Thomas. "We must face our fate. The father of the innocent and helpless will not desert her."

"But, Sir Thomas, consider. The present proceeding certainly has reference to her. In our absence, must she not stand exposed to the machinations of yonder villain ?"

"True, true, my son. So long as we live to watch over her, Eliza must be at our side, wherever we go. My daughter accompanies her father and her husband," he continued, addressing Talbot; I suppose there can be no objection to that?"

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"It cannot be, Sir Thomas Hartley! You and he are my sole charge. My instructions extend to forbid all intercourse with your friends."

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Now, villain! your drift is perceived," cried Sir William Judkin, with passion.

"I answer no impertinence," said Talbot, hanghtily.

"Send Reily hither," resumed Sir Thomas, addressing one of the alarmed servants who crowded to the door of the apartment.

"That man is also my prisoner, and cannot now wait on you, Sir Thomas," said the unflinching Talbot.

"I perceive, indeed, we are every way beset! I can no longer hesitate to recognise the object of this arrest-Violence to my child may even be contemplated in my absence. Hearken, Talbot! Can the man I once knew-or thought I knew, be so sunk in baseness as to contemplate the daughter's dishonour by means of the father's murder?-What! you turn away, and do not answer ? You dare not look at me! dare not meet my eye! God help me! I see we have to deal with a fiend."

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"Tut, Sir Thomas," he was answered, when the person addressed had succeeded in mastering the strong feeling he had turned aside 10 disguise. This is idle catechising. I am here with no such dastard purpose: mine is a distinct and plain duty, that, as I have said, refers to none but you and that man. Your horses are at the door, and I outstay my time."

"Talbot," said Sir Thomas, with bitter emphasis, “I did not think the earth contained snch a Devil!"

"Men, move down-stairs with the prisoners," was the sole rejoinder of the stern commander. The frowning soldiers of civil-war advanced to seize on their prey. Eliza had been drooping between her two supporters. She suddenly revived, burst from the arms of her father and her husband, and flung herself at the feet of her former lover. So rapid was her motion, that neither Sir Thomas nor Sir William could interpose to prevent the step.

Harry Talbot!" she cried, clasping her hands together; as she held them up in supplication, the wedding-ring met his eye; "lowly and humbly I petition for your mercy-Do not tear them from me-pity, pity, Harry Talbot. Forgive me what wrong I have done you! When first I knew you, little did I think that by you— by you my heart was to be crushed and broken! I was then a proud, joyful young creature: I am now very wretched. Harry, be шerciful to me!"

Husband and father both sprang to her, and took her by the arms to raise her up.

"Daughter!" cried the latter; "any thing but this. Do not degrade yourself-do not degrade me-do not degrade Sir William Judkin! Rise, my child-we would not accept of safety at this price the prostration of our Eliza before that despicable Villain !"

"Do not, do not force me up, my father!" struggling to keep herself in a kneeling posture." I caught the tear of human pity in his eye-there is mercy yet where it sprang from. It will flow

amply, and fall like the shower on the parched bosom of her who always regarded him with-yes, Harry, with true affection. Oh! I shall prevail !-he was not merciless when I knew him."

"You knew him not, my own love," Sir William Judkin said: "knew him not for what he is-a detected slanderer, and a mean, revengeful coward !"

Eliza might have seen in Talbot's eyes the relenting moisture she spoke of, or it might have been her own swimming and glittering looks that deceived her. He certainly was bending down towards her, with a regard very different from the previous expression of his flashing glances, when, at the remark of his rival, he suddenly drew up, turned away, and walked some paces distant.

Again Eliza broke from her detainers, and again was on her knees before him.

"Harry!-earliest friend-look on me, for the last time; prostrate, grovelling to you for mercy!"

"Rise up, madam," he replied, in his former cool, unshaken tone, "your father is right-you should not thus humble yourself. But, oh !" he continued, lowering his voice, and speaking with emotion, "had you attended to my warning, this never could have happened."

Instantly Eliza sprang up, sternly erect. Scorn and aversion could not be more powerfully expressed than by her features and present mien. Her head swayed back; her pencilled brow kuit; her hands dashed the plentiful tears away; and her looks fixed upon the terrible man of power, with a sudden vigour which

mastered him. He could stand unmoved the wrathful words and threathening frowns of her father and her husband: but he shrank dismayed before the scornful anger of youthful beauty.

"Ah!" she cried, "abased and despised man!-You do avow your motive! You dare, at the very moment of your aggression on the father and the husband, avow it to the daughter and the wife! Degradation, indeed, it would then be, to ask or take the slightest favour at your hands. We must not stoop to the despised,-ay, Sir, the despised-and the defied too!-for I feel I can defy you!-Father, fear not for me," she added, turning her back upon Talbot, and taking Sir Thomas's hand, who met her with a look of fondness and of pride.

"Fear not for me! Think you I dread any thing that unworthy wretch can attempt against me? Farewell, father! Farewell, husband! Since I cannot accompany you, I will follow you. You will find that the light-hearted Eliza has courage to brave even the worst for those she loves."

Clasped to her father's breast, his tears rained fast upon her young head.

"Sir William," she continued, "confidently reckon on my safety, as I will reckon on yours. We shall crush this viper, and leave him

in the dust."

"We attend you, Sir," said Sir Thomas, turning to the spot where Talbot had stood. He was no longer there; and the yeomen intimated that he awaited his prisoners outside the house.

"Some little remnant of shame is left to him," resumed Sir Thomas; "but, Eliza, we must attend him. God be with you ! If this be our last meeting on earth, you have the blessing of a parent, to whom, as infant, girl, and woman, you were and are a treasure. Almighty Father," he continued, raising one arm upward, as with the other he still enfolded her "thou who givest shelter and protection to the orphan, and a roof and a safeguard to innocence, to thy care I commit my darling; a charge worthy of that care, if goodness and purity were ever found worthy. Alicia," turning to where the confounded and trembling old lady sat, "will you not wish me adieu?"

"Brother-I cannot, I am not able! I have tried to rise from this chair, but I cannot."

"Then, my poor sister, I will go to you." And as Sir William Judkin strained his beautiful bride in a last embrace, the brother and sister also exchanged farewells.

The yeomen became impatient-the parting was over. Eliza

saw her husband and father descend the stairs guarded. From the windows of the bridal apartment, she saw them ride off amid a troop of yoemen cavalry, headed by her former lover. She watched them down the avenue until they disappeared from her straining eyes. Then all her heroic resolutions giving way, with one look at her bridal robe and bridal ornaments, she sank down beside her insensible aunt-a victim decked, indeed, for the sacrifice.

But when restored to her senses by those who came in to attend her, Eliza spent no time in useless wailings or inaction. Proceeding to her dressing room, she laid aside, with what feelings she might, her pearls, her snowy bridal wreath, and her spotless bridal robe, and assumed without delay her ordinary out-of-door attire.

CHAPTER XXVIII.

UPON an eminence overlooking the river Slaney stood, at the date of our tale, an ancient castle, built of reddish stone, with flanking round towers at each angle, which, through scanty slit and hoop-hole, admitted light and air to the winding stairs within. This ancient stronghold also commanded a bird's-eye view of the old town of Enniscorthy, lying partly in a hollow, in parts climbing up steep

ascents.

In the year 1798, this feudal structure was ruinous, and, however interesting from the recollections or inquiries to which it gave birth, cheerless. Now it is tenanted,-comfortably, if not tastefully repaired its character of modern appropriation and care, singularly contrasts with its former state of lonely dilapidation, and even with the antique ruggedness that still clothes its walls. Large windows invite into well-furnished apartments, a broader flood of light than once entered through its primitive loop-holes to glance dimly at its tapestried or wainscoted pride, in times when safety was considered in preference to brightness or ventilation.

This, the Castle of Enniscorthy, as it is called, was the district prison upon the day of the arrest of Sir Thomas Hartley and Sir William Judkin. The Court-martial by which the former was tried, held its sitting in the ground apartment or hall of the edifice, gained after entering the low arched doorway.

The reader is aware that the ordinary tribunals of justice were now

suspended, and that, according to the form of military procedure alone, was the crime of disloyalty to King and State investigated and punished. Before such a Court, hastily summoned together, Sir Thomas Hartley, late in the afternoon of the day of his arrest, appeared to take his chance for life or death.

His arbitrary judges assembled under circumstances unfavourable to cool inquiry or scrupulous discussion. But a few miles distant from the place where they sat, the insurgents, in all the fiery impetus that enraged passions can supply, were wreaking vengeauce on their enemies, or upon their supposed enemies. Hourly accounts of slaughter and conflagration marking the separate routes of the throngs who hurried to join a main body, or of like outrages committed by that main body itself, reached Ennicorthy fromı. trembling fugitives just escaping alive, and no more, out of the flaming house, or the fatal mêlée. It was also expected that the town would be attacked. In their feelings of mixed abhorrence and fear, little consideration, or even protracted inquiry, could be expected from the Court-martial, by any person standing accused of a connexion with the authors of such appalling acts.

It will, we hope, be recollected. that at a certain review of the troops of the County of Wexford, Sir Thomas Hartley had attended for the purpose of arraigning before the inspecting General, a certain officer of dragoons. When Sir Thomas entered the gloomy hall of the castle of Enniscorthy, the same revengeful eye rested upon his, which that day, after the rebuke of the General, plainly told the Barone he might expect a requital in kind, if ever it came to the turn of the said officer to afford it him. In fact, this very man sat as President of the military Court: his, glance towards the prisoner, as they confronted each other, derived its expression from a still vivid sense of the humiliation Sir Thomas had caused him to endure, and from the no less substantial sense of injury impressed upon his mind by the recollection that, out of his own pocket, he had been obliged to make good the losses sustained, at his hands and at the hands of his men, amongst the Barcnet's tenants.

A few yeomen officers, formerly of the prisoner's acquaintance, stood or sat around. But averted looks, or the cool and formal nod which, while it vouchsafes recognition, proclaims an end to fr endship or kindly intercourse, told him he had no friends even in that group. Not a single eye in the hall beamed hope upon him; not a single tongue whispered good wishes or commiseration, as he took his prescribed seat at one end of the rude table round which were seated the informal arbiters of his destiny.