“Nay, Katharine, let us not return from all this quiet, to the noise of the town, until, like a young widow who veils her face from the past, and the relations of her dead husband, to go forth to other scenes, there once more to unveil it,—twilight wraps up the beauties of this vale, and then gives gentle and holy echoes to the streets. The town is pleasant then; but now—a little further on, and we shall seat us by the Hermit’s Well. On its calm surface the first and brightest star of night will glimmer beneath our feet. Heed not my laughing sister.”

“My brother,” gaily answered the companion of the lady, whom the speaker addressed, and whose arm was within his, “is pleased to be poetical. But cannot you prevent that same widow of yours, Mrs. Twilight, from leaving this vale, and entering the town in search of a husband, by wedding her yourself? Perhaps you are engaged already?—Is he Katharine?”

“Really, Alice, do you suppose that your brother would make me his confidant?”

“Would that Mrs. Twilight,” was the exclamation of the mischievous girl, “were here, to hide the blush on somebody’s face! Oh, look angry, hate James and his sister. He has scarcely succeeded in making you as sly a hypocrite as himself. My father sent him to Cambridge, to devote himself to Mother Alma, but he soon found another saint, who cared not for books and themes. The diligent student, whose letters home spoke of nothing but long vigils, and faint tapers burning through the night, was in love! He had met with a beautiful lady of gentle blood, and high birth, whom I have seen, Katharine,” and she looked archly up at her companion. “He thought of nothing but love, and of no one but her, and yet he counterfeited so well, that when he returned to us, he was pale in appearance, and retired in habits.”

“Alice,” replied her brother, laughing, “you are a rare vixen, and will never be reformed, until love has caught you. You, indeed, pay but a poor compliment to the imagination and heart of a student, to suppose that he cannot be a lover. Ponderous tomes will crush every feeling but love. Mathematics will measure and bound, with their cold laws, every feeling but love. Amidst all his researches, the image of one appears before him, bright and beautiful, even by the faint light of his lamp. She is of earth, but holy; and the more that learning and genius throw their rays upon his mind,—that being the mirror in which she is reflected,—the purer and softer does she become. But, Alice, you frequently cautioned me not to be a hard student.”

“And,” added Katharine, “did not your brother gain many of the highest prizes?”

“He has gained one, Katharine, has he not?” and the mischievous girl smiled significantly to her companion, who blushed with a deeper tinge than before, and seemed still more embarassed.

“You mean the beautiful gold medal, Alice?” inquired her brother, anxious to smooth over the hint.

“Ah! do I?” returned his sister with a playful sneer. “But I have a tale to unfold concerning it. I often observed you walking in the garden, looking anxiously upon something suspended from your neck, and when I came up, you quickly placed it again next to your breast. Katharine, are you listening? Well, one day I surprized you; you affirmed that it was the gold medal—I denied that it was. It was a miniature likeness of one of my friends,” and she fondly placed her arm around her companion, who drew the necklace closer to her bosom, lest, perchance, some miniature might be discovered there also.

They wandered on, and they beheld the beauties of the setting sun, only on each other’s countenances. They became more thoughtful, but not less happy. The two lovers,—for such was the relationship between James Dawson, and Katharine Norton,—frequently exchanged kind looks, which the playful Alice did not fail to remark. James and Alice were the only children of a wealthy physician in Manchester. Their mother had died early, and this circumstance made them cling closer to each other. Dr. Dawson was harsh to them: he had been disappointed in the marriage-portion of his wife; and he bade a very cold adieu to his son, as he left for Cambridge, and chided Alice for crying and teazing herself many days after. Yet, at times, affection arose in his breast towards them, for they were the exact image of her, who had once been enshrined in his love, until avarice hoarded up other treasures. Besides, he knew that he could not, with justice, condemn his son as a mere bookworm, for James excelled in every athletic and graceful accomplishment: and he could not, on the other hand, taunt him as only a gamester and a fencer, for he had carried off the highest literary and scholastic honours. His endowments, both physical and mental, had frequently drawn forth the admiration of his father, but it soon subsided into indifference and neglect. Alice, occasionally, as she sung the lays which her mother had taught her, and romped about his chair, in all her beauty and innocence, could warm her father’s heart, so that he pronounced a blessing upon her destiny. But often, all her smiles and fond arts to please him were disregarded: she could not relax, by all her attentions, the sternness of his countenance. A tear would then start into her deep blue eye, and she would retire to call up the remembrance of her sainted mother.

Katharine Norton was an orphan, and her parents had been of illustrious rank. She had travelled with a maiden aunt, and, as they were residing for a few weeks in the vicinity of Cambridge, she had met with young Dawson, and thus commenced an ardent attachment between them. And well might her appearance have inspired even a stoic with the most thrilling love. Smooth, and fair as light was her finely-formed brow,—changing its expression as a dark ringlet fell upon it,—or was thrown back. Her eyes seemed to be souls in themselves, endued with the faculty of thinking and feeling; their brilliancy their colour, and their form, were as if they had been given by the emotion which then ruled her mind. The features were stamped with a wild and noble beauty. Nor was her form inferior to her countenance: majestic, yet playful; like a vision with all the movements of music. She was now spending the summer in Manchester, where Dawson had introduced to her his sister, and they were seldom out of each other’s presence. They walked together, and James frequently joined them.

The shadows of twilight were now mixing with the fading light of the western sky, and the hush of early eve was whispering silence in the vale where they were wandering. At length they reached the angle; on rounding which, at a short distance, was the Hermit’s Well, not famed for any medicinal properties, but for the pure water, which was said to have refreshed an old man (who, in olden times, haunted the adjacent hills,) every morning, as soon as he had left his hard couch to journey along with the sun.

On a stone beside it, there sat a young female, dressed in the rustic simplicity of a foreign country. Her age seemed only that of a child. Yet there was a feverish rolling of the eye, a changing tremor of the lips, and a gentle throbbing of the breast, which speak the mystery of a hidden sorrow, or of a superior nature. Not a blush of colour tinged the pure pallor of her face—like a statue dedicated to thought, in the midst of fragrance and light. Her hands were playing with flowers, carelessly,—for her thoughts, it was evident, were on a less tranquil subject,—and although they were, at intervals, raised to her face, yet it assumed a still sadder expression.

She was singing to herself in a low and melancholy strain, almost modulated to the still hush of the vale: and the notes seemed not so much to be proceeding from her voice, as her soul. Once or twice she started up, held her hands towards the west, and then placed them on her brow. Then she dipped them in the well, and with the pure water bathed her eyes. As soon, however, as young Dawson and his fair companions had approached within a few yards, her eyes quickly moved in the direction of the spot where they stood, and she became silent in her song.

“Ah, brother,” cried the laughing Alice, evidently not conscious of the merry tone in which she spoke, for her heart had quickly sympathized with the youthful sadness, of which she had now, unexpectedly, been a witness;—“is this your young and interesting Mrs. Twilight? What a beautiful creature! She seems to enjoy all the luxury of grief, and her heart refuses to lose a tear of its sorrow. That brow might have been kissed by the last breath of many a brother, sister, and playmate:—so pale, calm and holy.”

“She is not of our country,” added Katharine Norton. “Her dress, as well as her air, is foreign. How simply are those raven tresses braided!”

“Katharine,” said her lover, “dost thou believe in young spirits, who are said to haunt solitary places? Here, you might almost imagine, that we have intruded upon one of them. How beautiful and thoughtful that girlish face is! Now she looks towards us. Let us draw near, and entreat her to sing to us, while the stars are taking their places in the sky.”

The object of their curiosity and admiration arose meekly, as they stood before her, and allowed the hand of Katharine to be laid on her head.

“A blessing on you, fair strangers! It is night,—and do you wander abroad? It is night, for the dew is upon me. Ah! that hand now laid on my head is gentle and soothing, as that which so often presses it in my sleepless dreams, throughout the long night;

and she raised her face to the sky so earnestly.

“But, my pretty child,” inquired Katharine, “why do you gaze upwards? Does that hand, which visits you so oft, in dreams, appear then, at this hour, from out one of those changing clouds?”

“Do I!” the child exclaimed in intense emotion, indicated by her livelier tones and brightened face,—“do I, indeed, gaze upon the wide, the beautiful sky? Yes, it breathes upon my forehead! Feel it!”

They were bewildered at the strangeness of her words and movements. She took Katharine’s hand, and held it to her brow, and then resumed,—

“Now take it away. You would not deprive me of that sweet, sweet influence. Oh! they tell me how glorious the sky is. I cannot see, I cannot think of it, I cannot even dream of it. I know all the flowers of earth by their touch and fragrance. I know, fair ladies, that you are beautiful, but the sky is far, far above me. I hear its sounds, but its face is veiled from me. Will the time never come, when mine eyes shall open to a star, a bright-tinged cloud, a fair expanse of love, to canopy and bound our dream? Must the mean reptile be permitted to see them, although it prefers to crawl amidst dust and clods,—and shall not I?”

“God pities the blind, fair child,” kindly returned Dawson.

“Have you seen God?”

“No; he cannot be seen by us, now.”

“Then I am happy,” she replied. “Oh! what a curse it would have been on me, when all others could see the perfection of love, wisdom, and power,—(for the flowers of earth, the sounds of heaven, tell me that God must be that perfect being,)—I, I alone was blind. Yes, I shall see yet. The little infant, for days awakes not its eyelids to behold the mother, in whose bosom it is so fondly nursed, and the rich stream by which its pouting lips are fed; but soon they are opened to meet hers, beaming love upon every movement. I never knew that infant’s joy. Oh! how I longed, in the midst of soft whispers, to become acquainted with her who called me child. But I am nature’s child, and when this short life is ended, these eyes will be opened, and nature, my mother, shall be seen by me. These sightless orbs! Oh! I know not what it is to see, even in dreams. Dreams only hush me with sound, fragrance, and touch of love, in a dark cradle, but never remove the covering, that I might gaze upon the universe around. My little brother, far away in other lands, was my inseparable companion, until he went to the tomb. He led me to the river, and pointed my hand to the flickering light on its ripple, and then bade me look in that direction. He made me touch the sunbeam, resting and sporting alternately upon the bank, and then asked if I did not see it. He placed me beneath the moon, and bade me feel if I could not perceive its rays. He rowed me over the still, placid lake, and then he would rest on his oars, and point my finger to the stars, which, he said, were embosomed there; and oh! what secret sounds thrilled through my silent soul. But I never saw one object! He bathed his beautiful face, and flung back his soft silken hair, and bade me gaze on a brother;—and I could not!”

