After Henry left the room, Agnes, having inveighed with more than her usual bitterness against all persons, good or bad, and all events, past, present, or to come, retired to bed, leaving Marion to muse with saddened feelings on the untoward turn which her sister's mind was likely to take for the future, which rendered her every day a more uncongenial companion, as now Agnes had come to the final conclusion that she was herself the victim of unmerited and unmitigated misfortune.

About ten o'clock, Marion lighted her candle to retire, and was slowly leaving the room, when she became startled by suddenly hearing, immediately below her window, in the street, a noise of scuffling and shouting, mingled with vehement cries for help, and dreadful oaths, till at length a wild and horrid shriek arose, which thrilled to her very heart. Having hastily summoned Martin, who hurried to the door, she paused some moments in an agony of alarm, and then rushing to the window, threw it open, and gazed out, being so close to the combatants that she could almost have touched them. Two men were engaged, apparently, in desperate conflict, while Marion's eyes became fixed on them with the fascination of fear. She could not scream—she could not move: she seemed to have lost all power of motion, while watching the whole scene with harrowing interest, yet with the vague indistinctness of a dream. It seemed as if some frightful night-mare were upon her, and as if she were chained to the spot, yet there was a frightful reality in all that followed. It was a fierce and deadly struggle, carried on with the energetic strength of despair. Again and again, in a hoarse, deep voice, the fearful cry arose on the night air, of "Murder!" mingled with agonizing cries for help. Marion clung to the window for support, and shivered from head to foot; while she still heard the loud trampling of feet, the fierce tones of defiance, threatening, groans of suppressed anguish, and then a loud, delirious shriek of agony, followed by a sharp, gasping cry, when one of the combatants fell suddenly to the ground, as if a hundred daggers had pierced him.

Windows were now thrown open on every side, the watchman's rattle became audible, there was a tread of many feet, the sound of many voices, and all seemed to promise speedy aid, when, amidst the death-like silence beside her window, Marion heard a strange, unearthly laugh, which sounded more appalling in a such a scene than all she had yet beheld. A mysterious dread fell over her heart, her eyes swam, her brain reeled, a faint sickness came upon her, she made a feeble attempt to support herself against the window, and, with a convulsive sigh, sank almost insensible on a seat. When Marion recovered, a low, murmuring sound of many voices became audible. Martin hastily opened the door, and a crowd of strange faces appeared, pale and full of horror; while several men almost staggered beneath the weight of a shutter, on which lay a motionless figure, partly concealed by a cloak, with a bloody napkin over the face; while the stillness, the stiff and rigid look of that immovable form, could indicate nothing but death.

There was that in the voices of those who entered which caused Marion's nerves to creep with apprehension. A low murmur stole through the crowd, while, shivering with apprehension, she silently gazed on the stone-like, lifeless image before her. The hair was damp and matted with gore, the hands were clenched in agony, the dress soiled with clay and blood; but the tall figure retained a look of solemn dignity; and Marion felt a cold thrill shoot through her heart, while her eyes became riveted on that ghastly object.

Though unable to speak, or to ask a single question, her mind was intensely conscious of all that passed; while many surmises were whispered around respecting the cause and origin of this fearful catastrophe, and much impatience was expressed for the proper authorities to arrive and take cognizance of the circumstances. Marion, at length, feeling herself alone among so great a concourse of strangers, had slowly turned to leave the room, when her ear was caught by hearing the name of De Lancey, and, turning hastily round, she started to find Lord Wigton close beside her, in earnest conference with an officer, who remarked, in low, ominous accents, "I am perfectly well aware that several discussions took place between them lately, respecting the circumstances of his childhood, though I understood them to be of a friendly nature; but this very evening, at Mrs. Smytheson's, some very high words, passed relating to a young lady." A faint chill came over Marion as she heard these words, and turning, with a bewildered look, to the speaker, she asked, in a low, deep voice, if he knew anything of Henry De Lancey.

