Dunbar, longing to go, yet not sure that it would be welcome, pushed his way through a break in the hedge, and went towards her. Charlie followed him quickly; the trigger of his gun caught on a twig, went off, and Dunbar, putting his hand to his side, gave a low cry, and fell forwards on the turf.

"Good Heavens! I have killed him," shrieked the boy. "I have murdered my friend, my dearest friend," as he threw himself beside Dunbar, distracted with grief and terror. But with a cry ten times more full of anguish even than his was, Beatrice ran up and dropped on her knees, her face blanched, and her eyes wild, as she spoke almost inarticulately: "He will die-he will die! Go for help-go at once. Do you not hear? Not that way," she cried, mad for the moment with "the lodge is nearer. Send the men up to the house. Go, go! or he will die !"

agony,

Charlie, scarcely conscious of what he did, staggered off to the lodge, while keepers and beaters flew all ways, some to the house, some for the nearest surgeon.

Beatrice knelt beside him, supporting his head against her, holding her cobweb handkerchief to stanch the blood flowing fast from his side, while the dew stood on her brow, and her heart stopped its throbs. Unused as she was to such scenes, his ashy lips, his closed eyes, the deadly pallor of his face seemed death itself; and Beatrice, as she bent over him, learning how much she loved him, believing that his life was stilled for ever, kissed his cold brow as though to call him back to existence, and prayed for her own life to be taken if only his might be spared. She forgot all about the Covey then. As consciousness came back to him, he felt her hot tears on his cheek, and, slowly unclosing his eyes, saw her face bending over him. He thought he was in delirium, but the madness at least was heaven. He tried to speak, the words were under his breath, but she heard them.

"Do you love me, then?"

"Yes, yes," murmured Beatrice, thick sobs choking her voice, and the blood rushing into her cheeks. "You will live yet, oh, thank Heaven!" "You love me," repeated Dunbar, ecstasy beaming in his face; then his eyes closed, and his head fell back on her knee in utter unconsciousness again.

It was not long before poor Charlie, half beside himself, calling himself a murderer, wishing himself dead, and Heaven knows what other awful retribution, came back, with half the servants and Sir Cadwallader himself, who was secretly scandalised at seeing Beatrice with a man s head on her knee and her hand held to his side, but couldn't, under the circumstances, lecture her thereon. They put him on a stretcher and took him up to the house, where the surgeons pronounced no danger at all, and extracted the shots very easily. He was on the sick list some time though, poor old fellow, but found it very pleasant to be petted, and waited on, and fed with every delicacy she could think of, and made much of by such a nurse as Beatrice, till he couldn't in conscience call himself even convalescent any longer. During that long convalescent time, when she read, and sang, and played to him, and wouldn't let him lift his hand for fear of over-exertion, they came, you're sure, to mutual explanations; and Dunbar said he never was so obliged to any man as

he was to Charlie for shooting him. Beatrice showed him how naturally the attention she saw him pay the Covey verified the reports she had heard; but assured him words could never tell all she had suffered, how much she had loved him, and so on ad infinitum. Charlie, in the agonies of remorse, had confided to his governor the affair of the Covey, and Sir Cadwallader, when Dunbar informed him in a decided manner that he wished to marry his daughter, couldn't very well have refused; indeed, I don't know that he desired to do so, for Lennox was as good blood as the De Vaux, and had "very fair expectations."

"But, Lennox," whispered Beatrice, laughingly, on Christmas-day, as she drove him to church in her little trap, "I thought you wanted a plain, quiet, sensible girl, not too much accomplished, who could sew on buttons, and keep an eye on the cook? I'm dreadfully useless, you know. If I were to sew on anything one minute, it would come off the next; and though I can make a party go off well, I haven't a notion of ordering a dinner. You will have head and heart, but you won't have hands."

"Yes I shall, pretty little white ones, that wear 5's gloves. Head and heart will suit me rather better, ma belle. Sewing and housekeeping are all very well where they're wanted, but I must say I prefer an intellect that can cope with mine, and a clever tongue that will amuse me. Depend on it, love, there would be happier marriages if women were capable, like you, of elevating and interesting a man, instead of thinking their duty done when they've ordered the dinner or seen the children dressed. Women should be companions, to raise and to amuse and to keep the love won, not nurses or upper servants, as too many think it a credit to be. When I was a boy, hope painted such a one as yourself; later on, I only pictured her in dreams, despairing of meeting my among the inane artificialities or uninteresting common-places with which society is crowded, but now" And Dunbar dashed straight into passionate praises and assurances that he wasn't half good enough for her, which was all bosh, for he's good enough for anybody, dear old fellow! But that's always the way people talk before marriage; after it they're given to thinking themselves too good, and tell you they've thrown themselves away:

