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a retiring air, holding his daughter's hand, and said, without raising his eyes, "Sir, I cannot express the gratitude I feel for all your kindness to one unknown to you."

Father Pierre rose, and answered falteringly: "It appears to me, this is not the first time that-"

At the sound of that voice Severin threw himself into

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and said: "I am going to tell you my story, which is | father could scarcely recognise him. He advanced with not long,-My poor mother is dead, and I have no one to love me but my father, who is very kind and good, but he cannot work, for he is almost always ill, and the miserable home we have is enough to break his heart; as to me, I do not mind it for myself, but I weep when I see him wanting everything. We have nothing; neither wood, nor a blanket on our bed; and it is so cold, the other night I could not sleep!—I heard my poor father weeping!- then a good thought came into my head; and that is, to ask some assistance from the Count of C- who is a very rich and charitable man; he lives at the corner of this square; and, if he would take me into his kitchen, I would wait on the servants, and work day and night to get a little bread and money for my dear father! Do you think you could make such a petition for me, dear Sir?"

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She was leaving the shop, having thanked him most warmly:

"Embrace me, Lucie !" said the old man, extending his arms to her.

She threw herself into them, weeping with hope and joy.

The next day, when she returned, he took her on his knee, and said to her, "My love, I have delightful news for you."

"Ah! I shall be taken into the Count's service, and my father shall have some assistance!" "Better than that, perhaps; but, tell me, what does your father do now?"

"He copies letters, for he writes a very good handalmost as good as yours; it is he who taught me to read and write a little.'

"Are his parents alive?"

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They are both dead, Sir; my father taught me a prayer, which I repeat every day for grandpapa's soul." Father Pierre could not hide his tears; he embraced the child, and exclaimed, in broken accents, " You are a good little girl, Lucie, and God will bless you!" When his emotion had a little subsided, he took several crowns from his desk, and gave them to her, saying, "Take these to your father: with them he can buy clothes for you and himself; and this evening you must come and sup with a person who can and will help you. There is the address."

The little child ran with the greatest eagerness to communicate the joyful tidings to her father. In the meantime Father Pierre gave his orders to Madelaine. "Have a good supper," said he; "this shall be the best I ever had; a bottle of good wine,-the poor man has not taken anything for a long time;-and, especially, have an excellent fire, for he has suffered much from cold."

Madelaine was in such delight, she scarcely knew what she was doing, and could hardly contain herself at the thought of the charming Lucie, to whom she was to be a second mother. Father Pierre had already walked fifty times up and down his room, and was anxiously looking at the alabaster clock which ornamented his mantelpiece, when a gentle knock at the door announced their arrival: then his strength seemed to forsake him, and he was obliged to sit down while Madelaine ran to open the door. Severin entered :— how old he looked!-how changed he was!—even his

the old man's arms, exclaiming, My father! oh, my dear father!" For a quarter of an hour there was nothing but tears, embracings, half-finished sentences,

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they heard not each other, all spoke together, and appeared intoxicated with joy. When these transports of delight were over, Father Pierre took Lucie on his knee, and said, "My child, you are now to live with your grandpapa,-we will never separate again." Never, never!" said Severin, weeping. "Oh, if my poor wife could but witness our happiness! She, who shared all my misfortunes,-if she only knew you forgave me, father! But, doubtless, from heaven-where she now is-she watches over her child, and me; she sees us now, and participates in our joy!"

My dear son, it was she who led Lucie to my shop. Alas! without that providential occurrence, I might have died without again seeing you, and you would not have got my blessing!"

"Misery and misfortune have punished my faults. Oh, by what a train of suffering have I been led to repentance !"

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My son, that is all past now; you no longer shall want for anything, as God has blessed me abundantly." Grandpapa," said Lucie, "I will attend on you, and take great care of you; and will you allow me to help Madelaine in the house?"

"Yes, my child," said Madelaine; "come, we will go and prepare supper;-a good supper I have got for you and our dear Severin !"

Whilst they were arranging the table, Father Pierre took his son into a little closet, opening into their sitting room, and made him acquainted with his good fortune, and the state of his affairs:-"I have in this desk a bill of two thousand francs, that is a nice capital; so, my dear son, if you wish to enter on a profession, I am able, and very willing to assist you." "I have chosen one, father." "What is it, my son?" "The same as yours,never again will leave you."

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-we will work together,-I

Supper is ready," said Father Pierre; "to-morrow

I will install the new Writer in his office."

THE EARL'S SON.

A CHRONICLE OF THE TIME OF KING RICHARD II.1 "Sir John, have you in your chronicle, what I am going to speak of?"

"I do not know,” replied I, "but begin your story, which I shall be happy to hear, for I cannot recollect every particular of my history, nor can I have been perfectly informed of every event."

"That is true," added the squire, and then began his history in these words.-Froissart's Chronicles.

KING Richard of England, learning how the French and the Scots had invaded the north, and were overrunning it with fire and sword, issued forthwith a summons for a large armament, and, with the numerous lords who obeyed it, took the field, and marched towards Scotland. There was a young and valiant knight, Sir Oliver de Versy, who heard and answered this call with much joy, for he had been sore disheartened by the truce made between France and England. Though young, Sir Oliver had often shone in the tournament and in the field, and his gallantry being well known, he was at his coming greeted accordingly. He brought with him a fair young squire, who for the first time

(1) By the Author of "The Lunatic Asylum."

arrow, which transfixed the youth so cleanly that it passed through his body, and appeared on the other side, and Raymond Messiden fell dead on the ground. The archers and their company fled straight to Sir Lionel to tell the ill deed that had been done, and roundly did he rate them therefore.

"Nay," said the archer, "an I had not killed him, he had killed me, and I had as lief he should die as I should."

"Get thee gone, knave," cried Sir Lionel. "Keep out of sight, for I know not that I shall easily earn thy pardon. Methinks I have heard tell how that Sir Oliver bears a wonderful kindness to the youth thou hast pierced; and if so, it may go hard with thee yet;" so the archer made off as swiftly as he could, and held himself aloof.

Now the suite of Sir Oliver sought him out, and told him of the murder of his beloved squire, and for a while the young knight was more like a madman than one who was sane; so sorely was he incensed at the sudden and ignominious fall of a stripling of such exceeding beauty and courage, whom he had taken from his home to win the spurs of knighthood in the field. Coming to where the body lay, he gazed on it awhile, with a passion which threatened to suffocate him: the veins swelled in his forehead as if they would burst, and he crimsoned all over. Nor was he long withheld by shame from letting fall tears, as bitter as a brother could have asked, as plenteous as a woman could have shed. Probably he thought on the sorrow of the Lady Joan, which he would have to behold when he should bear back these tidings to her, and how he should be unable to allay it, by speaking of glory purchased by early death. He stooped down beside the youth, and dipped his hand in the gore which still oozed from his death wound. Thus said he :

bore arms. His name was Raymond Messiden, the only son of a widowed mother, a dame of fair degree, who had entrusted him, not without many tears, and great misgivings, to Sir Oliver, that he might perform his first deeds of arms under his direction. On this stripling De Versy did bestow a surpassing tenderness, -even as that of the mother who bore him. The boy was of a rare mettle, but of a delicate frame (having been somewhat too carefully nurtured by the Lady Joan, whose only solace he was), and the king's forced marches in his haste to overtake his good uncle, Lancaster, to aid in repelling the invaders from his kingdom, proved too much for his strength. He sickened, and was forced to tarry awhile in the good city of York, where he must have died had it not been for the unwearied tending of his loving master, who watched beside his pallet day and night, administering with his own hands such draughts and simples as the leech whom he sought out skilfully prescribed. When Raymond Messiden was recovered from his sickness, the young knight set forward with all speed to make up for the time he had lost, and he and the twelve lances who went with him, got up with the king and his army ere they quitted their quarters in the country about Beverley. And now fell out an adventure, in which the youthful squire thought to show forth his grateful zeal for his tender master, and did but meet his own death, and plunge him he loved and served in endless trouble. Arriving thus late, the good knight found that there was some difficulty in being suitably lodged; at least, as near the king's person or that of his uncle as he was fain to be, for this was the point most desired by the earls and barons, and knights of the realm. Now while Sir Oliver went to make his coming known to divers of his companions in arms, and to learn what news were rife in the camp in his absence, he left his squire and his train to prepare lodgings for him ere night. They did find in a neighbouring village such as they deemed very meet for the occasion, and with much satisfaction did proceed to establish themselves He sprang to his feet, and dismissing his softer sortherein. Now, whilst they were concluding their bar- row, called loudly for his charger, and, vaulting into his gain with the good wife, did two archers arrive, clad in saddle, rode madly across the country, followed by some the livery of Sir Lionel Nevil, with a party of men-at- of his followers, who deemed it not meet that he should arms, followers of the Earl Nevil, and straightways began ride alone in a mood so troubled. It was now dusk, they to wrangle with the train of Sir Oliver, roundly yet still Sir Oliver spurred his horse on, regardless of declaring that they had already procured these lodgings all impediments, resolved to seek out Sir Lionel, and for their master, and were about to prepare them for of him to demand satisfaction for this deed. Entering his reception. Whether their bold assertion was but a a narrow lane, he galloped along it at his utmost speed, lie vehemently urged to serve their own purpose, or till he became sensible of the approach of some horsewhether the good wife had indeed played them false, men. The darkness prevented the two parties from and had now driven a bargain more to her mind, Ray-recognising each other, and reining in their steeds, mond Messiden and his men paused not to inquire, but each challenged the other to declare who he was. haughtily replied that "Sir Lionel, or a better man than "I am Nevil," cried he who rode at the head of the he, must shift as he could, until their master was intercepted party. fairly housed."

"There is no better man, except the good earl his father, marcheth with the king," replied one of the archers, tartly. "As for thy lord, 't were honour enough for him to hold the stirrup to mine as he mounteth."

"Thou dost grievously lie if thou wouldest prefer thy lord above mine in honour," cried Messiden. 'But get thee hence. I wrangle not with such as thee. Here Sir Lionel lyeth not to-night, make thee sure of that, and begone."

It had been well had the archer heeded these words; instead of so doing, with more foul animadversions on the knight whom Messiden served than it was meet for the youth, if true of heart, to hear tamely, he declared his resolution to abide there, and with his companions to hold the house for Sir Lionel Nevil. The squire, greatly fired by this treatment, unsheathed his sword in haste, and brandishing it, cried,

"Now an I did believe thee in earnest, villain, I would thust this blade through thine heart."

Then the archer believing, or feigning to believe, that his life was in danger, stepped back a pace among his comrades, and bending his bow, let fly a good

"Thou dear one, doubtless thou shalt have a vengeance that shall make thy name known far and wide full as much as any deed of thine own could have done."

A brief silence followed this declaration.

"And I," then answered Sir Oliver, "am De Versy, and I come in search of thee, thou Nevil, for thy people have murdered my squire, whom I loved so much; and I must have blood for his."

So saying he placed his lance in its rest, and urged his horse violently onward. But too well employed was this lance; he felt that he bore his opponent from his saddle, but he paused not to inquire the extent of the injury he had inflicted, but galloped on. His servants followed him at less speed, and they heard the attendants of Sir Lionel shout after them: "De Versy, thou hast slain this brave young Nevil. Heavy will this news be to the father when he knows it."

Then rode they quickly after their master, and told him: "Knowest thou that thou hast killed this young lord?" "It is well," replied Sir Oliver; "less precious blood would not have atoned for that of Messiden."

He paused awhile, and reflected gloomily; then crying-"On!" set spurs again to his horse, took his way to the town of Beverley, and riding straight to the porch of the church of St. John, dismissed his attendants, and entered into the sanctuary.

Meantime the followers of Sir Lionel raised his bleeding body from the earth, and bore him to the neighbouring village church. They roused the monks of a near convent, who came with great wax-lights, and watched beside the corpse till morning, preparing it for the burial. Then proceeded they to the quarters of Earl Nevil, and told him that his brave, and beautiful, and accomplished son was slain. This was the only, as well as the beloved son of the Earl, and immeasurable was his sorrow at these tidings. Not less was his rage; he sent a hasty summons to all his friends to come and advise with him how to act. When before this assembly was rehearsed how this sad accident fell out, the nearest kinsmen, and those who best loved father and child, parleyed awhile, and strove alike to calm the grief of the former, and to devise some means of avenging the fall of the latter. The wisest among them counselled the good Earl to wait the dawn, and then to seek the King's face, and declaring his wrong, to demand law | and justice. Then they separated in order to prepare to render the last honours to their fallen kinsman, with as much decorum as possible, and assembling together all who bore relationship to the family in the camp, they proceeded to the church where the young knight lay, clad in his armour, unhelmed, and his face uncovered. When the Earl arrived, he walked straight up to the bier, and kneeling down beside the corpse, he clasped the hand of the deceased. They that stood around saw his lips move, and though they heard no sound, they judged from the stern grim mien which he maintained, that he uttered a vow of vengeance. Then gazed he fondly on the face that was so very beautiful, nought disfigured by wounds, or pining sickness. He laid his hand on the head, which was thickly covered with long glossy hair of a shining golden hue, and, separating one heavy curl from its fellows, drew his sword, and with that severing it, he placed it in his bosom. This act seemed to melt his heart within him; but it was not for a warrior like him to bear to be looked upon in the weakness of grief. With somewhat of scornful impatience he waved his hand, bidding all retire, and leave him awhile alone with his child. They who tarried within the porch could plainly distinguish groans and sobs of anguish. The obsequies were duly performed by the monks who had tended the corpse, and the mass was said by their superior, and much honour was rendered, though little time had been bestowed in the arrangements of the proceedings. The sword of the fallen knight was offered by his cousin to Lord Palmer, supported by two other knights near of kin. The bold Sir John Melchere, similarly supported, appeared with the shield. The helmet was borne by his companion in arms, Sir Aymer Roussel, one of Sir Lionel's own age and favour, and Sir Evan Cocherel led his war-horse. As soon as the service was ended, the company, to the number of sixty and upwards, mounted their horses, and the Earl, in a voice of command not so firm as it was wont to be heard in the field, cried, "Now to the King." When they reached the King's tent, they readily gained an interview, for he was already informed of the sad event, and heartily lamented the loss the good Earl had sustained, and the rash deed of Sir Oliver.

No sooner did the Earl enter the presence of the King, than he knelt low before him, and those who saw him now for the first time since the death of his son, could already plainly discern the traces of the havoc grief was committing on him. Though in the presence of a great company, he now shed tears freely, and he spoke with a rare passion, as if life depended on his moving the King to avenge his cause.

"Thou art king of all England," he cried, "and thou hast solemnly sworn to maintain the realm in its rights, and to do justice to all men. Thou knowest that Sir Oliver de Versy hath, without the slightest reason, murdered my son and heir. I therefore come to demand justice; otherwise thou wilt not have a worse enemy than me. I must likewise inform thee that my son's

death affects me so bitterly, that if I were not fearful of breaking up this expedition by the trouble and confusion I should make in the army, by mine honour it should be revenged in so severe a manner, that it should be talked of for a hundred years to come. During this march into Scotland, I will talk no more of it-I would not like the enemy to know of my great misery, and to rejoice therein."

"Nay, fair lord," replied King Richard, with the dignity by which he was so distinguished in his early days," let not thy heart misgive thee. I will do justice, and will myself punish this crime more severely than thou and the barons could dare to do."

The Earl and his kinsmen returned thanks for this royal assurance, and departed from the King's presence. Meantime one acquainted with the determination which the Earl and the King had come to, made his way to St. John's Church, and told it to Sir Oliver de Versy, who, thus assured of present safety, quitted the sanctuary. During the night and morning which Sir Oliver had passed in retirement, he had time to recover the heat which had put him on so desperate a deed. In no wise could he pretend that the youth he had slain had been the wilful occasion of the death of his favourite squire, and, while he bitterly bemoaned the loss of Messiden, he could not but be visited by remorse for having killed the only son of his father. This train of thought received a further aid from without. The priest who admitted Sir Oliver to the sanctuary was an aged man, and a holy; he had seen many a rude offender, and some humble penitents, seek the same; but he thought he had never beheld among them all a deeper grief than that which appeared on the countenance of this young knight, and he tarried near him to see if he were fain to ease his troubled soul of its burden. There was that in the sanctity of this aged man's office, and in the mildness of his bearing, that awed Sir Oliver more than the presence of the fiercest enemy could have done. In the morning the priest dismissed Sir Oliver, a sorrowful man, but a penitent, and when he gave gold for masses for the soul of young Messiden, he said: "Good father, I would bid thee to say also prayer for Lionel Nevil." "God speed thee, my son," replied Father Philip, with affection. "I will heed thy wish, and for thee will I pray, that thy pride may be tamed, and that the good resolutions thou hast taken this night may abide by thee." The knight bent his head for the priest's blessing; then mounting his horse, he rode sorrowfully forth from the town of Beverley, towards the lodgings for which he had paid so great a price. About a bow-shot from the town Sir Oliver perceived a party of horsemen approaching him, and he quickly recognised that he who rode at their head was the Earl Nevil, by his shield argent onglé with azure. The blood rushed violently to the young knight's face, and he thought to turn out of the path, that he might not meet face to face the father of the man he had slain not twice twelve hours ago; but he saw that he rode with fewer followers than the Earl, so that such a deed might be misconstrued, so he held on his way. As he approached the Earl, his late discourse with the priest, and the feelings of his own heart, inclined him much to speak some words of grief and apology. He slightly checked his horse as if to pause. The Earl's beaver was up, as also was Sir Oliver's, and when he met the eyes of him he had injured, there flashed from them a glance of such deadly hatred, as struck him almost as if it had been the lightning of Heaven. His hand slackened its hold on the bridle, his eyes were dazzled, and he reeled in his saddle: but he collected his astonished senses as he best could, and set forward again without comment on the speechless rebuke he had received. Now from that hour it seemed to Sir Oliver a vain thing to speak to the Earl, and tell him how he heartily bewailed the cruel blow which his hand had struck. When that strange threatening look rose up before him, his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth with dryness, and his heart, which was a stout one,

failed. Glaring as the lightning, that look had been as sudden; and oft was the knight most curiously tormented with a desire to encounter it once again, that he might learn why it cast so powerful a spell upon him. Angered at its baneful influence, he sometimes cried, "Would that I might meet that fierce challenge again, and cast it back as fiercely!" But his heart failed not to reprove this desire, for never had it beat so proudly as heretofore, since the night that he knelt at Father Philip's feet, and listened to his ghostly admonitions. Meantime the Earl, whatever were his feelings inwardly, faithfully kept the promise he had given unto the King. He used no despiteful language, and no discourteous behaviour towards his enemy, nor sought to find offence in his conduct. But if De Versy attempted to proffer in the smallest instance aught that savoured of gentleness, the Earl put it aside, not so much with an intentional evidence of scorn, as after the manner of a man who hath set his foot unawares on a slimy reptile, or detecteth a venomous insect in his draught of wine. Then said a trusty friend to Sir Oliver, "Thine enemy bideth his time. He hath the King's promise, and he resteth thereon, and he hath given his own, not to disturb the internal peace of the camp by taking vengeance with his own arm.' Soon after Sir Oliver discovered that nought that he did or even purposed to do remained long a secret from the Earl, even when confided to his nearest friend. Wherever he went, he was sure to find some one of the Earl's people near at hand, as if directed to follow in his steps; then would such fiery anger as had urged him on against Sir Lionel blaze up afresh within him; and knowing not how to expend it, he would gnash his teeth with rage. Sir Oliver was a brave man; one who loved war and perilous enterprise; but he loved not thus to be dogged to the death, and he pined and sickened. In his sickness he thought on that which had overtaken young Messiden, and how he had tended him in it, and how he might now have received the same services at his hand had he been yet alive. He turned restlessly on his pallet, and groaned. At length he resolved that, sick as he was, he would rise with the dawn, and betake him to the King, and say, "Sire, appoint me what punishment thou wilt, even unto death-only let me undergo it suddenly, for I am well weary of my life, being under the eye of him that so hateth me."-But with the morning came his squire of the body to him, saying with a sorrowful visage, "Sir, the King designeth this day to cross the river, and to attack the fair castle of Stirling, and thou wilt win no honour there, because thou art sorely ailing."

"Sayest thou so?" replied the knight with sudden alacrity; "prithee, good Ralph, bring hither my helmet and my body-armour-speak to me no more of ailments. I was but sick for want of meeting thefore." And never went forth Sir Oliver more blithe of heart than this day, saying to himself as he went, "Now, and if I fall in the field as a loyal knight should, I shall disappoint those who keep an ignominious death in store for me." Sorely chagrined was Sir Oliver to find that the Earl Nevil rode forth at his side, and beside him forded the river, and took up his station beside him in the castle ditch, ere the assault began. For the first time spoke he willingly to the young knight, saying betwixt closed teeth, "Thou shalt not die honourably this day." These words fell on Sir Oliver's car, and chilled him to the heart. There was in them a threat and a prophecy; for he could not find his death that day, though, led on by his desire to leave his body on the field, he fought rather like a madman, than a man of cool courage. Let him plunge ever so wildly into the thickest of the fray, and where bolts and stones fell fastest, his enemy was not slow to find his way to the same point. stancy did so enrage Sir Oliver, that in a moment of fury he felt disposed to turn and plunge his blade into the heart of his pursuer. But even as he turned, a more honourable thought sprang up in his breast, and profit

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ing by a brief suspension of the strife, to address the Earl, he cried,

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By my faith, one or other of us must be laid low; we cannot live together. Come a little way out of this press, and let us try our strength against each other." "I have given my word not to attempt thy life," replied the Earl, grimly, "and a Nevil knows not how to lie."

The brief pause on the part of the besieged was but a preparation for a furious sortie, which threatened to carry all before it, yet did not this outpouring of the Scots avail to separate De Versy and his foe. Still stood they side by side, when Sir Oliver perceived, more quickly than his companion, a Scot coming secretly upon them, who made a thrust at the Earl with his lance, thinking to pass him through. The young knight seized him in his arms, forcing him aside, so that the lance passed him, and entered deep into the ground; then with rare swiftness of thought and deed did Sir Oliver sever the lance in twain with his sword. The Scot cast down the useless portion of the lance which remained in his hand, and grasped the battle axe which was slung over his shoulder, and fell furiously on the knight, the Earl standing by to view the combat. It seemed that Sir Oliver must fall before the heavy blows of his assailant.

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"Yield thee, rescue or no rescue," cried the Scot. 'I will be his rescue," said the Earl, coming to his aid; and before them both the Scot fled.

Sir Oliver looked doubtfully on the Earl; each owed to the other his life, and each was loth to acknowledge the debt. De Versy, if wrathful, was generous. "Sir Earl," he cried, "the life which this hand took hath been a cause of ceaseless regret-accept my sorrow, and

thy life in lieu of it. The past cannot be recalled." "Thou sayest truly," interrupted the Earl sternly. "Man may spare life and may save it, but he cannot recal it. God only shall raise again the dead. Oh! my son, my son; darest thou speak of him to me? Know that if it were possible, I would hate thee tenfold more because thou hast given me my life; but I cannot hate thee more!"

Sir Oliver now saw that he could never pacify the father whom he had bereaved of his child, yet did he a second time that day save the Earl from receiving a death blow. The English failed in their attempt on the castle of Stirling, and they left many of their number dead before it, but not among them were Sir Oliver de Versy or the Earl Nevil. The army of King Richard continued to waste and to burn the country, even as the Scots and the French did England. It was a sore disappointment to the fiery spirits which composed it, when the young king was prevailed on by the Earl of Suffolk to abandon his bold design of giving battle to the foe, and to retrace his steps homeward. Many men thought that some secret spite towards the Duke of Lancaster must have moved Michael de la Pole thus to gainsay all his schemes, and break up the whole expedition. There were many young knights impatient of this loss of honour, and much enraged at the account which the French would have to give when they should return home, of how they had been permitted to overrun the north of England, and to ruin the country; so among themselves they formed many foraging parties, and making excursions from the army, performed many brilliant deeds of valour, and took much plunder.

Sir Oliver de Versy, the further he entered England, the more he lost heart. