The estate called Neville Grange, the residence of Sir Edgar de Neville, embraced an extensive park, and a roomy and commodious mansion. This latter was evidently a recent erection, and had probably succeeded, since the accession of the present proprietor, to one of some antiquity. It was an unpretending structure, but was rendered important by its size, which, with its situation, marked it as the residence of a person of consequence. Its date was as clearly indicated by its material—the red brick then in use—as by its style, which was of that substantial yet stately caste called Elizabethan. It stood on the summit of a gentle acclivity, with its rear and sides, the least finished parts of the building, enclosed by umbrageous trees, and the front commanding a view of the whole extent of the park.

Sir Edgar de Neville, the present proprietor, had become possessed of the Grange on the death of his father, towards the latter end of the reign of Mary. He had previously, while attending on the king-consort, Philip, in Spain, married a Spanish lady, who brought him little dower but her beauty, and, what he prized as highly, her affections. Even these possessions he was not destined to enjoy long; for shortly after his accession to the family estate, his lady died, leaving behind her an infant daughter, a sad memento, in the promise furnished by her scarcely dawning charms, of her own excellence and beauty.

About this time Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne; and Sir Edgar, being a Roman Catholic, and opposed to the new order of things, which disqualified Roman Catholics for any state office or employment, was obliged to relinquish his public pursuits, and retire into the contracted circle of private life. But this change of fortune did not shake his allegiance, or induce him to lend any countenance, however limited, to those treasonable conspiracies which the oppressive enactments of the new legislature occasionally excited among the Roman Catholics. So unexceptionable was his conduct, that none of the host of spies which the jealousy of Burleigh, the Lord-Treasurer, and chief minister of Elizabeth, maintained in every part of the country, had ever been able to discover therein the slightest cause for mistrust or suspicion. In his excessive caution, he even denied himself the full exercise of his religion; and many a year passed by, subsequent to the accession of Elizabeth to the throne, without seeing his threshold once marked with the forbidden step of a priest.

Thus he lived secluded for a considerable period; but ultimately, after a lapse of some years, he was joined in his retirement by a Spanish gentleman, named Don Felix di Corva, to whom he was related, through his deceased wife, in the degree of cousin. With this gentleman and his daughter, the fair Evaline, he was residing at the epoch which opens this history.

These particulars were yet unknown to the cavalier who, at great risk to himself, had just rendered Sir Edgar such signal service, and whom the conclusion of our last chapter represented to have fallen in a swoon. On recovering his senses, he found himself disposed in a comfortable bed, in an upper chamber of Sir Edgar’s mansion. A skilful chirurgeon, whose residence was hard by, and whom a mounted servant had brought express to the mansion, stood by his bedside, and Sir Edgar himself was watching anxiously for his recovery. Directly this took place, the chirurgeon, with the promptitude of an alert practitioner, examined the wound in his arm, and, with little difficulty, succeeded in drawing forth the bullet. That effected, he carefully dressed the wound, and the cavalier, at his suggestion, was then left to repose.

The pain of the wound, yielding to the soothing influence of the dressing, which met the heated blood with a refreshing coolness, had materially abated, but still the cavalier could not dispose himself to sleep. Relieved from bodily pain, his mind, which physical suffering had hitherto kept in subjection, began to bestir itself, and led him into such a conflict of thought, as amounted, in the end, almost to distraction. Hour succeeded hour, and yet his eyes, in spite of his utmost efforts to obtain rest, remained unsealed, and his senses alive to the finest perception. Thoughts arose unbidden, and almost against his will, from the deepest recesses of his heart, with recollections of the past, and fears of the future, in which he had to play a most perilous part, all mingled together. Yet this state of mind, if bodily suffering was not its actual source, did spring partly from his wound, and the peculiar excitement attending its infliction, though it was mainly caused by an untimely contemplation of his personal prospects. The same object continued to engage his attention, in every variety of shape, and under every possible aspect, till he was overtaken by exhaustion, and then—and not till then—did he fall asleep.

It was yet early in the morning when he awoke. He was surprised to find, on becoming completely awake, that his wound now gave him no pain; and he was able to rise without inconvenience. A small handbell, which stood on a chair beside his bed, brought an aged domestic to his chamber, and, with the assistance of this individual, he entered on his toilet, and was soon fully attired.

Learning that neither Sir Edgar nor his daughter had yet risen, he left word with the servant, for their information, that he should take a stroll in the park, and return to meet them at the breakfast-table. With this intimation, he descended to the hall, and thence, finding the hall-door open, passed into the park.