ideal

About the middle of February a great and sudden woe fell upon Snobleton. The Donkeyshire were ordered off to Aldershott, where, inspired by the sight of the regulars, I suppose they hoped at the Waroffice (how vain a hope!) that we might learn in time not to march double-quick when "Halt!" was cried, and not to kill and slay our brother rankmen with unruly ramrods. Into camp we were ordered, and we and all Snobleton wept. No more could we shirk early parade, no more could we go our rounds on pouring nights with dainty umbrella and shiny goloshes to protect us, no more could we scramble through our manœuvres in any style we chose-no more! We were going into camp with the men of the Punjab and the Cape, and the eyes of a hundred martinets would be on our short-comings.

Dunbar, happy dog! had thrown up his commission, and was going to sun himself at Nice and Florence, instead of being quartered in log huts on snowy ground in damp, disagreeable, chilly February. We gave him such a farewell dinner; and the speeches we made him on his desertion of the Donkeyshire were so pathetic, that Popleton, moved either by tnem

or by too much wine, nearly cried as he reverted to the Monday night's loo at "notre magasin," "now dim memories of an irrevocable past.

The 20th of February was Dunbar's wedding-day, and we came out full force in Springley church, I can tell you. Pop and Spoon, who thought the yellow facings peculiarly embellishing, bemoaned the melancholy fact that mufti was the règle for wedding breakfasts; but the band stationed themselves in the full glory of their unique costume, and actually contrived to play "Haste to the wedding" all together for once; it wasn't particularly appropriate, but that didn't matter-the amount of crash and noise was the thing aimed at. Beatrice looked very charming in her cloud of bridal gossamer. Dunbar swears to this day, that when she murmured the service after an episcopal uncle of hers, she said, "I, Beatrice, take thee, Latakia!"

There were [a dozen bridesmaids, harassing visions of whom, in white tulle and holly wreaths, tortured Spoon and shook Pop's fidelity for months afterwards. There were all the Fitzcockywhoops and Pursangs, a sprinkling from the Peerage and Baronetage, and a good dash of the Army and Navy. I'm afraid there was more fun and nonsense at the breakfast than Sir Cadwallader quite liked or thought good ton, but it was a jolly affair altogether, though Dunbar worked himself nearly into a fever with impatience at it, and was in a state bordering on distraction till he got Beatrice safe in the carriage, and sprang in himself, with a hasty "Good-by, old fellows!"

"Well," said Mount Etna that night at mess, "I can't say, gentlemen, you've shown much aptitude in learning the drill, but I'll confess you haven't been laggards in learning of Master Cupid."

"By Jove, no!" lisped Eagle. "The Donkeyshire's shown itself a very inflammable corps. Dunbar's got a wife"And Pop a promised one," said Spicer.

"Questionable benefits," chuckled old Mount.

"And Spoon an idol shrined in Backboard's precious college." "And Fanny, Charlie's turquoise ring and bijouterie unnumbered." "And Sophy, Spicer's yellow-boys and tender memories of Latakia." "All which goes to prove that Ours' have made asses of themselves," summed up old Mount. "The deuce! this town must be as full of love as a bomb of powder. Thank God we march out of it tomorrow, or I might catch the general disease, and saddle myself with a woman-the heaviest baggage, take my word, boys, that a man can drag after him on a march through life; so heavy, that many a poor fellow I have known has been glad to leave it in the rear."

It was our last mess in the Marquis's Arms. On the morrow, farewell to Georgie and to Adela, to the Covey and cozy luncheons in "notre magasin," to easy parades and mock rounds and feather-bed soldiering in sleepy Snobleton. We sat late and drank deep, toasting our lost loves and bewailing our destinies, cursing the War-office that wrote out our Kismet, and laughing loud over Popleton's poetic fire, which, wrought upon by circumstances, and inspired by whisky, found vent in the following effusion, delivered with some hesitation and a few sighs, and a vast deal of drinking on the poet's part:

SNOBLETON'S LAMENT.

A LAY OF FEBRUARY, 1855.

"Tis over, 'tis over, the pang is past,
The militia is gone-is gone at last!

They are " gone from our gaze like a beautiful dream,"
And are whistled away by an engine and steam.
And oh! for the pen of a Muse to declare
The heartrending woe of the brave and the fair;
No lay of Childe Harold, no poem of Poe,
Was ever so sad as the tale of our woe.