"Yes! only too much, if all be as we suspect," replied the stranger sternly. "I always liked De Lancey; but if he had any hand in this business, great as the provocation may have been, he would be more like an Italian assassin than a British officer. He was heard once to declare the greatest abhorrence to duelling; but these canting sort of speeches never come to any good. At Mrs. Smytheson's, not two hours ago, he seemed very violently irritated against my unfortunate friend who lies murdered there."

Marion's countenance became pale and terror-stricken; she looked irresolutely round, and then, with faltering steps, approached a table on which the corpse had been laid. She could not speak, and her hand trembled convulsively; but she grasped a napkin which shrouded the features of the deceased. Slowly and fearfully she raised it, gave one shrinking glance, and, with a broken shriek of astonishment, beheld, stained with blood, and rigid as marble, the well-known features of Captain De Crespigny.

Marion's heart stood still, a cold shiver ran through her frame, and, tottering back, with a gasp of pallid horror, she sank upon a seat, where her blanched cheek and quivering lip revealed the agony of her amazement and horror. Conscious at once that this must be the work of Ernest Anstruther, still the world seemed to rock beneath her feet, with the vibration of crime and misery; while, covering her face with her hands, she tried to shut out the very thought of all she had beheld.

Martin had sent an express instantly to Lord Doncaster; and, meanwhile, the dreadful tale flew far and wide; while the universal appetite for horror seemed on this occasion more than satiated. A young, handsome, and talented officer, thus brought down, by some mysterious agency, to the dust of death! It was appalling; and throughout the whole neighborhood, a spirit of eager, burning, impatient curiosity, became general.

A summons at length arrived, for all present to proceed instantly to Kilmarnock Abbey, that depositions might be taken before Lord Doncaster and the nearest magistrates, while Marion as a witness was obliged immediately to appear there, that her testimony might assist with that of others in clearing up the tragical mystery. The unwarrantable suspicions which had been expressed respecting Henry, formed a strong additional motive to Marion for consenting to accompany the melancholy cavalcade, as she was anxious at once publicly to acquit him, knowing that, as the proverb says, "if a lie has no feet on which to stand, it has always wings with which to fly round the world."

Marion hastened into a carriage which had been sent, that she might follow the body to Kilmarnock Abbey, where she was ushered before long within the house. It was a solemn scene! That large, old hall hung with antique armour, spears, horns, cross-bows, and portraits of many a long-forgotten ancestor. The gothic stained window, magnificent in its proportions, the ancient grained roof, the black oaken panels, the cumbrous, carved woodwork, the marble floor, and the faded tapestry, all dimly illuminated by the glimmering of a single lamp hastily lighted for the occasion. An uncertain, mysterious gleam was cast on the nearest objects, while the more distant recesses were thrown into gloomy shadow, and the tumultuous agitation of those around contrasted strangely with the locked and riveted limbs of that motionless figure to which all eyes were directed, the rigid stillness and stern composure of that countenance now invested with all the majesty of death, from which Marion turned with shuddering sympathy and amazement, while the multitude of servants and spectators continued in a state of wild excitement, uttering on every side subdued exclamations of horror.

At length Lord Doncaster himself slowly entered, with several gentlemen, some of whom looked deeply concerned, while others were evidently no more affected than if they had come to see the fifth act of a well-performed tragedy. Among the first to appear was Henry De Lancey, to whom Marion had instantly sent an express, and, totally unconscious of exciting more than ordinary notice, he advanced to Lord Doncaster with an expression of heartfelt sorrow, wishing to volunteer his services in unraveling the appalling and mysterious events of the night. While some eyes were turned on Henry with eager and intense scrutiny, an anxious investigation was commenced, though without success, for no clue could be obtained which threw any light upon this treacherous and unaccountable murder.