As he gazed inquisitively round, his eye fell on a walk that, from its being hedged in by tall shrubs, wore a more secluded look than the others; and, whether for this reason, or because it was the nearest, he bent his steps thitherwards.

He did not pass into the walk without being observed. He had taken but a few paces, when a man’s head, shrouded in a slouched hat, was cautiously raised from the adjacent shrubs, and fixed so as to view him without discovering itself. Whether he was or was not alive to the objects around, this escaped his observation; and probably in an excess of self-confidence, not caring to be observed, or fearing to be molested, he passed along without contracting any suspicion that he was watched and followed.

Thus he proceeded till the walk was crossed, at some little distance from the mansion, by a public footpath, which opened to him on either side a view through the trees. But though the scene here presented had many points of attraction, only one object seemed, by its seizure of his attention, to inspire him with interest. This was the spire of a village church, which was just visible over a wood-crowned hill, or eminence, about a mile distant.

It was a pleasing feature in the landscape, and was calculated, by its upland situation, to attract the attention of any spectator; but the cavalier appeared to regard it with some emotion. As he continued to gaze upon it, his face assumed a graver aspect, and the thoughts which were passing through his mind, evidently with pain, partly found utterance.

“Why not go there now?” he said. “’Tis but a short walk, and I shall be back, if I make no delay, before they come down to breakfast. I will even go.”

With these words, he passed off the park-walk, and struck into the path that, with occasional curvatures, led across the park towards the point he had been viewing. He walked at a smart pace, and shortly arrived at the base of the hill, which presented a less steep ascent, and a more level road, every step. The road, taken from this point, wound through a small wood, now teeming with verdure, and apparently alive with the notes that, as the traveller passed along, broke through the foliage from a hundred birds. Towards the summit the wood broke abruptly off, leaving the country, which was spread around like a garden, open on one side, and revealing a prospect of great extent and variety. Of this, however, we have to deal with only one feature—the church, which stood on an area immediately in front of the wood, on the right-hand side of the road. It was surrounded, according to the immemorial custom, with a burial-ground, enclosed by a sunken wall, which escaped observation till one had almost approached its brink. An old culvert, mantled with moss, opened from the road to the churchyard gate, from which a path led past the church porch to a gate at the further end. Over this the cavalier bent his way, and, with an increased sadness of aspect, passed over the graves to the back of the church, and there came to a stand.

He turned his eyes hastily over the graves around, but only one of the several before him fixed his attention. This was, like the others, covered with green turf; but, unlike the others, it was also marked by two white posts, one at the head, and the other at the foot, which were surmounted by a board, bearing this inscription:—

Hyldibrande Clyffurd,
Martyrre.

The eyes of the cavalier filled with tears as they fell on this expressive memorial, yet there was mingled with his grief, in the contraction of his arched brow, more than a shade of anger. But it speedily subsided, and with a quick step, he passed by the two or three graves that intervened, and, advancing to the one indicated, he threw himself on the turf before the grave-post, and buried his face in his hands.

Several minutes transpired before he looked up; and his face, though still impressed with an air of dejection, was then more composed, and his eyes less clouded. Casting a glance around, he perceived that, though his impression had been otherwise, he was not the only inmate of the churchyard, as a man stood on the path before him who shared in the possession. He was of the middle degree of stature, stoutly built, and apparently, to judge from his already grizzled hair, about forty years of age. His countenance might in early life have been prepossessing; but either from care or dissipation, or perhaps from both, it was now haggard and stern, and calculated more to excite suspicion, than to command respect. There was, too, an unnatural brilliancy in his eye, which, taken in connection with his shaggy brows, and long and neglected locks, that peeped out from the brim of his slouched hat, imparted to his looks an excessive wildness, very far from being becoming. The impressions created by these causes were confirmed, to a certain extent, by his attire, which was slovenly and mean, and betokened no less an acquaintance with poverty, than a habit of neglecting and contemning the most essential duties of the toilet.

Directly this person, on his turning round from the grave, incurred his notice, our young cavalier sprang to his feet, and, with some degree of chagrin, prepared to retire from the churchyard. Before he could carry his design into effect, however, or had even taken a single step towards its execution, the intruder interposed, and, by a few brief words, made him pause.

“What ho! Master Hildebrand, is it thou I have been dogging so close?” he said.