Overpowered with the strength of her feelings, she sat down. Still, she covered not her face with her hands, but looked earnestly up, as if it were a sin to gaze away from the sky, which she longed so much to greet. Katharine and her companion kissed the young child, while Dawson kindly asked,—

“From what land do you come? You speak our language, but your appearance and feelings betoken you a native of a more genial sun. Why do you wander here?”

“Wander! Is not life altogether a wandering? I have no friends but flowers, and our home is the wide earth. I ever find them the same, wherever I am, and, therefore, I think that I am the same; neither changed in place nor time. My brother left me alone. Oh! was it not cruel to commit the beautiful boy to the tomb? And yet, they told me that his name and age were marked in white, innocent letters upon his coffin! Oh! could the worms dare to crawl upon, or even touch with their pollution ‘Henrico Fortice, aged twelve years.’ Was it not kind to mention his name and age?”

The two ladies took her hands in theirs, and kindly pressed them. They gazed upon her large bright eyes, and almost, for the moment, doubted that no light had ever entered them, until tears had come trickling down her cheeks. They took a seat beside her, on the mossy stone. She spoke not, and her hand returned not their touch. They knew not how to console her. To their questions concerning her past life, her friends, and native country, she had given no definite answer: not because she seemed unwilling to detail all the facts, but because she seemed never to have known them herself; a creature of mere feelings, and thoughts, with no faculty for earth. Her existence had, evidently, been but a dream, beautiful, though troubled: and she had, hitherto, passed through it, like a bird, through every land, feeling the sunshine of the laughing sky, breathing the fragrance of wood and vale, at morn and eve, and echoing a part in the universal chorus, but knowing no more; careless of all things but flight and happiness. She raised the hands of the two young ladies to her lips, and turning paler and paler, at length dropped them, and shrunk back with a low and half suppressed shriek of horror.

“Disappointment, a broken heart, and death! Yes, such a lot will be yours; and so beautiful! Ask me not, but I know:—these hands, they tear from my soul the sybil leaves of awful prophecy, which fate has given me, and my voice must scatter them forth to you. Would that I knew not the dark characters!—that my mind was as blind to your future destiny as these shrouded orbs!”

“Hold!” exclaimed young Dawson, as he seized Katharine’s hand, which the blind prophetess had, once more, taken. “Hold!—speak not another word of thy frightful thoughts. Nay, touch not her hand. Katharine, could you feel disappointment should nothing be spared to us but love? Can your heart be broken when love encircles it? Death,—name it not!”

“Here, here is the cause. You ruin each other. Love and death are linked together. But, sir, be peaceable and loyal in the midst of rebellion, and happiness may yet be yours.”

A faint smile passed over Dawson’s face, which had before been clouded; and with an attempt at gaiety, he returned,—

“And am I not in the garb of peace? My cap has not the nodding plume of war, but the quiet and simple flower of the valley. What two beautiful shields I have secured for myself in danger, my own Katharine, and sister Alice.”

“Beware,” repeated the prophetess, “of war. Change not the flower for the cockade; and let none be your shields but those whom you now protect.”

No longer did she seem the soft and mournful child, who had longed so earnestly for the power of vision. She was altogether changed.

“Follow me not. Detain me not. I shall weep for you all. Farewell, until we meet again,” and she instantly withdrew, and darkness hid her steps.

Two months have elapsed since the above interview and conversation took place, and the scene is now laid in Manchester. No more is the soft peace inspired by evening walks, in lonely and secluded vales, to be breathed over the characters of our Legend. A rebellion, fostered by no dark intrigues, but by romantic daring, had arisen, and the youthful heir of the unfortunate house of Stuart had returned from exile, and appeared to claim his own, in the country which dethroned his ancestors for their imbecility, wickedness, and tyranny. Prince Charles Edward had been educated at the court of France; but unlike her, whom, in person, he was said so much to resemble—Mary of Scotland,—his manners were untainted with the loose and dissolute habits prevalent there. Although surrounded with pleasure, revelry, and giddy pomp, his thoughts were of England and its crown; and these tended to preserve him from the enervating influence of French dissipation. Gallantry was only the occasional amusement, and not the sole pursuit of his life. Nature had given him an exterior on which no lady could frown, or be disposed to deny her favours; but he frequently withdrew from the attractive company, where many of the proudest and fairest daughters of the land were fluttering around him, with attentions for the prince alone; and in private, sighed over the ruin of the name he bore, and of the royal family, of which he was the sole representative. But buoyed up with the false accounts which he had received from those in this country, with whom he communicated, assuring him that so numerous and devoted would be his followers, should he again appear at the head of them, to plead his cause by arms, he was induced to leave France, and towards the end of summer 1745, landed in the Hebrides; in a few days raised his standard in Invernesshire; assembled a number of followers at Fort William, and proceeded to Edinburgh, which opened to his claims. In the beginning of November he marched to Carlisle, where the ceremony of proclaiming his father king, and himself regent, was foolishly performed, and where the delay thus occasioned, seemed to paralyze the courage of his highland troops, and by carousing, to divide them into factions.

Towards the end of the same month his troops, now amounting to six thousand men, entered Lancashire, and passing by way of Preston and Wigan, took up their quarters in Manchester, where they hoped to secure provisions and ammunition, by free levies from the inhabitants, as well as to recruit their numbers by English soldiers.

The twenty-ninth day of November was bright, and a slight breeze had not only prevented the heavy fog peculiar to the season, but had likewise cleared away the smoke which lay dense and dull upon the town; when, early in the afternoon, towards the suburbs, masses of people were drawn together, expecting the arrival of the Pretender and his army. There were the mob, prepared to espouse the cause of any who should tickle their hands with a coin, or by sweet words, gain their sweet voices. But amongst them were many of noble rank, who had sympathized with the hardships of the present aspirant to the throne of his fathers; and whom his romantic expedition had fired with visions of military glory and renown, and high titles and long lists. They impatiently spurred their horses to a short distance from the crowd, to obtain a better view, and then returned disappointed. Fair ladies were leaning on the arms of their lovers, forbidding them to share in the dangers of the enterprize, and in the crime of treason, but resolving, themselves, to get a sight of the handsome Chevalier, and praise his person. A silent hush was over all; nothing was heard, save low and gentle whispers from the fair, who began to doubt whether he would really appear, when the notes of distant music were borne on their ears, and the steady tramp of troops was, soon after, distinguishable. The crowd rushed up to an eminence on the skirts of the highway, and beheld the banner floating over the rebel soldiery, and the gleam of broadswords flashing in the sun. A sergeant rode forth from the ranks, and furiously spurred his steed to the town, when loud shouts, arising from the people and the inhabitants, assuring him of the ready reception which his master should find, induced him, after waving his plumed bonnet in return, to halt, until the troops came up, which they speedily did, and, in haste, advanced. At their head, surrounded by a band of hardy mountaineers with their left hand upon the dirk, rode the prince, with no traces of fatigue on his countenance; and looking as well, after his short sojourn in the Highlands, as ever he did when he was the pride of the French court, where he was fed by its luxuries. He was in conversation with the Duke of Athol, who was beside him.

There was an interesting melancholy upon the otherwise gay expression of his countenance, which suited well with the fallen fortunes of his family. He was of slight and graceful form, and, but for the noble enthusiasm beaming in his full blue eye, and the firmness and decision compressing his thin lips, he might have been mistaken for one who was better qualified to do honour to the gaieties of a court, in the song and the dance, than the bloody field of strife. His dress served to display, to advantage, the beautiful proportions of his frame. His locks, of a light auburn hue, fell in ringlets beneath the blue bonnet, mounted with a white rose in front; and the snowy whiteness of his almost feminine neck was but partially concealed by a plaid passing loosely over his breastplate, and held fast by a blue-coloured sash. His finely-polished limbs moving in all the elastic play and nerve of youth, and in perfect ease, were attired in the Highland kilt; and so small and beautifully formed was his foot, that no lady would have refused her fair hand as a stirrup to the young Chevalier. His dress was indeed plain for one who was now to strive for the crown of Great Britain, but none could gaze upon the kingly form which it enveloped, without almost wishing that soon he might be invested with the purple robe of rule and empire.

His companion, the Duke of Athol, with whom he seemed frequently to converse as a familiar friend, was tall and muscular. Broad and commanding was his forehead, seen occasionally as he raised his bonnet, when the prince mildly gave forth his orders. Long dark whiskers added to the sternness and fierceness of his countenance, and large over-hanging eyebrows only seemed to arch in the fiery keenness of his restless glance, and concentrate it still more deadly.

“Athol,” said the prince, as he beheld the crowd becoming pale and horror-struck at the broadswords of his Highland troops, “sheath your weapons.”

“Where?” asked the fiery duke. “Where, my prince? In their cowardly carcasses, and thus let out their base and craven souls? The English say that those of our nation are cold and heartless. They should know that the mountain breezes carry on their wings, fire to the soul. Well, if we are cold, we are keen; aye, as these our good and true weapons, which they have, at times, tried, if I mistake not.”

“They belie you, and that they know full well. My Scottish troops—gaze upon them—are furious: a word will fire them, and a thousand will fail to extinguish the flame. Nay,” he added gently but firmly, “sheath your swords in their scabbards,—in their scabbards. The inhabitants are loyal.”

