XI. I watched the clock-I told each beat, I knew I must have cherished hope, I cried: "They shall not build their bliss XII. I would go gliding up the church "And steal, a spectre, to the feast, And throw him back his ring, in sight XIII. Small pity had he had for me No mercy had been shown to me, I would show none, I cried. XIV. Then quick as thought, my heathen thought, I tore into the street, And plucked my shawl about my face, And never turned to greet; But passed, like Vengeance, through the crowd, With wings upon my feet. XV. The solemn, solemn church, it soothed And healed me unaware; The holy light came streaming in Like balm, on my despair; -How could I barbour evil thoughts When Jesus Christ was there! • XVI. And then I heard the organ peal, That seemed to say: "My child was dead,— XVII. I looked upon her face, poor bride, I quelled my soul, I hid my face, dvIII. I heard their vows, I heard his voice, God had said "Peace be still!" and lo, XIX. Through tears I looked upon my love It was not he that wrought my woe, Sorrowing, not sinful, bruised, not lost, JEU D'AMOUR. BY CYNIC. and attentions his cousin Henry Woodville, then on his way through the capitals and sights of Europe. Henry Woodville was a simple, goodnatured young fellow, who, after taking his degree at Cambridge, had been sent forth on his travels under the charge of his former tutor, an excellent man, but little versed in the ways of life. How dreadful, therefore, to the worthy preceptor was the life which his pupil made him lead in Paris,-opera, ball, concert, rout, or other dissipation every night, and to fill the day, calls, lounges, drives, and riding in the Bois. A fortnight sufficed to completely knock up the dominie, and Henry, who was almost as fond of him as of his own father, willingly agreed. accomplishments with a perfect disregard of the effect they might have on the hearts of her admirers. "She has no heart herself," said Harris, one day, "how can you expect her to treat you as if you possessed the article." Now this captivation of Henry had been gradually consummating itself, and when Count Rutkay called on him at Moritz Strasse, he found him the blind slave of Diana's caprices. "The grandest presence you ever stood in, Count; she is the most beautiful and accomplished being on the face of the earth. Do you know I only fear one thing, and that is your rivalry." "I do not shine by modesty. You have considered me much too dogmatic and mistaken my meaning." precise; slightly puritanical even, and certainly given to lecturing." Miss Beachampton received Count Rutkay less coldly than the latter expected; to Henry there seemed to be real warmth in her welcome of the Hungarian, but when he said so, on their return to the city that evening, the Count laughed so heartily at the notion that it quickly faded from Woodville's imagination. For several days after this the Count was a total stranger both at Loschwitz and at He wrote a short note to Moritz Strasse. Henry, stating that certain matters requiring his immediate attention would prevent their meeting, and begged him to present his excuses to Sir Lionel for not calling. Miss Diana's lip curled with much scorn as she heard this-her father was looking at her-but when alone she gave way to a passionate burst of tears. Great was her delight when, riding slowly -home one evening, in company with her father and Henry, they suddenly met Rut "Well! If you mean Sir Lionel's daugh- kay at the junction of two roads. He was ter-Sir Lionel of Elton Chase." going their way, and must keep up with 66 The same. Now I remember; you them. The Count reined up, bowed, but seemed not to see Diana's proffered hand. For such an expert horseman it was strange he should be so greatly disturbed by the curvetting of his steed as he appeared to be. Sir Lionel expressed his pleasure at the rencontre, and trusted the Count would join their party that evening. "Ask not me," said Sir Lionel, "your conversation is a sealed riddle to my powers of understanding.” "Then ask Harry-I mean Mr. Woodville." "Oh!" whispered the youth, "always call me Harry." "Well, Mr. Woodville, can you acquaint "I am afraid not; I must hurry on to me with the solution of this mystery." Pilnitz, where I am expected." "This evening !" cried Woodville. "Yes, Von Braunstein sent me an express this afternoon." "I do not know what Miss Beachampton means, I "Oh! he is as bad as you are, Count. One of these days he will have to be brought "The more so that having already rendered up arms to" I was "To no one, madam." "How