The cavalier, though evidently taken somewhat aback, turned a glance of earnest inquiry on the speaker, and, after a moment’s pause, replied—“Thou knowest me?”

“’Tis more than ten years since I last saw thee,” answered the other, “and thou hadst then, if I mind me truly, scarcely seen thy fourteenth summer, and yet I remember thee right well.”

“By my troth, thy face strikes me familiarly,” resumed the cavalier; “but I need hardly go back so far, methinks, to call it to my remembrance. Thou mayst thank thy horse that he showed me good heels last night, or thou wouldst now, mayhap, have been less at thine ease than thou seemest to be.”

The robber—for he was one of the two robbers who had attacked Sir Edgar de Neville on the previous evening—faintly smiled as he replied,—“And does thy memory bear thee no further back, Master Hildebrand? What the good year! can such a brief time as this, which has barely made thee a man, efface the memories of a whole boyhood? Then, in good sooth, Master Hildebrand, I am not the man to claim thy acquaintance.”

“Hold!” exclaimed the cavalier, springing forward, and seizing the robber by the arm; “thou seemest to know me, and, by my conscience, now I behold thee nearer, thy face doth strike me like an old friend’s; who art thou?”

“When thy poor old father,” answered the robber, with some emotion, “had been burned for heresy, in the reign of scarlet Mary, it was my hands laid his ashes in yonder grave. When your mother was houseless, with shame on her brow, and the pang of sorrow in her heart, it was I gave her a refuge, and held her safe from the hellish Papists. When her saintly heart beat its last, it was my hands laid her there, by the side of your father. Nay, hear me out! I cherished thee, their offspring: such lore as I had knowledge of I taught thee, and would, in time, have had thee better taught; but—”

“You lost me, good Bernard,” said the cavalier, seizing him by the hand.

“Nay, I’ll not clasp thy hand,” said the robber, though at the same time suffering the cavalier to take his hand up. “Thy hand has met the clasp of Papists; and by my sweet Saviour, whom they once made me deny, mine never shall.”

“Nay, good Bernard Gray, this is hardly honest,” said the cavalier, in a tone of remonstrance. “By my faith, I did not seek the Nevilles; I was seeking thee, not them, when they fell unhappily in my way. I did but help the weaker side.”

“Was it any concern of thine?” demanded the man called Bernard Gray, his eyes lighting up with the fiercest enthusiasm. “Am I to be thwarted in my revenges by thee?”

“’Twas not the Nevilles, Bernard, Papists though they be, that burned my father,” said the cavalier.

“Be they not of the devil’s flock?” returned Bernard. “But though it hath cost me my comrade’s life, let it pass now; and tell me, if thou canst, what ill deed of mine led thee to run away from me.”

“Alas! Bernard, I never ran from thee,” answered the cavalier; “I was forced away, and carried off, against my will, to the new plantations. Thence I finally escaped, and, getting on shipboard, became a mariner. I have prospered on the seas, and am now, I thank Heaven, well to do in the world.”

“Forced away, saidst thou?” rejoined Bernard. “This must be honest Master Shedlock’s work.”

“He was secure of my patrimony,” observed the cavalier, “yet would he have made me a slave.”

“And a bastard,” muttered Bernard.

“Even so,” answered the cavalier.

“But he may be foiled yet,” resumed Bernard. “Where art thou staying?”

“With the Nevilles,” replied the cavalier, with some hesitation; “but ’tis only for a day or two. In a week, at furthest, I must be gone.”

“I would rather thou didst not eat the salt of Papists,” said Bernard; “but for a day or two let it be so. I shall be on the watch, and will see thee again, by some means or other, before long. Meanwhile, fare thee well!”

“Farewell, Bernard!” answered the cavalier, extending his hand.

They shook hands, and parted. Bernard took his way towards the neighbouring wood; and the cavalier, without once looking behind, turned to the high-road, and walked leisurely homewards.

Though his recent conversation with Bernard had shown him to be cordially attached to that person, it must not be supposed that this reconciled him, in the least degree, to the unlawfulness and violence of Bernard’s pursuits. What was the precise nature of those pursuits he did not know; but a sufficiency had been revealed to him, in the affair of the previous evening, to bespeak them unlawful, and even to stain them with the crying guilt of blood. This was a melancholy recollection, and, only that past obligations had taught him to look upon Bernard as his best friend, it would have been impossible for him, with the principles he entertained, to have maintained any correspondence with that individual, whatever prospect of ultimate good or advantage it might have held out to himself. But though his dependence on Bernard was almost unalienable, it was for the great debt which he already owed him, and which was bound up with the deepest feelings of his heart, that he continued to regard him as his truest friend. He knew, too, that Bernard had embarked in the enterprise against Sir Edgar Neville more from motives of revenge, which, however mistaken, had sprung originally from a cruel and overwhelming provocation, than from a desire of spoil; and this considerably lessened his detestation, if we may use such a strong term, of his recent outrage.