The last words, accompanied as they were by the sudden sinking of the swords into their scabbards, called forth a long and loud shout from the gazing multitude, though they perceived that at the sound of the bagpipe, the soldiers often placed their hands upon the hilt of their swords, as if they could, with difficulty, refrain from drawing them. The streets were all lined with spectators, the most of whom seemed to have forgotten their loyalty to the reigning sovereign. The Chevalier dismounted from his steed, and marched on foot. Many a fair dame threw pitying looks upon his form, and, struck with admiration, silently implored a blessing, and full success upon his romantic endeavours; and as the band played merrily, “the King shall have his own again,” they chorused and encored it, with fond eyes, and waving handkerchiefs. He gallantly bowed to them as he passed on; and thus sent many a beautiful creature home, to dream of him, and when she awoke, in the intervals, to wet her pillow with tears, and pray for his safety. Roses were thrown upon him, from some of the terraces; he stooped to pick them up, but they were faded, for they were summer flowers, and had been gathered under the setting sun, many months before, and he sighed as he thought of his own fortunes. But this did not prevent him from kissing his hand in return, to those who had showered them down, and they, of course, thought that they were much sweeter roses themselves; and perhaps they were. The crowd enthusiastically cheered him all the way.

“Athol, will they be as ready to give me assistance by money, as they are to proffer their cheers?” asked the prince.

“We give our blood,” replied the duke. “We place our heads as your stepping stones to the throne, which is your rightful seat; and shall not Englishmen give their money? Appoint a few of the brave men under my command, as beggars, and trust me, that swords and dirks in their hands, will levy something considerable. Steel can find its way through coffers, and, without much ceremony, enter pockets. Can it not?” and the chieftain smiled darkly.

“A freebooter still, Athol, although you have left your native glen and castle. When shall I be able to make thee a courtier?”

“When I shall assist to make thee a king. Nay, noble prince, frown not upon thy humble and trusty subject. I am a little chafed. Nevertheless, is it not my duty to assist in making thee a king?”

“Thou hast, indeed, a true heart,” answered the Chevalier, “though thy manners are not exactly so faultless, and may, with much advantage, be reformed and amended. Nay, frown not in turn. Montrose, are we yet within sight of our palace?”

The marquess, thus addressed, stepped forward, and having paid his marks of reverence, replied,—

“Yes, noble prince. The hundred of our troops, who arrived yesterday in Manchester are now surrounding it, waiting for your presence.”

It was exactly as he said. In Market-street they stood around the house of one Dickenson, which was thus converted into a palace, and afterwards went by the name; though now it has fallen so low as to become an inn. It had been given out that quarters and accommodation would be required in the town for ten thousand men, but now it did not seem, after they were all drawn up, that there were more than six thousand. Amid loud and hearty acclamations, the prince and the leaders entered the palace, while some of the troops kept station and guard without, and the others dispersed themselves over the town, after they had seen that the pieces of artillery were in safe keeping.

The house of Dr. Dawson, who had, lately, altogether retired from the duties of his profession, stood in a quiet and remote part of the town. Alice was almost dying, through curiosity, to receive the latest intelligence. But she could only observe others running to know, and none coming to tell, her about the Pretender, and his entry into Manchester; and this, certainly, was sufficiently provoking for a young lady. James, her brother, had gone out early in the morning, and had not returned, so that she had no one to fret and teaze, but her father; and he was, alas, rather an irritable toy, for a young lady to sport with.

“Alice, you are restless and fatigued in my company. Get thee to thy looking-glass, you are never weary of being there.”

“It has a more pleasant face than you have, dear father, when you frown,” playfully returned Alice.

“There, there,—my children accuse and rebel against me! No matter, their father is old and infirm. I must bring them up, support them, only to listen to their impertinence and disobedience. Would that God had made me childless, or that he had made my children blind or dumb; or had given them a golden portion each, to support them. Oh! you look pretty in tears, Alice,—quite irresistible, upon mine honour. But do not waste them, they are so precious. Pray reserve some: it will be prudent, Alice, they will all be in good time when you get a lover!”

“Would that he were come!” peevishly exclaimed Alice, “and I should run off with him, at any hour of the night, and to any place!”

“What! without looking in at my bank notes? Eh? Oh! mistress Alice! And there’s your brother—what can he do?”

“He can leave home, and I cannot.”

“Yes, he has left home,” said the old man, now beginning to be affected. “And where is he?”

“Ah! dear father, should he have joined the cause of the Pretender! Oh! how you would repent of the harsh words you have often spoken to him.”

“Dear Alice, I do repent already. Come and kiss your harsh old father. Look upon the face that you confess to be less pleasing than your looking glass. Ah, Alice, you are a sly girl.”

They at length became impatient, when night came on, and still, James was absent. They had heard the public crier announce that a general illumination of the town was to take place, and Alice thought that her brother might have appeared to assist in the arrangements. And now, when lights, many and brilliant, arose in the opposite windows, and crowds were passing in the streets, she proceeded, with a heavy heart, to give directions to the servants, and then anxiously sat down at the casement of her own apartment, not to view any object—save James. Private disappointments, however small, and in themselves contemptible, are fretted by public rejoicings; and as the bells rung out a merry peal, and music walked the streets, she only felt her loneliness the more. A knocking was heard at the door, and Alice flew down herself, to open it, and admit her brother to a well spiced scolding; if not (she was in doubts) to a more violent demonstration of her feelings.

It was Katharine Norton, who had come to enjoy the company of her friend, as her maiden aunt had been so busy in asking questions at her servants, relative to the Pretender, his dress, and his general appearance, that she had entirely deserted the parlour for the kitchen, and her niece was thus left alone.

They spoke of James, although Katharine occasionally paused, and introduced some other subject, lest he might arrive in the midst of their conversation; and she too well knew, that her mischievous companion would not scruple to inform him of its nature and subject; but he came not.

“Katharine, what can we do to know where he is? He is not well, or it is not well with him. Something must have happened. Katharine, ‘Beware of the Cockade!’ The prophecy now rises to my mind. It must be true. I feel that it is. My brother is ardent, and romantic; and often has he expressed his sympathy with the unfortunate house of Stuart.”

Servants were sent forth to obtain some information concerning James, and the causes of his strange absence. They returned, only to tell their disappointment. No one had a tale—save the old clock, which numbered the minutes and the hours; and although the minutes seemed to move slowly, the rapid flight of the hours was surprizing. The loud shouts of the crowd broke in upon the silence; and the heavy tread of her impatient father, in the adjoining apartment, fell upon the ear of Alice, but mournfully. She led her companion into her brother’s study, and playfully threw his dressing gown over Katharine, that she might behold a diligent student: but as she met her own gaze in a mirror opposite, she knew that she was but counterfeiting mirth and happiness. She placed before her Newton’s Principia, and requested a display of philosophy and learning, to support the great principle therein developed, ‘that every particle of matter is attracted by, or gravitates to, every other particle of matter, with a force inversely proportional to the squares of their distances.’ “Oh!” she exclaimed, as she seized upon a letter or two, concealed in the pages, in which was the hand-writing and signature of her friend, “so, my brother wishes to transplant beautiful flowers into such barren fields, that when he is puzzled with problems and themes, he may be refreshed with questions, and pretty soft confessions, which he finds no difficulty in understanding? Blush, Katharine, and close the volume.”

“It is beyond my comprehension, Alice. I have no desire to be a literary lady, to nib my quill for poetry, and glancing up to the ceiling for inspiration, commence to abuse the innocence of paper; indeed, I am not certain whether my patience would extend to the act of counting my fingers, through the length and breadth of a sonnet.”

“Ah, Katharine,” returned Alice, with an attempt at mock pathos, “you are insensible of the pleasures which a young lady feels when engaged in literary pursuits. The pen in her hand, is the fair fan with which she cools the fervid glow of her imagination and affections. How interesting she appears when she has the requisite strength of mind to banish toys, silks, and dresses, and introduce on her dressing table nothing but long rolls of manuscript! She dreams not of soft whispers, sweet glances, and handsome lovers; but of that nice ode, that sublime epic, or the passionate drama, which she made yesterday. She rises to stare at the sun, frighten the flowers, and overflow the very Thames with ink, on paper. Or should she be an astronomer, how becoming for a young lady to use a telescope, instead of a quizzing glass!”

She then searched the desk, and discovering some rude drafts of verses, addressed to “a lady,” inquired of Katharine whether she had yet obtained a fair copy of them. For a time she was as mischievous as usual; but all her sport was evidently feigned. In the midst of it, at length, she became silent, and snatching up a light, hurried to the clock, and instantly returned pale and breathless.

“Katharine!” she exclaimed, while she grasped her hands, “it is but a few minutes from midnight! He has become a traitor to his home and his country. I have stopped the clock, that whenever he returns, it may not disgrace him. Near midnight, and he absent,—and at such a time, when all our fears are excited by rebellion!”

Her companion, who was, naturally, of a firmer and more heroic cast of mind, attempted to console her, although she needed one to perform the same kindly office for herself.

“Nay, dear Alice, your brother is loyal.”

“Is that loyal?” she returned with a shriek, as her eye glanced over some of her brother’s papers, where the Pretender’s name was mentioned in glowing terms of admiration. “I knew it. James has long admired Prince Charles Edward, and frequently, when no subjects but those nearest to our hearts have been introduced, he has spoken so feelingly of the royal youth’s exile in France. When the news of his landing in Scotland reached us, an involuntary exclamation escaped James, and he prayed for his safety, aye, even for his success. Nay, I cannot divine any other motive for his absence from the University, than to obtain leisure to watch the progress of the Prince, and, at a fitting time, to join his standard. But hush, let us be cheerful, for I hear my father’s footsteps, and he is impatient at my brother’s absence.”