rude of you-interrupting me before I finish what I have to say. going to deal tenderly with you, Count, but you have put yourself in my power. Now listen, all of you. During the last week, if not more, the cold-hearted, sceptical Paul Rutkay has been nightly roaming on lonely paths and prowling around silent habitations. Sometimes on foot, more frequently on horseback; muffled up in a vast cloak-the image of the one rolled up on his saddle— and with his hat pulled well down over his brows, perhaps to preserve intact the bright flash of the eye meant for his fair alone. But he has appeared undecided, moving restlessly from place to place, now stopping opposite this house, now opposite that--now rapidly making his way to the town, now as slowly retracing his steps. Speaking half aloud, after the fashion of desperate characters in melodramas, riding bare-headed when he fancied no one saw him; springing from his horse and plucking flowers, which, after passionately embracing, he threw again into. the brook-to be carried where the Naiad might direct; soberly using pantomime to express the greatness of his passion, which, unfortunately, the fair one seemed not to understand, perhaps even not to see. Who she is I know not, and I believe the Count knows not either-else why his prolonged halts and musings before the various villas ? One evening, indeed, a soft hope that I might be the fortunate maid who attracted this knight of evanescence, flitted across my brain and raised very tumultuous feelings in . . . Azor's heart, for he took to violent barking-as the unmistakeable form of Count Rutkay appeared beneath our windows. But, alas, I was doomed to disappointment, and the halt made by this gal lant was of very short duration. Had I at the moment owned a lute or guitar, I should have essayed to recall him with witching sounds, as he dashed off at topmost speed 'on business of a pressing nature."" As Diana finished this long tirade, she indulged in another burst of laughter, in which she was joined by Henry. Sir Lionel looked grave, Rutkay calm as ever. Not a muscle of his face moved; his glance did not flash, his brows did not bend. Only when Miss Diana had indulged her merriment long enough and mockingly called on him for his defence, he replied: "To such grave and weighty accusations, Miss Beachampton, you can not expect me to reply, either by denial or affirmation. I may or may not have been the mysterious horseman who has so much engrossed your attention. Should I be he, how flattered must I feel at having succeeded in fixing for one moment the gaze of the fairest, and, let me add, the most capricious of women. But such luck is not reserved for me, nor would I prize it much, I fear, even if it were. Pardon my frankness, you know I have always been a Transylvanian bear." "And you have not greatly improved your manners by travelling, that I must say." "Diana!" said Sir Lionel, severely. "Ah! Sir Lionel," broke in the Count, "pay no heed to Miss Beachampton's sarcasms. On me they fall harmless; I am so well protected against them that I am rather pleased to have them fired at me." "And may your enemy inquire in what armour you have encased yourself?” "My enemy taught me that indifference, which some call by the name of heartlessness, is proof to all reproach, to all rebuke, to all irony. As for tenderness, love, devotion, sacrifice, these are even less dangerous to the happy being fortified by indifference it chills them ere they can approach." "How cruelly hard that fair one must have been yesterday!" "Nay, Miss Beachampton, she was no harder than is her wont." "Then are you sure, Count, that your pretended indifference is not merely "Merely. . . ?" "Angry feeling? Stay, let me explain myself. Perhaps she is only so hard because she knows too little of you; if you will wrap your soul and heart in folds so thick that no eye can pierce them, how shall a woman ever give away her own trust and love to you, who obstinately refuse to let her read even a page of the book of your heartwho . . . . "Forgive my interrupting your plea, but I must repeat, you are in error. I had fancied you knew me sufficiently well to be aware that I could never endure to solicit the love of any woman. If you will have a confession, here it is: I loved but once in my life-a_woman_who could have made me happy. She soon discovered my affection, but it pleased her to laugh at it. I had no right to object to this, but I could and I did escape from a thraldom which was unworthy of me. I became free once more, I wan |