On his arrival at Neville Grange, Hildebrand Clifford—for so the cavalier was named—found that Sir Edgar and his daughter had now descended to the breakfast-room. By them he was introduced to the third member of the family, Don Felix di Corva, who, as has before been set forth, was a Spaniard by birth, and related to Sir Edgar’s deceased wife in the degree of cousin.

Don Felix was a youthful-looking man, of a slight figure, and about the middle height. His complexion was dark, yet not of that sparkling darkness which we associate with the young faces of his country, but rather of a sallow tint, such as, in many instances, arises from long confinement, or from an uncertain and delicate state of health. His dark eyes, too, though brilliant, were rather subtle than deep, and more indicative of cunning, than denotive of penetration. On a first meeting, however, and to an individual who did not found impressions on the illusive and equivocal testimony of personal appearance, these unfavourable points in his ensemble might have escaped notice; but Don Felix, by an unlucky fate, inherited a large share of the pride and coldness of several generations of ancestors, and these imparted to his manners a reserve and formality, that invited attention to his every defect.

But though his disposition did not generally incline him to form new acquaintances, he received Hildebrand, on this occasion, with every mark of courtesy and respect. After the first interchange of compliments had been despatched, he inquired anxiously concerning the state of his wound, and expressed himself gratified, in common with his two relations, that it promised so fairly to be shortly healed. As the conversation passed to ordinary topics, he seemed, it is true, to shrink more into himself; but his reserve was less noticeable in the general animation, and thus escaped remark.

The meal over, Sir Edgar announced his intention of visiting a neighbouring magistrate, named Shedlock (to whom this history has before had occasion to allude), for the purpose of acquainting him with the particulars of the affair of the preceding evening. Don Felix accompanied him; and Hildebrand and the fair Evaline, who had already become fast friends, were left to entertain each other till their return.

To two persons of their turn of mind this was an easy and most agreeable employment. Hildebrand could tell, not only of strange lands, but of a strange world—of the new hemisphere, which, by the perseverance of a few daring adventurers, had just been opened to the enterprise of Europe, and added to the limits of the earth. Evaline could listen, question, and smile her gratification: the relation of “the dangers he had passed,” both by flood and field, and under every variety of fortune, unfolded to her view a new picture of life and an enlarged idea of human character. On the other hand, Hildebrand, without being vain, or making himself the hero of his own tale, found pleasure in relating and describing those dangers, because, from the interest manifested in her countenance, he saw that “she did pity them.” And thus, with the liveliest sympathies of each engaged, the morning passed quickly by, and they were only admonished of its flight by the return of Sir Edgar and Don Felix.

They now learned that the magistrate whom Sir Edgar had been to visit was not at home when he called. This, however, most unfortunately, was considered of little consequence; and as Sir Edgar and he were not on neighbourly terms, it was determined to send him a report of the late outrage in writing, and there, for the present, to let the matter drop. A report of this kind was accordingly drawn up, and transmitted, with a letter from Sir Edgar, without further delay.

The day wore on without interrupting, by any single incident, the harmonious relations that had begun to subsist between Hildebrand and Evaline. The novelty of first acquaintance subsided, but not its fresh and generous feelings; and they continually presented to each other, by some stray sentiment or expression, the trace of some new quality, or appeared personally to new advantage. Yet their mutual esteem grew upon them unconsciously, and they could not tell, with any accuracy, whence arose those pleasurable sensations with which they almost unwittingly regarded each other.

The day passed lightly off, as did the next, and several succeeding days, and nothing happened to disturb the general harmony. But a few days served to show Hildebrand, on close observation, that at least one of the inmates of the mansion began to regard him with displeasure. The Spaniard, Don Felix, from whatever cause, evidently looked upon him with jealousy and dislike. In vain did Hildebrand, by a marked courtesy, endeavour to overcome this bad feeling; the Spaniard seemed desirous to avoid him, or, when he could not do this, to approach him with suspicion and reluctance.