Ah! little, too little, the Horse Guards can guess
Of the pain they have caused by ordaining the mess
To move to that horrid, detestable camp,

When the snow's on the ground and the weather so damp!
The last day has come, and the last day has past,
The bills and the billets-doux both rained in fast,
But despite ev'ry obstacle off they are sent,

And poor Snobleton's doomed to a very triste Lent.
Notre magasin" 's shut, and deserted its halls,

The Covey will figure no more at the balls;

Latakia and Spicer have both taken wing,
And all that is left of dear Charlie's a ring;
Fair Adela's spirits to zero have sunk,

And poor Georgie Pop's in a very great funk.
The Backboard's fair students may slumber in peace,
Not again will our Spoon risk the wrath of police!
The cricket-field's silent, no more the drum's beat
Is heard as our fellows defile down the street.
"The milishee's a coming!" was whilom the cry
That saluted our ears as the colonel rode by;

But the town's silent now, from the north to the south,
And cigar-shops look very much down in the mouth.
Ladies and ladies' maids neither can sleep,

And even a bridegroom o'er whisky did weep,

As he thought of the Monday nights' whist and the loo,
And bade his East Donkeyshire comrades adieu.
And "Pussy," too-Springley's particular star-
Latakia has stolen and whirled off afar;

But long shall we think of her sweet dancing eyes,
And bid her "God speed!" wheresoever she flies.
So, farewell to ye, mess-room Amphitryons all!
Farewell, ye frequenters of race, hunt, and ball!
Farewell to ye, gentle réunions for loo!
Farewell to ye, officers, clever and moux !
May you never know sorrow a tenth part so great
As the fair ones of Snobleton suffered of late,
When their Donkeyshire darlings were cruelly sent
From boudoir and drawing-room to barrack and tent,
To practise the goose-step and study the drill,
While, in the flirting-rooms, silent and still,
Their Calypsos, forsaken, bewail the dear corps,
And in tears vote the Horse Guards a terrible bore,
For snatching from carpet-dance, pic-nic, and ball,
The Donkeyshire heroes, so dear to them all!

29

THE STORY OF FRANCESCO NOVELLO DA CARRARA.

AN EPISODE IN ITALIAN HISTORY.

I.

THE north of Italy during the latter part of the fourteenth century was a scene of great confusion. No romance, however vivid the imagination of the writer, could exceed in deep interest the reality which history here presents. Deeds of the blackest crime and of the noblest heroism are brought before us; we may trace the most marvellous adventures, or follow the intricacies of subtle policy and deep design. At every turn we are startled by the ingenuity of the plots, which only Italian tyrants of the fourteenth century could have conceived-tyrants who cared not by what means their ambition was satisfied, and who never paused to calculate the sacrifice of human life they were about to make.

Set aside humane scruples, and a wide field is opened before the ambitious.

To be powerful at this time, in Italy, might almost have been considered synonymous with criminal; for power was generally, if not always, attained through erime, provided that there was no cowardice in the aspirant.

The north of Italy was a kind of patchwork of dukedoms, republics, and seigniories. Each family reigned supreme over the possessions of their forefathers, which would have been ample for private individuals, but were far too small to sustain petty monarchs. The consequence was, that they were too weak to resist invaders, unless aided by some friendly power, and this gave rise to so many interests and counter-interests, to so many jealousies and quarrels, to such perpetual vacillation and change, where passion and inclination rather than justice ruled, that it is hard to disentangle the intricate web by which we find all events, actions, and motives surrounded, and to draw out the distinct biography of an individual such as Carrara, whose position, adventures, and ambition caused him to be mixed up with most of the quarrels of his time and country.

Confusion is the chief difficulty with which we shall have to combat, and to avoid it, as much as possible, it will be necessary for us first to take a cursory glance at the position of Europe at the time when this biography commences, and, secondly, to consider the general state of society in Italy. By doing this we shall be better qualified to understand the people with whom we have here to treat, and shall be able to transport ourselves back to so distant a period with greater ease and less complication of ideas. The other nations of Europe were suffering almost as much as Italy under bad governments and intestine wars, occasioned by the petty quarrels or ambitious designs of individuals.

The empire of Germany had fallen into the hands of Wenceslaus, a weak prince, wholly unworthy of his illustrious father Charles IV., who had himself been but a sorry representative of his predecessors. Wenceslaus reigned about twenty-two years, at the end of which time he was formally deposed by a majority of the Electoral College, whose very