The old man entered. Katharine Norton rose to meet him, and he addressed her kindly, as was his wont. But the smoothness of his manner soon disappeared. In person, Dr. Dawson was tall and thin, though very much bowed down by age, but now his form became erect. He had a lofty forehead, on which a few white locks were sprinkled. His hands were palsied, but now, by the strength of his feelings, they were nerved, and he stood forth, firm and collected. He had dark eyes, which had not lost the fire of his youth; and which seemed to become brighter and brighter, by looking at his gold. He was not altogether a miser, for he, as we have already stated, loved his children occasionally, and even displayed bursts of tenderness and affection; but his idols must be of gold, as well as of flesh and blood. Ever since he was married, pretty fingers must have gold rings, before he could admire them, and in his profession, he had often been prevented from feeling the pulse for some time, so much absorbed was his attention by the diamonds which glittered.

After addressing Katharine, he turned to his daughter, “Alice, where is your brother, has he not returned yet? I must wait for him, considerate youth, although these aged limbs should long ere now, have been reposing on my couch! I have no staff but this cane, and money bought it. Money can do any thing but make children obedient, except to close a parent’s eyes, and that they gladly attend to. Come, affectionate youth, and see me die!” and he laughed hysterically, in scorn and anger.

The two ladies supported and caressed him fondly, compelled him to sit down, and almost smothered him with kisses. The old man could not forbear smiling. “Ah, innocents, you would sooner heap them on my son.”

“Nay, dear father,” returned Alice, in a merry tone, “a different treatment from us awaits him, when he arrives.”

Her father heard her not, for he had relapsed once more into a fit of passion, and he walked across the room, stamping violently.

“And I must totter on my cane, at my kind son’s inclination, and he must dance so merrily, to give me pain. Oh! how fondly he is now speaking to his fair partner, and doubtless requesting her not to allow herself to be too much fatigued. He takes her to a recess, lest she be weary with the dance; but his poor old father must watch for him all the night. It matters not how weary I be. No, no, I do my son wrong, great wrong. He wishes me to be at rest,—in my grave. How kind! Nay, daughter, speak not in his favour. Hark to the sounds of revelry around him. Sweet they are to his ears, almost as sweet as my dying words.”

He looked around the room as minutely as if he had anticipated conspirators and ruffians to start forth, at his son’s commission, and take his life. He examined the desk, as if he expected to discover poison purchased for him. He trembled as he took out a brace of pistols, and scarcely dared to ascertain whether they were charged or not. He dusted the books in the library, and glanced over many of the title-pages, as if he were certain to lay hold of a treatise on the duty and necessity of parricide. He would not allow the ladies to speak, but he harshly interrupted them. They seemed to be like thoughts in his own mind, which were unwelcome, and which, therefore, he had the power and the right of forbidding and preventing.

“If he should not return,” he muttered as he paced more calmly across the room, “my executors will not be troubled with his name in the will, and this may ease the dog of a good bone; yes, very prudent of the young man to stay from home, very.”

“Father!” exclaimed Alice.

“Father me not,” he returned furiously, “or mock me with the name but a little longer. Oh—” and tears flowed down his cheeks as he went to the door, “no dreams of gold to night, no money bags; a halter around my son’s neck, and that son a rebel!”

“Father, weep not. All shall yet be well with James. I cannot endure these tears, you once told me that you had not one; that although your hopes were gone for ever, you had not a tear to give them; that you had not mourning apparel to attend them to their grave!”

He harshly repulsed her, and retired to his own apartment.

The hour of midnight was now chiming. The drum and music had ceased for a few minutes, and the town clocks were distinctly heard; but instantly, upon the stroke, the revelry in the streets commenced afresh, and the mob became still more noisy than before. The light of torches glared in upon them, and for a moment they hid their faces from it, as from something unpleasant and unwelcome. Alice started up, and proposed that she should lead her companion to their room for the night, where she promised soon to join her. Katharine consented, although her fears were so much excited, that she knew sleep to be hopeless and impossible. As Alice returned, she wrapped herself closely in a cloak, and was descending to the door, when she listened at that of her father’s room, and hearing no noise or motion, entered. She beheld him asleep on the sofa, and his breathing was difficult. A table was drawn to his side, and on it lay a portrait of his son, in the character of Hamlet; taken when he bore a prominent part in the histrionic displays of the University. It was in the scene when the Prince of Denmark has become thoroughly convinced that his uncle is the murderer of the former king, and when he glories in the idea, that by the players he has forced conviction into the villain’s heart, and when his mother appears to charge him with his conduct towards that uncle. Her words were written (and the ink was not yet dry) beneath the portrait, “Hamlet, you have your father much offended,” and old Dawson’s shrivelled and white hand was placed pointing to them. This proof of affection, revenge, and imbecility, all mingled together, overcame Alice. For a moment she sunk down upon the couch beside her father, and gently kissed him. She then removed the cane from his grasp, and covered his venerable head. He started up in his dreams, but his eyes were shut.

“My son! oh! will none save him. None? Take my gold—yes all of it. It will forge chains as heavy and as long, as these dismal iron ones, which now bind his tender limbs; aye the body which my own Helen gave me, is shackled. Take my gold, there is the key to my chests, ransack them, and sell me. The gold will make a chamber as large as that horrible cell! Oh! will none save my beautiful boy?”

“I will, I will,” exclaimed his daughter, and she rushed out of the room. She summoned her own waiting maid, to watch over the old man, and then she herself, alone, unattended, left the house to seek her brother through the crowd. The night was beautiful and clear in the sky above, and its lights were brilliant, yet soft; but the illuminations of the town, threw their glare over all around, and completely shamed the stars. Not a breeze was felt, but the wafting of the flames. As the lights in the windows were now almost expiring, and pale faces were seen within, watching by them,—to the imagination an ominous fate for the Pretender seemed to be predicted. But bonfires were blazing in every street, and figures were crowding around them, and rubbing their hands, and dancing in extravagant mirth. The gleam of arms was reflected from soldiers, mingling along with the mob. Crowds were perpetually hurrying past, to behold and make other sights. Not a child, or a woman was to be seen; but all were men, intoxicated and raging, or moving on, more helpless than infants. This almost served to frighten Alice, as she held her way through the midst of them, coming into contact with the rude touch of daring strength, or the feeble clutch of old age; yet none interrupted her, save to stare upon her earnest countenance, so young, beautiful, and innocent. Many even seemed disposed to join and escort her to the place of her destination, wherever that might be. Some rather loud whispers were heard, asserting that she must be a friend of the Pretender, proceeding on the errand of blessing, and cheering him, on his dangerous expedition. Still she moved on, apparently indifferent to every thing which might otherwise have been annoying, when some one gently took her by the hand. Suppressing a shriek she started back in terror. But it was a young female who had ventured upon such a liberty, and Alice immediately recognized the young and blind Prophetess of the vale, who said in a quick but low tone,—

“I cannot, young lady, see your face, but your hand is feverish, and your heart is throbbing. And the hour is so late, and the street crowded. Yes, my prophecy will be fulfilled.”

Alice felt that it would, as she listened to her voice, and gazed upon her face. Her features seemed altogether to have lost their happy expression. They were still sweet; but clouded, and sad. “This light,” she resumed, “is not pleasant. It is not that of mountain, vale, and stream. Ah! I heard the young chieftain’s step, so gallant, light, and free; but the cockade waved over his head. Royal was his voice, for I knew something of courts, in another clime. And your brother?—you are now in search of him. I need not inquire. Darkness and death are around all his relations. Start not. He is a rebel, and now pledges, in the presence of Charles Edward, his allegiance to the family of Stuart. Oh, why should I know names and events? Happy I was, when life for me was but to think and feel. But fair one, come on, embrace your brother once more, Come,” and she almost dragged the sinking Alice forward, to hasten her steps. They soon arrived at the Pretender’s palace, but it was guarded by a close band of Highland soldiers. They made a passage however, for them, when Alice shortly explained the purpose of their coming.

“Ay fair lady,” said one “step in, your brother is now Captain Dawson, and a brave and gallant Southern he is.”

“It is true then!” Alice exclaimed with a shriek, while she hid her face in her hands, “he is a traitor and we are all ruined.”

“A traitor!” fiercely exclaimed a kilted mountaineer, whose fiery eyes peered through his shaggy eyebrows, as he rudely grasped her with his left hand, while his right sought the deadly weapon—“Be canny, noo, my leddie, lest Tonald’s tirk may pe seeking te right side o’ te question. Tat pe te way tat Englishers speak of der lawfu Sovereign, tat day must call his gude friends traitors!”

Alice Dawson looked unmoved upon the specimen of barbarous brutality. Her eye gleamed indignantly; which the Scot observing, drily rejoined, by taking his hands from off her and saying, “Is she after wishing to frighten Tonald? Hech, hech! She canna tak te preeks off te Heelandman: and faith Tonald canna tak them off her.”

“She’s a traitoress,” exclaimed one of the Lowlanders, whose face might have been mistaken for a smoke-dried ham, for he was the only ill favoured soldier in the company.

“Hold,” thundered forth one of their leaders, who came out from the palace, and his fiery eye rebuked the rude soldiers, who had gathered round to support their comrades, in whatever they might be pleased to do, against the unprotected Alice, and her companion; “cowards, to attack and frighten a lady! It would be gallantry,” he added, turning to the Lowlander, “were you to show your back to a lady, and conceal that face of yours. She would excuse you, for in your case it would not be considered as a breach of manners. Manners! but what know you of manners? Fair lady, my sentinel informs me that you seek your brother, who is a captain in the Manchester regiment, this day enlisted, as volunteers, in the Prince’s cause. See, they make a way for you. Step in.”

The young soldier who spoke, was Hector McLean, a leader of the north, and one of the many Scottish gentlemen of rank, who, for their ready attachment to his cause, had been knighted by the Pretender. The accent of his country was slightly perceptible, and there was something so friendly in his voice, that Alice halted, to obtain some further information concerning her brother, or some directions by which she might be guided to him; and her companion, who had been altogether silent, seemingly absorbed in her own thoughts, did not urge her on. But as her eyes fell upon the handsome form of the knight, so martial in his bearing, although but of slender proportions, she blushed deeply, and half repented that she had not forthwith entered. He doffed his bonnet, gallantly, and respectfully, as she stood before him,—announced his name, and offered her his services. “Fair lady, you appear to have been in tears. Are they shed for your brother? Think not by any eloquence, aye, even that of affection, to turn him from his purpose, and make him insensible to his duty. His sovereign has a claim prior to his sister. And could you deprive the brave Chevalier of a hope of victory?”

“He has left an aged and infirm father,” sobbed Alice, “and we are unprotected. He himself is not inured to war, for the cloisters of a college have been his only camp. Oh! gallant knight,” and she looked up, with a countenance, as innocent and artless as it was mournful, “entreat my brother to return!”

“I must deny you,” he gently replied. “The captain is an acquisition, and already has gained the confidence of the Prince. Your fair brow, may be soon encircled with honours, won by your brother, from a grateful master. When you have seen him, you shall return home, and pray for his safety, and that of the Prince.”

As he spoke, Alice felt her companion shudder. The young Prophetess knelt down, and muttered some words in a low, but wild tone. Rising up, she drew Alice closer to her, and madly exclaimed,—

“Almighty One, keep her alone, join not their fates—but ah! it cannot be! Brother and lover will ruin her, and death, death is her lot. The poison is to lurk in every sweet rose, for you. I know it. And she, the beautiful one, your companion in the vale, now too must see her dream vanish. Oh, their heads mount the poles in the public streets. I cannot see them; thank God, yours shall be spared such scorn, but languid for many a night shall they lie on the pillow, and then, they must find rest in an early grave.”

She twined herself around Alice, kissed her cheeks, and wept.

The chieftain stood silent and astonished, not being able to comprehend the scene; but Alice trembled, and almost sunk to the ground. He placed her hand within his. “Come, and you will straightway have an interview with him. He is now closeted with the Prince, and his officers, consulting together upon some military plans.”

They entered:—the inside of the palace was fitted up with great magnificence; and the spacious hall of audience was adorned with portraits of the Stuart family, on which the lights were gleaming brightly, and but for the gilded and embossed frames, they might have been mistaken for the living sovereigns, who, by nature, were endowed with the highest talents to sway an empire, but whose imprudence and licentiousness expelled them from the throne. The beautiful Queen of Scotland shone forth with a loveliness which none but a royal old maid and prude, could have doomed to death. She, who had been the wife of three husbands, still seemed to have more love and affection in those bright features, than the Holy Virgin of England, who never had a lover. The first Charles was painted there, as he stood on the scaffold, and his eyes were raised joyfully from the block, to see, in vision, the crown of heaven, which no weapon could take from the Lord’s annointed. The light threw a beautiful longing of immortality over his features. At the further end of the hall, hanging from the ceiling to the floor, was a green silk curtain, behind which was the door leading to the Chevalier’s apartments. This was the only screen from the face of royalty. Sir Hector, however, led Alice through a sliding, at the right wing, and stood, for a little, opposite to a door, above which were the Prince’s arms. At that moment it opened, and Charles Edward, with young Dawson, appeared. The latter rushed into the embrace of his sister. She beheld the uniform, and her hand was upon the sash by which he was belted, still she clung fondly to him, although she could not utter a word. Sir Hector McLean gave the Pretender an explanation; who, stepping up, gently took the hand of Alice.

“Lady, bless your brother, and the cause he supports. Blame him not; you cannot call me a rebel, and he must, therefore, be loyal. Captain, comfort your sister.”

“And who shall comfort thee?” sadly asked the blind child. “Oh, never, never, can you mount the throne.”

“Who is she? She is pale for me and my woes. See, the tears are trickling down these cheeks. Perhaps blood, the blood of my friends, may flow freely in my cause. God knows that my own heart is sad, even for a tear on the face of another, for my sake. But hark, my leaders are gay in the dance!” So kindly did the Prince soothe the feelings of Alice, that when he retired, she was prepared even to give comfort to her brother, when he spoke of Katharine. She could not, however, persuade him to accompany her home, and obtain their father’s forgiveness, and Katharine’s blessing.

“I dare not. I could not leave you all alone and unprotected. How could I part from you, in the home of our past life? I must see Katharine once more, but not there. But you, oh, what dangers you have undergone this night for me, Alice! My heart breaks, awful forebodings creep over my soul, at the sight of this blind girl. I dare not see you home, and yet, to expose you—”

“Nay, captain,” kindly rejoined Sir Hector, “I should feel honoured, would your fair sister accept of my protection.”

“Thanks, my noble friend; watch over her. The clock strikes the hour of one. Sleep, Alice, and think not of our woes. We shall meet again in happier times. One more embrace, dear girl; give my love to Katharine, and my obedience to my father. I may see them before the Prince leaves Manchester. Farewell. Sir Hector—”

“Say not a word, captain. I shall guard her as I would the Chevalier. Now, fair lady,”—and he almost dragged her from the arms of her brother.

As they reached the door, she looked round for her companion—but she was gone!

When his sister left him, Captain Dawson in vain sought comfort in the room where all the officers were assembled for mirth and the dance. His spirits were sunk, and into every bright scene which hope conjured up, his aged parent and his unprotected sister entered, and stood looking upon him, and yet he could not approach them. He believed, however, that to his country he was not acting the part of a traitor, for he wished to restore to it the descendant of its ancient rulers. Sometimes, too, the quiet retirement which he had formerly enjoyed within the cloisters of the college, arose to his mind, and now, when surrounded by arms, with the glory of strife before him in all probability, the arts of peace appeared more noble and worthy of attainment. He retired to the apartment which was assigned to him; but there, grief almost reached the point of delirium, and the young soldier wept on his pillow. He heard a knock at the door, and then Sir Hector McLean entered.

“Hast thou seen her home in safety? Oh! Alice, I have broken your heart, and murdered my father; aye, and myself, and my own Katharine too! Could I stay for months at home, to watch this opportunity, and mutiny against the peace of all whom I love!”

“Your sister,” was the reply, “is safe in her father’s house, nor is her anguish so wild as when you saw her. She fondly believes (and may it prove true, Dawson,) that soon the strife shall be finally settled; and then comes the soldier’s home, after all his hardships and dangers; then come tears of joy, so different from those at parting for the present.”

Young Dawson took the hand of Sir Hector, and pressed it in gratitude. He was almost deceived for a time, it felt so like the touch of Alice, and when he mentioned this, his friend laughed, and said,—

“Perhaps I may have held her pretty hand within mine so long as to catch its virtue. Nay, let not a suspicion cloud thy brow, I would not pay one act of unmeaning gallantry, to betray; you do me wrong, Dawson. Yet, how beautiful she is!”

“Beautiful!” exclaimed Dawson, as he sprung from his couch in madness. “And must I listen to hear my sister called beautiful, by a soldier? If thy craven soul has dared to breathe one word of lawless feeling to mine Alice, tell me—and let us choose our weapons.”

As he spoke, he moved to the table on which his sword lay unsheathed, and passing his hand hastily over its edge, put himself into a posture of attack and defence. But McLean’s sword still hung by his side, and his hand was stretched forth in friendship. And yet, at the first movement, his eye had flashed, and his right foot had been violently placed in advance, for the combat.

“Dawson,” he said, in a solemn tone, “you force me to reveal to you what, perhaps, I ought to disguise at present. Could I put that hand to the hilt of my sword, against Captain Dawson, when it has been pledged in fondest love to his beautiful sister? Beautiful I must call her—keep off, and hear me out. Will you compel me to draw? I had a sister, fair as Alice Dawson, but she died in a warmer clime, amidst the breezes of Italy. Had she lived, I should have watched over her as suspiciously as you protect Alice. But I am true. Is there falsehood in my countenance? Believe me; for with you I cannot appeal to the sword to support my veracity.”

The anger and fury of young Dawson had fled. He knew that Sir Hector’s oath was that of a chieftain, and he was certain that Alice would be happy. He coloured highly, threw his sword upon the couch, and embraced him as a brother. Long did they speak of Alice and Katharine; and the two young soldiers unbosomed every thought to each other, and disclosed their respective arrangements. McLean agreed to be a message-bearer to Dawson’s house, and to Katharine Norton; for the captain dared not visit them. He left his companion to rest a little before day break.

Just about the same time Dr. Dawson awoke. The object of his dreams had been James, and his first waking thought was concerning him. But all was dark in the room. He only knew that his children were not near. His memory failed to tell him whether James had returned. In the morning there is something cold and blighting in fear, for all the powers of the mind are more awake to it. He started up at the earliest gleam of light, and shuddered, as he saw, for the first time, that he had slept on a sofa. In all his affectionate thoughts of his children, he did not forget self; and he cherished it, in general, with a regimen, the strongest which his profession could provide or sanction.

“Death, death!” he exclaimed, “my children make me to commit suicide, by sending me, grieved and senseless, to my couch, to my sofa. My obedient son,—many thanks to you, dear James; dear James, many thanks to you. Oh, dear and loving he is to me!”

But in the midst of this invective he paused, as his eye met the portrait of his son. He hurried on his clothes, but his palsied hands were feeble and slow. His daughter came not, as was her wont. He looked out from the window, upon the street, and how still, compared with the revelry of the last night! There was scarcely a wreck of it. The fragments of wood, black, and half consumed, strewed the streets. These had been bonfires, a few hours before, and now, a few miserable and poor wretches were gathering them up, to carry them to a home, where there was little comfort blazing from fuel. The doctor closed the window, and violently threw himself down on the sofa, and cursed all whom he knew. He arose, and silently proceeded to the door of his daughter’s apartment. He heard no noise. He knocked, and instantly his daughter’s voice was heard; when he knew that she was well, he stopped not to speak to her, but in anger traced his steps again to his own room. He had not closed the door behind him, when Katharine Norton came in. He was always kind to her, and taking her by the hand, led her to a seat. Her raven tresses were hanging over her cheeks, and her voice trembled. She attempted to divert his thoughts from James’s disappearance—for she dared not reveal the awful truth—and for a time she succeeded. He even jested, playfully with her, and asked her to name the day when she would become his beautiful and dear daughter-in-law. He took her hand, and begged to know by which of the pretty fingers James had protested to love her.

In a little, Alice appeared. She was pale, but occasionally her cheeks glowed, and her eyes sparkled with some emotion, to which, hitherto, she had been a stranger. She seemed more absorbed in thought than usual, and her lips moved tremulously, as if she were speaking to herself. She thought of her brother, and the thought spread a pallor over her features. She thought of her lover, and blushed. She ran to embrace her father, but concealed her face in modesty, lest he might read, and be an interpreter of her heart’s fond love, which, she knew, was as strong, and would be as lasting, as it had been sudden. Her father repulsed her.

“Good child,” he said in mockery, “I am obliged to you for this soft, soft couch. Do you see the thick coverings which have oppressed these limbs! Oh! how warm they kept me! Give me your hand, Alice, what a good and loving child to her old father. James, too,—”

“Father,” interrupted Alice, in a quick and almost angry tone, “you may mock me, but you shall not mock my brother. Does a young soldier, far from the comforts and happiness of a domestic life, and exposed to hardships, danger, and death, need to be mocked, even by an old man? Would you mock our James, should he be brought to a gibbet?”

“Soldier!—young soldier!” exclaimed her father in mad phrenzy, “my James a soldier! Oh God! be merciful!” and he knelt, “Forgive all mine unkindness to the children of my Helen! A soldier! Alice!” and he fell down, apparently lifeless. Upon the screams of their young mistress, the servants rushed into the room. They, by degrees, recovered the old man to sensibility, but he continued wildly to rave about James.

“Son, your sword is bright and gleaming. Yes, James, you wear it proudly. Hush, come quietly at night, when Alice has retired to rest. Enter by the pannels near to my bed. Say father, and then do your work. Strike home, to the very heart. Oh! would it not animate your courage to behold my blood upon that flaming weapon? James, you strike hard. Shew me that face once more, and, dear child, I will bless it. Wilt thou bring me the gold from my secret desk, that I may give it thee? Ah, it matters not, you know where it is. Hush, hush, slay Alice too, when you have broken her heart. Twine your hand in those beautiful curls, and kiss that sweet and gentle forehead. Listen to her, as she murmurs love to you in dreams, and strike as she utters your name. A soldier! Oh! what a soldier can do!”

He glanced wildly around him. He started up, and all signs of age were, in a moment, obliterated from his face, and had left his frame. He stamped, and loudly ordered all from the room.

“Bring Helen to me, I am an impatient bridegroom. Shall I be prevented from kissing my beautiful wife. She is mine, and who can keep her from me? Helen, you are pale!”—and he sunk down, dead! Alice could not utter a tone of lamentation. She longed to weep, that her heart might be eased of her sorrow, but she could not. How still were the lofty features of her father! In his fall, not a single white hair had been disarranged, and his golden-headed cane was firmly grasped in his hand. What a melancholy sight. A dead old man, and yet a cane to support his steps, as if he could expect that he should once more rise, and need its assistance! Alice gently disengaged it from his grasp, and put her own hand in its place, and thus, for hours, sat beside her dead father.

Katharine Norton, like a sister attempted to comfort her, but her terms of consolation frequently assumed something of her own heart’s sorrow, as she thought of James. Yet she was too high-minded and heroic to condemn, even in her grief, the step which he had taken.

Meanwhile the Pretender’s army was again marching through the streets, and in front of it, was the Manchester regiment, under the command of Colonel Townley. The Prince, on this occasion, was attended by the renowned chieftain, Cameron of Lochiel, who was his best and bravest supporter. His eagle eye glanced proudly upon all, save on his master, and his full muscular form, was the pride and boast of the clan, of which he was the head. They rode together, between the Scottish and English troops. The inhabitants of all the towns in Lancashire, through which the Pretender had passed, trembled at the sight of his brave Highlanders, and it is reported, that it was the general belief, that the bodies of infants formed their repast after a victory. The good people of Manchester, likewise, turned pale, at their fiery glance, and the easy and free manner in which they at times, when any obstruction was made to their progress, laid their hands upon the broad-sword, while they placed their dirk between their teeth, thus awfully prepared to resist and overcome. But their fiery spirits, were at that time, altogether within the control of their young leader. They had not a glance for all who crowded the streets and balconies; their eyes when he was in view, were fixed upon the Chevalier. As they were turning a street, a ball whizzed by his horse’s head, and an uproar was excited. A detachment of troops, under Lochiel, who had spurred forward instantly, as soon as the report of fire-arms was heard, dashed down a lane, from which the smoke issued, and they returned instantly, with the assassin. The soldiers raised a loud howl, as if they wished to sacrifice the wretch, by tearing him to pieces. He was brought before the Prince, whose face was a little flushed by the incident, but who was perfectly composed.

“Death, death,” exclaimed many a voice from the streets. The ladies had left the terraces, and had come forth among the crowd to learn whether the Prince was at all hurt. He gallantly thanked them for the interest they took in his welfare, and, all covered with blushes, they again ran in. He then glanced upon the assassin, from whose pockets a dagger and two charged pistols, had also been taken.

“Poor man,” he calmly said, “you are desirous of murdering the son of your sovereign. Soldiers, take him to the civil authorities of the town, and order them to keep him in custody, until we are gone.”

He then turned to the soldiers, and addressed them. “Be merciful, as well as brave. Should I come to the throne, as the heir of my father, I would grieve to think that blood had been too profusely shed, to receive it. My enemies offer a large reward for my head. But I only wish the crown, and not the head of George Guelph, the Elector.”

The crowd, although they had been disposed to condemn the poor wretch, now applauded the mercy which forgave him, and this, perhaps, tended more to warm the affections of the mass of the people to Charles Edward, than his true descent from the house of Stuart.

The magistrates met them, and humbly offered their homage to the Chevalier. The Colonel of the Manchester troops had been long looked up to by the respectable community of the town, and when he joined the rebel troops this exerted no inconsiderable influence, even over the authorities. The principal streets were all adorned with tokens of attachment, and from every house almost, colours were flying, and handkerchiefs waving. Music from the town joined the noise of the bagpipes, and the Prince was elated by what he considered as demonstrations of loyalty to his father.

The crowd attended the Prince back to the palace, before which, during all the day, they stood, and greeted him, as he appeared at the window, and smiled at the Highland soldiers, who presented their arms.

Early in the evening, Captain Dawson, accompanied by Sir Hector McLean, was proceeding to his father’s house. He had resolved to see him, that he might obtain his blessing, as the troops were to set out on the following day. Dressed in the Prince’s uniform, they received much attention as they passed on. Dawson was well known as a young gentleman of great promise, and the reports which had, in some circles, been spread respecting him—how that he had left the University, where he was distinguished only for gaiety and debauchery, were not believed—for they had been proved to have no foundation. They reached the house, and were instantly admitted. But the old servant, who opened the door, was unusually taciturn and sad. Katharine Norton was sitting with Alice as they entered. Painful was the interview. The Highland chieftain in vain attempted to console Alice for the loss of her brother.

“Dear Alice,” asked young Dawson, “how is our father? does he know of my conduct?”

“Yes,” was the reply.

He became pale, and dreaded lest his father should have cursed and denounced him.

“Did he—condemn me?” and he gasped, as he spoke, “was he much irritated?”

“Yes, James, awfully agitated.”

“There, there, Sir Hector, see my folly, my madness, my infamous cruelty, to an aged parent. But Alice, was he long in such a state?”

“No,” and she turned a look of concealed meaning to Katharine.

“Thank God, thank God,” exclaimed Dawson, “then Alice, is he calm now?”

“Calm,—so calm, he must be happy.”

“Then, dear sister, lead me into his presence, and give him a kiss, to induce him to grant me a full forgiveness. Alice, you move not, is he asleep?”

“Yes, dear James, and you would but disturb him in what seems to be a very pleasant sleep. But he has granted you his pardon; or, if you doubt, you may come to morrow, to dinner, and then—”

“Yes, Alice; and may not Hector McLean come with me?” The last words were spoken in a playful tone, and intended to probe, what Alice thought was a secret. He rallied, and endeavoured to enjoy himself, and seemed to succeed. Katharine forgave him, and agreed to walk with him, for a few minutes, in the garden. He looked smilingly upon Alice, and by his glance attempted to hint that he knew very well that she did not regret to be left alone with Sir Hector.

The next morning arose fair and bright. The birds, even in the streets, forgot the silence of winter, and cheered the crowded abodes of men with their songs, as they fluttered about the leafless trees, in the squares of the town. The Manchester regiment of volunteers was marching through the streets, to the sound of the drum. At their head was Prince Charles, attended by Colonel Townley. There was an unusual melancholy resting on the features of the former, which was increased by listening to the Scottish song now chanted in the streets, “Bonnie Prince Charlie.” His pale hair fell carelessly over his forehead, as he frequently raised his bonnet, to allow the sun to fall upon his face. The smoke was not yet arising from the chimneys, so early was the hour; and he thought how slow and idle the inhabitants were in their loyalty towards him. The colonel halted.

“Where, noble Prince, will you review my men?”

“In the church-yard,” was the reply, “yet that is an ominous place, and may remind them of a fate they may, by and by, share. It is well, nevertheless, to know what our end, sooner or later, must be. The churchyard, colonel.”

It was nigh at hand. The graves were not crowded, and the Chevalier forbade the troops to violate the abodes of the dead, by trampling upon them. They drew up, and went through their various exercises in military discipline. As their swords flashed in the sun, the Prince thought what a slight chance of fortune these would have with the scythe of death. They were about to retire, when a small company of mourners was seen, attending a dead relative to the grave. They moved sadly and slowly, unlike the quick pace with which the troops had entered. A closely veiled female was at the head of the coffin. The Chevalier raised his cap, and desired his men to approach, and honour these funeral rites. Young Dawson started, as he beheld the blind Prophetess, with faded flowers in her hands. He approached,—the veiled lady gave a shriek, and fell down on the coffin. He sprang forward, drew aside the veil, and beheld his sister Alice! He raised her from the coffin, and there beheld his father’s name upon it!

She had resolved to spare him the heart-rending news until, the war being over, he should return; and thus she, herself, had undertaken to attend to the last rites due to the remains and the memory of a dead father. But here, providence had determined otherwise, and James met his father,—for the first time since his leaving home, to ask his forgiveness,—at the grave. He had formerly entreated Alice to kiss their father, so that he might be induced to pardon him, but now, what token of affection could obtain for him such a blessing! And there was the young Prophetess, with words boding still darker ruin on all the family, and on Prince Charles.

On the first of December, the Chevalier and his troops continued their march, and towards evening reached Macclesfield, with the intention of proceeding to London, and thus terminating the struggle for the crown in the capital of the kingdom. In a few days, however, having reached Derby, where a council of war was held, all the members, save the brave Prince himself, were of opinion that, since, in all probability, they would soon be surrounded by three armies, the only way of safety was to return to Scotland. Accordingly, against the urgent remonstrances and entreaties of Charles Edward, the retreat was commenced, and pressed on by the forces of the Duke of Cumberland, on the nineteenth, they reached Carlisle. All the army spent a night there, and it was resolved that a garrison should be left, consisting of the Manchester regiment, and a few of the Lowland troops.

In the morning they attended the Prince to a short distance from the town, and on an eminence, where his movements might, a little longer, be seen,—halted to take leave of him, with tears in their eyes. The few Highland soldiers who were to form a part of the garrison left behind, approached, and knelt down, their shaggy heads uncovered, heedless of the wintry blast which raged around them, while they prayed for a blessing upon “Bonnie Prince Charlie.” They seemed disposed to follow him back into their native mountains and fastnesses, and they turned many a look of envy and regret upon their more fortunate clansmen who were to guard his person. The Chevalier dismounted, and his tall graceful form was closely, yet respectfully, surrounded, in a moment, by the faithful mountaineers. He smiled, as they gazed in wonder on his kilted dress.

“My friends,” he said, “my limbs, naked though they be, can meet the storm. Have I not, after the fatigues of battle, contended with you in wrestling and leaping, stripped and bare? And yet,” he added to himself, as he glanced at his small white hands, now exposed to the cold, and his half covered thighs, “the ladies of Paris and Edinburgh have fluttered round and embraced me.”

“Canna she!” exclaimed a tall Highlander advancing,—“canna she shake te tirk in her ain land, for Charlie? Fare pe te use o’ keepin it be her side, and no kittlin te hainshes o’ te enemy. Nae bluid, nae bluid on its shinin blade!”

“Here, my good fellow,” answered the Prince, “give it to me; it is the weapon of a true Highlander, and Charles Edward will be proud to strike with it himself. Here,” and he took the dirk, and drawing it from his half-worn sheath, and examining some dark spots on it, appeared thoughtful.

The Highlander rejoined, “Tat pe te bluid o’ te enemy, and might she ask tat her Prince would not wipe it away?”

The Chevalier buckled it to his side, and this act endeared him to the Highland soldiery still more. But the sun was now arising on the snowy eminences where they stood. His officers reminded Charles of the long march which they had, that day, to accomplish. Still, he moved not; he was wrapped in thought. His back was turned gradually upon his troops, and he made a few steps in the direction of Carlisle, for he cursed himself inwardly for the consent which had been wrung from him, to retreat from England. In the enthusiasm of the moment, which was heightened by despair, he exclaimed,—

“Why do I retreat from the throne? There should have been our march; and our faces should have answered the questions of Cumberland. But ah! we fly from him!”

A simultaneous shout was raised throughout all the ranks, but, in a moment, the chief of each clan looked upon his men, and the threatening look was understood; Charles drew his sword, and turned round, almost expecting that the troops were ready to follow him, wherever he might lead; but their bonnets were over their brows, and they were silent. He understood the cause. Lochiel and the other chiefs advanced, and humbly kneeling before him, whilst they uncovered their heads, implored him to think no more of England, until a fitting time, when he should be able to contest, with equal strength, in the country of the Elector. He mastered his feelings, and with some of his usual gaiety, raising his plumed cap from his head, waved his farewell to the garrison, assuring them that he would send them speedy assistance. Sir Hector McLean retired for a moment, in company with Captain Dawson, but in the midst of their conversation, the command was given to march, and after taking the last look of their brave companions and the Prince, the Manchester regiment returned to Carlisle.

There the castle was soon invested by the royal army, under the command of the Duke of Cumberland. The garrison held out for some time, aided by the inclemency of the winter, which prevented the duke from taking the most active measures, and cheered by hopes of the aid which the Prince had promised. But, at length, when these hopes were disappointed, they were obliged to surrender, upon the hardest terms, and Colonel Townley, and his captains, were sent to confinement, in London, there to await a trial for sedition and treason. The miseries of a dungeon were rendered more awful by the news of the total defeat which the Chevalier had sustained, in the fate of the battle of Culloden. The captives had held communication with their relatives, who were busy in making every exertion to obtain their pardon. James Dawson heard frequently from Katharine Norton; and although her letters seemed to be written in tolerably good spirits, he could see the trace of many a tear. She encouraged him to hope, and stated that a mutual friend had resolved upon obtaining the king’s forgiveness, and that she trusted much to his efforts. The bearer of these letters was the young Prophetess; and the sight of the messenger, so sad and mournful, was almost sufficient to dash and cloud the joy of the message. She answered no questions, but every time placed her hands upon his brow, and gave a low and suppressed shriek. Her thin and emaciated features were never lighted up with happiness, even when she told Dawson of the hopes of Katharine. He asked her of Alice, for, lately, she had ceased to write to him, but the blind girl, waving her hands above her head, exclaimed with enthusiasm,

“She is well; yes, and intercedes for her brother,—the beautiful and happy lady!”

James understood, by her motions, that his sister had even ventured into the presence of royalty, and there presented her petitions; and he blessed her, and Katharine, more and more.

The day of trial arrived, and as soon as the commission entered the court, Dawson thought that the countenances of the judges frowned their doom, and indicated a fixed resolution, on the present occasion, to dispense with mercy. The brutal mob without, were shouting for justice to the king, and the country; and the crowd within were so unfeeling as to hiss the prisoners when they were led to the bar; but these hisses were answered by a calm look of contempt. Colonel Townley arose, and objected to a trial brought on by a usurper, and affirmed that it was unjust to be cited before a court called together by George the Elector. He defended himself, and his brave companions, but in vain; for ere he had finished his speech, the jury retired, and soon the verdict guilty was returned. The presiding judge looked around the court, but a thrill of horror was expressed, for sympathy had been excited by the gallant appearance of the rebels. As he put on the black cap, Dawson, to shew his contempt and indifference, turned his back; but presently recollecting that there were ties to bind him to life, he changed his posture, and attentively listened to the sentence of death. For a moment his firmness forsook him, as he heard the awful accompaniments of his execution. As he and his companions were being removed, the cries without were increased, and he caught a glimpse of a female form entering the court. That glimpse was enough to reveal to him his own Katharine! He had not seen her since they parted in Manchester, but oh! how sadly she was changed! She gave a wild shriek. Dawson struck down the officer who had charge of him, and the crowd retreated and made way for him, as he rushed forward, clanking his chains.

“My own Katharine!” he exclaimed, as he clasped her in his arms, “Are we not safe together?” For a moment she looked on him; but, turning to the judges, who had left their seats, she cried out—

“Stay—hear me—as you would hope to be heard in the very moment of death. Save my James!”

The judge placed his hand upon the black cap, and his features did not diminish the awful effect of such a motion. He instantly retired.

“Heed him not,” slowly muttered James, “they cannot separate us.”

“No, no,” returned Katharine, whose reason, for a time, had departed, whilst her eyes glared wildly, “they cannot. Put these chains around me. You could not break them, James. Put them round my neck, just there, where your arm is, and we are secure. Can they break them, when you could not? Now, my love, let us go home. I told you, in my letter, that the day appointed for your—your—ha! shall I name it,” and she even smiled as she spoke, “your execution, would be the day for our marriage. We are bound together. Now, dear James.”

The keepers approached, but they dared not to touch their prisoner, as his masculine form raised itself to ward them off.

“Are these our friends, James? Welcome,—welcome all! Now for the dance. Ah, you won my heart in yonder recess, where we rested.”

Her dream of madness passed away for the awful reality.

“You die, James!”

And she sunk her head on his breast, in silent despair. He twined his arms round her, to support her trembling frame, and kissed her brow, which, although pale, quivered with intense emotion, and the large blue veins swelled on its surface.

“A few days,” he said, “and your lover is no more.”

The keepers took advantage of his posture and seized him, he was torn from Katharine, who fell on the floor. She awoke to conciousness, after a long fit of delirium, but she spoke not. She answered not the many kind questions, which some of the spectators put. She accepted not the invitations which they offered, to accompany her home. She looked wildly around. She started back as her eyes fell upon the bench, where the sentence had been pronounced, and where still lay the black cap. But the coachman, who, half-an-hour before, had set her down, at some distance, now appeared and supported her to her carriage. Her kind aunt, when she reached home, watched by her, and consoled her with the thought that the friend who had gone to sue for Dawson’s pardon, might in the end prove successful. She gently chided her for having gone to the court, without her.