Several days had elapsed, when one evening, shortly after sunset, Hildebrand found a letter on the table of his bed-chamber, with the superscription of “Captain Hildebrand,” which drew his attention to other matters. The letter requested him to repair that evening to the bottom of the park-walk, where the public footpath, noticed in the early part of this chapter, struck across the park to the village of Lantwell. There, the letter set forth, he would find a friend, who was desirous to commune with him, pursuant to their previous understanding, on a matter of pressing moment.

Though there was little to guide him to such a conclusion, Hildebrand rightly conjectured, from the tenor and spirit of the letter, that his anonymous friend was no other than Bernard Gray; and, therefore, he determined, directly he had run the letter over, to set out for the spot appointed straightway.

The evening was just opening as he entered the walk which led to the public footway. But he was so impatient to join his friend, in accordance with the request of the anonymous letter, that he walked at a smart pace, never thinking that he might arrive at the appointed spot before he would be expected. As he approached the scene of the appointment, one of Sir Edgar’s servants—the same that had assisted him to repel the attack of the robbers—met and passed him; but Hildebrand was so bound up in the enterprise he had in hand, and the thoughts and expectations connected with it, and to which he probably attached more importance than was their due, that he rendered no acknowledgment of the servant’s salute. Some half-dozen paces more brought him to the footway, and he turned out of the walk, and took a few steps into the open area adjoining.

A cluster of shrubs grew by the side of the footway, whence they swept back, with diminished volume, to the park-walk, where they were arrested by the tall trees with which the walk was bounded. They were well adapted to afford any person who sought to avoid observation a secure hiding-place, but they might, nevertheless, have failed to incur the particular attention of Hildebrand, only that a sound just now broke from them, like the tread of a man’s foot on dead leaves, that led him to believe they were not untenanted. Regarding them more attentively, he distinguished the figure of a man, wrapped in a capacious cloak, crawling along between the shrubs; and the next moment Bernard Gray—for he it was—confronted him.

“How farest thou, Master Bernard?” said Hildebrand, extending his hand.

“Indifferently well,” replied Bernard, accepting his proffered hand and clasping it cordially; “and how dost thou?”

“I’faith, well enough in body, Bernard,” answered Hildebrand, “but somewhat ill in mind. Thy note came duly to hand, and, to speak sooth, was but timely; for I must leave these parts to-morrow.”

“Thou know’st my retreat,” said Bernard, “in case thou hadst not heard from me. ’Tis still at the Angel.”

“I should have sought thee there,” replied Hildebrand.

“Dost leave here i’ the morning?” asked Bernard. “I would thou couldst wait, if it be possible, till thou seest me again.”

“I will wait till the even,” answered Hildebrand; “but what is thy purpose?”

“I will tell thee, first, to be of a wary habit, and have a care that thou comest not in the way of Master Shedlock,” returned Bernard. “I have it on good warranty that he knows thou art here.”

“I fear him not,” rejoined Hildebrand. “But what wouldst thou have me stay for?”

“This hoary villain,” said Bernard, “who keeps thee from thy birthright of Clifford Place, which he calls New Bethlehem, hath a wife, who, albeit she holds him in an idolatrous love, hath yet a spice of goodness in her temper; and I would have leave from her to bring thee and her to a parley.”

“Wherefore wouldst thou this?” asked Hildebrand.

“She hath often told me,” resumed Bernard, “when I have mourned thee dead, that she was assured thou wast yet living, and wouldst one day return. She hath told me, too, that thy mother did her a kindness years ago; and if so be that she lived to see thee, she would bear it well in mind. Nay, it is she that bade me warn thee now, in her name, to be upon thy guard.”

“Well, I will be ruled in the matter by thee, Bernard,” observed Hildebrand; “but I cannot stay, mind, longer than to-morrow even.”

“I will remember me so,” answered Bernard.

“There is one thing more I would ask of thee,” pursued Hildebrand. “Hast thou aught to prove that I was born in wedlock?”

“Nothing—not a scrap,” replied Bernard. “There is no record of thy mother’s marriage in the parish-book, though I could have been sworn, at one time, that ’twas duly writ there. The old vicar, Father Day, who wedded her, can only tell of it in heaven; for he and thy father were buried together. There is no living witness but myself.”

“Then I am but a natural,” said Hildebrand, bitterly.

“Despair not! despair not!” cried Bernard, seizing him by the hand. “Who shall quarrel with the ways of Heaven? Hath He not said, by the mouth of His holy prophet, that His ways are not our ways, or His thoughts as our thoughts.”

The passion apparent in the voice of the enthusiast, which was raised above its wonted tone, pervaded his whole frame, and his hand clasped Hildebrand’s with the tightness of a vice.

“May His will be done!” said Hildebrand. “I will see thee again to-morrow, Bernard.”

“At noon, on this spot,” replied Bernard; “and meanwhile be thou on thy guard against Shedlock,—and fare thee well!”

“Farewell, and do thou be guarded also!” said Hildebrand.

The robber made no reply, but, silently waving his hand, turned sharply round, and bent his steps over the footpath towards Lantwell. Hildebrand watched him till he reached the boundary of the park, when he also turned away, intending, though in no mood for society, to return straight to the mansion.

But, looking up, he perceived that the outlet of the footway, where it opened into the park-walk, was occupied by two persons, who, from the animosity which was manifested in their looks, appeared to be disposed to dispute his passage. One of these was the servant whom he had encountered when on his way to meet Bernard; and the other, who appeared to be the more hostile, was his host’s cousin, Don Felix di Corva. He immediately remembered that the servant had been in attendance on Sir Edgar at the time that the Knight had been attacked on the road, and he reflected, on a second thought, that he might now have seen him in correspondence with his friend Bernard, and have recognised the latter as one of the two individuals by whom the attack had been made. This accounted, at the very first view, for the apparent hostility of Don Felix, whom the servant, no doubt, in a moment of rage, had brought to witness the duplicity of the family’s new acquaintance.

Though taken by surprise, Hildebrand was not confounded by this occurrence; and after a brief pause, he advanced towards the two unfriendly observers with perfect confidence.

“A good even to thee, Senhor!” he said, addressing Don Felix.

“Such deeds as thine,” answered Don Felix, sneeringly, “give a savour of vileness to the sweetest even. Hast thou no shame, Sir, that thou canst thus meet mine eye unmoved?”

“I’faith, thou hast a foul tongue, Sir Spaniard,” returned Hildebrand; “and only that thou art kinsman to good Sir Edgar, I would straight clean it with my rapier.”

“Let not this spoil a good disposition,” said Don Felix. “Draw forth thy wondrous rapier; for I denounce thee, in the presence of this menial, as a traitor and a spy!”

A flash of anger mounted to Hildebrand’s cheeks at these words, and his rapier, on which his grasp had already been fastened, leaped from its scabbard on the instant.

“Such terms would provoke an angel!” he said. “Stand on thy guard!”

But the Spaniard, expecting what was to follow, had already done this, and, consequently, he met Hildebrand’s assault with perfect composure. Indeed, as Hildebrand had not expected to find him a skilful swordsman, and assailed him with some impetuosity, he at first had the advantage in the struggle. Directly Hildebrand perceived this, however, he became more collected, and a few moments served to show that, at the least, he was fully equal, if not superior, to his adversary. At length, the latter made a lounge at his side, and Hildebrand, by an adroit stroke, beat his sword out of his hand, and held him quite at his mercy.

“Take up thy weapon, Sir!” said Hildebrand.

With this he turned away, and, thrusting his sword into his scabbard, passed down the walk towards the lower section of the park, which was, from its greater seclusion, more in keeping with the mood that he was disposed to indulge in. The Spaniard did not follow him, and, left to himself, he had leisure to dwell and ponder on the thoughts which his situation was so eminently calculated to inspire.

Reflect how he might, he could not allow that he had done anything wrong. He was disgraced, but undeservedly so; his conduct was free from dishonour, but, whatever he might say, he could not make this apparent. He had been seen in friendly communication with a most questionable character, and he could not explain, with any degree of safety, how his intercourse with him was justifiable. Indeed, if circumstances had even allowed him to render such an explanation, he could not give it any appearance of probability; and his character, instead of being cleared, would only be further degraded by the attempt to retrieve it.

Such were the mortifying reflections that pressed upon the young cavalier, as he hurriedly paced the park-walk. The night drew nigh, and ultimately set in; but, insensible of the influences around, he still indulged his reverie, and continued to pace the same walk, maintaining the same smart step, without once halting.

But the night came on cold, and ultimately, falling into a slower pace, the chill air aroused him. He then turned away from his late walk, and passed leisurely towards the mansion.

It was a dark night, and the trees overhanging the walk made his way still more obscure. He passed freely on, however; and had just come within sight of the lights that now marked the mansion, near the end of the walk, when a blow from a bludgeon, inflicted by some person in his rear, knocked him down, and stretched him senseless on the ground.