Not a whisper was heard, while Henry at once related all which had passed that night between himself and Captain De Crespigny, during the angry dialogue which had been overheard between them; but as delicacy to Agnes prevented him from being perfectly explicit respecting the cause of their dissension, several questions were asked, which he felt obliged to decline answering, though a cloud of suspicion gradually gathered over the countenances of several spectators, when he acknowledged having been in company with the deceased a very few minutes before the catastrophe, and that they had separated in anger.

All that could be ascertained for certain was, that Captain De Crespigny had passed the evening at Mrs. Smytheson's—that he seemed in unusual spirits, which is always remembered to have been the case with those who suffer some sudden calamity—that he had spoken of plans involving many years of life and health—that he had mentioned to Lord Wigton differences having arisen lately between him and Henry De Lancey—and that some one had been observed lurking near the door, when he took leave at night of his cousin, Miss Howard, to whom he said in his usual tone of characteristic gallantry, "I shall count the minutes till we meet to-morrow."

Little did he then, in the bright glow of youth, health, and spirits, foresee what that to-morrow should produce!

No farther information could be elicited except the evidence of Marion, who described, in faltering accents, the deadly conflict she had witnessed; but, being unable to see the assassin, she could afford no assistance in identifying him; though she declared in the strongest terms, that in height and form he bore no resemblance to any one she had ever seen before, unless it were the madman, Ernest Anstruther. To have explicitly denied that it was Henry, would have seemed like a tacit acknowledgment that such a thing might have been conjectured; and Marion abhorred the very thought of his name being at all implicated in a catastrophe so revolting.

Some time elapsed before it occurred to the imagination of Henry, that the eye of suspicion could for a moment rest upon him; and when the idea flashed into his mind, it seemed so perfectly preposterous, as to be scarcely worth a thought; but he now perceived with indignant astonishment, that there were those among the spectators who cast on him dark glances of doubt and suspicion; therefore feeling that to be accused, even in momentary thought, of a deed from which his very soul would have shrunk, was intolerable, he advanced without a moment's hesitation towards the table before which Lord Doncaster was seated; and, placing his hand upon that of the corpse beside him, he spoke in a firm and decided tone, though evidently with deep emotion, while the spectators crushed forward to hear him, and the dead silence around gave a solemn distinctness to his words, uttered, as they were, in a low, impressive tone.

"I perceive—with what degree of astonishment no words can describe—that I—the last man on earth who would seek the life of another, even in open and honorable conflict—that I, who had for my benefactor and instructor the most upright and excellent of men—am now, by a strange combination of circumstances, likely to become suspected of a dastardly and treacherous assassination! I disdain to make any paltry asseverations of innocence! yet, let me not blame any man for what he thinks! This is a time of sudden and mysterious alarm! The calamitous event is as little to be accounted for, as it is deeply to be deplored. Already I have buried in oblivion every cause of irritation which had recently arisen between us. Nothing personal to myself had caused our alienation. The deceased acted on many occasions towards me formerly with the kindest consideration, which I am as ready now to remember, as I am also to forget all that ever was painful or unsatisfactory between us."

Henry bent his head to Lord Doncaster with an air of resolute but melancholy composure, and stood back while several other persons gave their evidence, and Marion observed with surprise, that, instead of being occupied in attending to their depositions, young De Lancey gazed with a look of wondering perplexity all around the large, old-fashioned hall, while, with an expression of absent astonishment, his eye wandered over the gigantic chimney-piece of quaint device, the rusty armour and trophies of the chase, the old historical furniture, the tapestried chairs, the statues, and the richly sculptured ceiling. At length he glanced towards Lord Doncaster, who had been for some time keenly observing him, but whose looks were now hastily averted, while apparently occupied in arranging some papers, and it was evident that the aged peer's hand shook with agitation. Much might, of course, be attributed to the fearful event of the night, and yet Marion felt that this emotion did not originate from the same cause, for the Marquis cast frequently a furtive glance at Henry, though avoiding observation, and his excitement obviously increased.