The night before the fatal morning was beautiful, even in the cell, and on its grated window, a bird had for a moment alighted, like a messenger of hope. Dawson paced up and down, absorbed in gloomy reflections. He thought of Katharine, and then of Alice. Henceforth they were to be friendless and alone. He knelt down in anguish, and prayed for them fervently, as the two innocent and beautiful sisters. He arose, and placed his hand without the bars, and then, fanned his forehead. Once he had imagined that it was glorious to die as a martyr, for his prince, before all the world; but now, the scene when real, and at hand, had gradually narrowed and narrowed, until in dying, he felt that, save two, he had no one to sympathise with his fate. His fellow prisoners spoke to him, through small apertures in their separate cells; but he was meloncholy and alone. He heard footsteps approaching, and the heavy iron door turned slowly upon its hinges. A gentleman was admitted.

“Oh! Dawson,—no hope, no hope,—art thou prepared?”

The prisoner looked anxiously upon him who spoke, but as it was twilight, he could not distinguish the features, or the person. He was dressed in black. Dawson started up, and dragged him to the window. He gazed upon Hector McLean!

“My friend!—and is it even so? Your dress is proscribed; no more that of a chieftain.”

“Speak not of me, speak of yourself. It is true I am in mourning weeds, and now no clan can raise the wail of their chieftain.”

“How is Alice?” quickly exclaimed Dawson, but he received no answer. “What! a lover, and knows not of his fair mistress; cannot speak of her, to her brother! Is she well, Sir Hector?”

“Hush, rave not;—she is in heaven! and these are weeds for my wife!”

The deep stupor and silence of grief was over Dawson’s soul.

“Brother,” said Sir Hector, “my only brother, but whom I must lose on the morrow, spend not the time thus. Prepare, prepare for death! It is different from the chance of war, and although we have left the ball for the deadly field, now let this cell be the auditory and penitentiary of heaven!”

“But tell me,” exclaimed Dawson, “tell me how Alice died. Yes, she is in heaven. A week ago, I dreamt that angel feet passed rapidly along my cell, and I knew that they were Alice’s. Where, and how did she die?”

“I must be brief; your fate and welfare demand every moment for other subjects. During the interval after our retreat to Scotland, when hostilities were ceased, I came over to England, and Alice became my wife. I took her to a quiet home, removed from the seat of war, where an aged mother cherished her new daughter. Oh, how anxious we were, and grieved, concerning you. She wrote to Katharine Norton, and enclosed letters for you. Meanwhile, the royal forces drew near the Prince, and I joined him, at the head of my clan, on the Heath of Culloden. Had that battle been gained, you would have been free; and believe me, Dawson, that many a stroke given by me, was for you. But it was lost. I fled to Alice. The news—but I cannot wring my heart by relating my woes—overpowered her. In these arms she died, my fair Alice, speaking to the last, of her brother, her husband, and our unborn babe! I came to London, was received kindly by Katharine Norton and her aunt, and have been exerting myself ever since, to obtain your pardon,—but in vain. I had rendered some important services to one of the Elector’s ministers, but his private feelings are subdued by other motives.”

“Bless you! Heaven bless you for your efforts, but more as the husband of my Alice. But—Katharine, how does she endure my approaching execution?”

“She hopes that your pardon will arrive, and she has arranged every thing for her marriage, on the morrow, when you are set at liberty. Oh! how must I break the awful truth to her! When I left her an hour ago, she was singing some of your verses. Her mind seems to have lost some of its power, for she wandered out alone this afternoon, to the Common, where, on the morrow, you must die, and gathered some of the simple daisies, to deck her hair. She protests that these will be all that her dear James shall know of Kennington Common!”

Sir Hector remained an hour with him, and took his last farewell!

The morning came, after a sleepless, restless night. Dawson attired himself in full uniform, even to the Highland bonnet. At an early hour the officers entered, and led him, along with eight of his companions, down to the court yard of the prison. All who were to suffer, greeted each other kindly, but no one had need to cheer each other, and inspire them with firmness. For themselves, they were indifferent to their doom, and were prepared to meet it with the conciousness of what they considered innocence in a good cause; but they had relatives, and this clouded their minds. Still they appeared bold and undaunted.

“Townley,” said one to the Colonel, “you were always,—forgive me for the hint,—fond of dressing your head, when it was about to pop in at the door of a ball room, to be inspected by the ladies. Now that it is to be seen more conspicuously, will you not bestow more attention? There, upon mine honour, that fine curl has left its sweep.”

After finishing breakfast, their chains were struck off, and their arms pinioned.

“Stay,” exclaimed one, “give me the freedom of my hands, to arrange my neckcloth, that should the Hanoverian Elector himself be present, I may render the man all possible honours. Help me to laugh Dawson. Captain, is my neckcloth nice? See,—but here is the groom of my bedchamber, the master of my wardrobe, he will assist me.”

The Executioner now appeared, with the halters carried behind him. He was dressed in white, and his black and hideous face, although of a cadaverous hue, was a striking contrast. Although Dawson scorned the fear of death, yet life was dear to him for Katharine, and a shudder passed over his frame, as the executioner approached him.

“Young gentleman,” said the grim official, “your neck is the first for the halter. But the first shall be last, in order that the Scriptures may be fulfilled, and your heart shall be the last in being thrown into the flames. Ha! ha!” and he laughed at the awful blasphemy. With the greatest coolness and composure he removed the scarf from Dawson’s neck, and was substituting the rope, when he observed the golden chain, to which was attached the portrait of Katharine Norton. He raised it.

“Young sir,” said he, as he attempted to smile, “shall I remove the miniature? Pretty, pretty,—the lady smiles so beautifully upon the rope!”

“Touch it not, wretch,” thundered forth Dawson, in tones which made the barbarian tremble, and interrupted him in his chuckle. “Never,” he added, “shall the resemblance of her whom I love, be exposed to a profane gaze.”

“Nay,” returned the executioner, “you have no command over it, young rebel. Your clothes are my property, as soon as I perform my kind offices to that carcase, and, of course, the miniature amongst the rest.”

“Shall it!” shouted Dawson in a rage. “Never. Officer, remove it from my neck, and place it on the floor.” His request was granted, and he ground it to atoms beneath his tread.

The prisoners were then brought out, and placed on hurdles, surrounded by a body of foot guards. There, also, was the executioner, with a naked scimitar. The “dead march” was now played by the military, and its music was sad and slow, unlike that which had roused the courage of the rebels when they assembled under the standard of the Chevalier. Gradually it swelled, until, towards the conclusion, it died quietly away, and expressed the true condition of the prisoners, “who were wearing away to the land of the leal.” Some of them gaily beat time with their feet, but others would not counterfeit mirth, although they needed not to counterfeit courage, for they all possessed it.

When they arrived at Kennington Common, they beheld a dense crowd, for the London mob had assembled, to feast on the horrid spectacle of hanging, embowelling, burning, and beheading. But as the hurdles passed them, they were quiet, and some words, as well as many looks, of commiseration greeted the prisoners. A large pile of faggots was heaped up close to the gallows, and as they left the hurdles, and entered the cart from which they were to be turned off, they were set fire to, and threw a fitful glare over the faces Of the guards around, as well as those of the prisoners. Colonel Townley turned to the magistrates, who stood on a small platform, and asked whether a clergyman had been brought to attend to them. On being answered in the negative, he exclaimed,—

“What mercy is shown to us! You are generous enemies! Morgan, my good friend, read us appropriate prayers, before we suffer for King James. Let us die, trusting in God our Saviour. It is well that I reminded you to bring your book.”

His fellow-sufferer began to read in a solemn manner, kneeling, and with his head uncovered. Not a whisper was heard among the crowd, but they stood silent, as if hushed by the true spirit of devotion, and as if the angels, whom the prisoners invoked to surround them with their fiery cars, would have been frightened away by the noise and commotion. They were also in the suspense of expectation, when these religious services should be ended, and the dread signal given. Then a carriage was seen rapidly approaching.

“A pardon! a pardon!” shouted the mob, as they made way, at first sight. The prisoners’ devotions were interrupted. For a moment they gazed anxiously, but, as the carriage took its station behind the dense masses of people, their hopes fell, and once more they engaged in their religious exercises, but with paler countenances, and the reader’s voice, at first, was observed to tremble. Dawson looked up. From the window of the carriage he saw Sir Hector gazing, and waving his farewell; and beside him was his own Katharine! A violent shuddering seized him, but, at that moment, Morgan was repeating the words, “Lord Jesus, receive my spirit,” and now he felt that he had, for ever, done with earthly things. The signal was given by a loud shout, raised by the prisoners, “God save King James,” and the cart was driven from beneath them!

All the other horrible accompaniments were gone through, and the executioner, on throwing the heart of Dawson into the flames, exclaimed, “Long live King George!”

The carriage was that of Katharine Norton, and thus, attended by her aunt and McLean,—who had failed in all their attempts to dissuade her from witnessing such a scene,—she gazed on her lover’s tortures to the last. She had seen him suspended, then stripped, in order that he might be embowelled; and as the executioner announced that he had performed his office, she clasped her hands together, and meekly laying her head on the bosom of her aunt, said,

“Dear James, I follow thee.”

“Not yet, my Katharine, not yet. Put your throbbing heart to mine, love.”

Throbbing heart! Alas, it throbbed no more! Katharine Norton was dead! Hector McLean took one hand, to console her, and, as the other was placed upon the window of the carriage, it was seized by the blind Prophetess, who now appeared, strangely and unexpectedly, as before.

“Dead! dead!” she exclaimed.

At that moment the shouts of the mob frightened the horses, who dashed furiously away; and the young Prophetess was left a mangled corpse! Her life was all a mystery—her power of knowing the future, and her sudden appearance!