their pride and luxury had estranged the hearts of the poor. At this juncture I was despatched by our Master to sound the popular voice, , and gain information respecting the sentiments of the French nation towards us. The result of this mission proved our expectations hopeless. Sad and dispirited, I was preparing to return, when I chanced to make the acquaintance of Blanche, and her family. Now that I saw the hopes of our order utterly annihilated, and that my weak arm and small ability were powerless to help and assist it, the thoughts of returning to exile, far from the dear land of my fathers, to waste existence on some iron-bound coast washed by the northern ocean, became daily more and more insupportable. I decided then to remain and to marry Blanche; but I broke no oaths, for I had as yet taken none. An old priest, attached to the order of the Temple, being at this time about to visit our exiled brethren, I wrote a letter to the Grand Master, declaring my resolution, and returning my insignia, which I despatched by him. All these were received by Aumont, but he sent me no answer. This is the amount of my offending; it is for you to judge of it. Against the order I have never sinned; for no living soul has learned from me its existence, far less its statutes, signs, or pass-words. Even my wife is ignorant on these subjects; for never by a single syllable have I betrayed my brethren. You now see, Sir Guy de Montfort, that my transgression has not been very great; nevertheless, I am ready to suffer punishment. My wife, it is true, will become a widow, and my boy a fatherless orphan; but their sorrow will, after a time, pass away; and, meanwhile, I do not regret the five happy years I have spent with Blanche, even though I pay for them so dearly with my blood."

"You have deeply moved me," replied Guy, after a long silence;" and, for all you have related, I cannot blame you. I am sorry to say, however, that, in your

defence, you have not alluded to the great crime with which you are charged, and on account of which I have been sent on this hateful mission. The priest faithfully conveyed to my uncle all that you had sent; but he added the intelligence, that you had been guilty of Simony. At one time, he had been chaplain to the Hospital of the Templars, whose ruins we are now contemplating. During the cruel persecution, he and the bailiff of the establishment buried a costly treasure in one of the vaults. It consisted of pearls and precious stones, which a pious Knight of the Temple had brought from the East to adorn the statue of the Blessed Virgin. The ruthless destroyers of our buildings never discovered the place of concealment, so well had the secret been kept. Several years passed away, and then the priest returned to the scene of his former ministry, and found you in possession of the ruins, which you had just then bought. In the silence of night, he revisited the spot where he had left the treasure, and, to his surprise, found it gone. Who could have been the robber, if not you?"

"The treasure is in my possession," calmly answered Perrail.

"You confess it!" exclaimed Guy; "now, then, repent, and pray God for mercy; for you must die! Strange it is, that you have not been annihilated by shame already! When you looked at these ruins, against whose noble possessors you so scandalously sinned, were you not afraid that the earth would open and swallow you up? Perjured and faithless Master! worse than the beast of prey, for you have wounded the mother that nurtured you! By your robbery you have profaned the sanctuary, and placed yourself on a level with those wretches who slew our martyred brethren. Pray, then, to that holy Trinity whose blessed sign we bear, and be obedient unto death!"

"I am so," replied Perrail, in great agitation; "follow me, however, before proceeding to the last act, otherwise it will be done in vain, for you will have lost the treasure. Do not hesitate; you may indeed trust me."

Guy, astonished at his demeanour, followed him in silence towards the ruins, and down a dilapidated staircase. They entered a vault, in the corner of which was a heap of rubbish. Perrail began to remove it, and Guy lent his assistance. A square black marble stone now became visible. With some difficulty Perrail lifted it away, and drew out of the cavity beneath a rich golden casket.

The priest was mistaken," said he, solemnly, "when he maintained that he had searched the very place where he and the bailiff deposited the treasure. This is the spot, and the treasure never left its hiding place. The bailiff died in my arms, and confided to me the secret, while I was still in exile, and before I re-visited France. It was in order to preserve the riches of the order that I purchased these neglected ruins; and, finding the treasure still in safety, I covered the spot with yonder heap of rubbish, which, doubtless, served to mislead the priest, when he made his unsuccessful search. When the Lord of Craon, a valiant brother of our order, was about to sail and visit Aumont, on the rocky coast he had chosen for his abode, I gave him a letter to the Grand-Master, announcing the existence of the treasure, and requesting he would send some confidential person to get it removed. It was some time after his departure that the priest visited me, and I considered it useless to repeat the information to him, particularly as I knew not how far he was to be trusted, and had no idea on what errand he had come. Since that time I have received no intelligence from Aumont; and the treasure has consequently remained undisturbed.”

"You make me ashamed," replied Guy, whose cheeks were dyed crimson; "I must believe you, although my uncle never received your first letter; for the Lord of Craon perished at sea in a violent storm, and only one sailor escaped to convey the melancholy news."

"Now I am happy," said Perrail, leaving the vault