Young De Lancey seemed evidently struggling with some painful, agitating perplexity! Again he perused the room with a scrutinizing gaze, and again his eye became fastened on the aged features of Lord Doncaster with a steady, earnest examination; while still the expression of doubt and wonder on his countenance became more obvious, as if he were attempting to stir up some recollections which would not come at his bidding. Turning at length to Marion, he whispered in a low, almost dreaming tone, "It is long,—very long since I have been here! When did I see this apartment last?"

"You, Henry! never! My uncle ceased to visit Lord Doncaster ages ago! Indeed, they rather disliked each other than otherwise! We never were in this old hall before!"

"And yet, Marion," replied Henry, in a tone of increasing decision, while his eye still wandered round with a look of intense curiosity, "I could swear that every object in this room is familiar to my memory. That oak roof blackened with age; those time-stained walls; those strange old portraits and their massy frames! I seem to look back through a dark mist, and to remember scenes and circumstances which occurred in this apartment long ages ago!"

"Yes, Henry! every person living is subject to these unaccountable delusions! It has often been mentioned as extraordinary, that, when any very agitated scenes occur, people are apt to feel that sort of dreaming fancy you describe, as if the whole had been acted over in their sight before."

"No, Marion, it is not so! The whole is a distinct reality! A hundred recollections arise like phantoms, and struggle in my memory. Yes! I have stood upon this floor in former years! I have gazed upon every object you see there! This was once my home! There, in that large old chair, I have sat on my mother's knee, and the aged countenance of Lord Doncaster himself is indelibly imprinted on my recollection."

"Impossible!"

"True, Marion! most true! A thousand remembrances pour in like a flood upon me! This room has often appeared before my eyes in a dream! it is connected with my earliest years! Look at the farthest corner of this hall,—behind that damask curtain stands a secret door, and it leads to a room where I could swear that some hours of my life were formerly passed, when or why I cannot even guess. Marion, the house is crowded at present, and we shall not be remarked, let us verify my recollection, by gradually approaching the concealed door, and then you will be convinced that memory has not deceived me."

When Henry, by a slow and difficult progress, had piloted Marion through the dense mass of persons who filled the hall, they reached at length the spot he had indicated, where, lifting the tapestry, he at once opened a door, so nearly resembling the paneling as scarcely to be discernible, and they entered a small, low room, which seemed to Marion no larger than a four-post bed, so dusty, dark, and neglected-looking, that it had evidently not been occupied for years. Long cobwebs hung like banners from the roof,—it was almost destitute of furniture—and they found a picture placed on the floor, its face towards the wall, representing a lady, young and dazzlingly beautiful, and a boy beside her, playing with a large Newfoundland dog.

Henry silently strode across the room, and, as if perfectly familiar with its arrangements, he threw open a small cupboard, into which had been thrown the broken fragments of several childish playthings. He paused and gave an agitated look towards Marion. His countenance had become pale, and wore the same expression as at first, of almost agonizing perplexity, while he was evidently groping through the darkest recesses of his memory for that which still eluded his grasp. Leaning his head on his hand, with eyes fixed on the portrait before him, Henry remained long in this agitating reverie, his countenance flushed by the inward tumult, while hunting through his recollection for a more defined shadow of that which flickered in his brain, and Marion silently observed him. She did not speak, she scarcely even breathed, for now it seemed to her as if some mystery were there too deep for her to fathom, connected probably with Henry's early history, and a secret hope glimmered on her mind that possibly the time had come at last when a clue might be obtained to the mystery of Henry's birth and misfortunes.

The child, whose portrait they had here discovered, bore an obvious resemblance to Henry De Lancey, as she first remembered him. The very dress was similar, and all around brought to mind what Henry had once described of his early home. It seemed to Marion as if this were the very crisis of his existence, and she waited in silent hope, expecting that the moment might come, when he would again speak to tell her his thoughts; but a deep oppression seemed gathering over his spirit, he riveted his hands over his face, as if anxious thus to shut out the world, and every thing in it, from his shrinking memory, and there was a silence around like death itself.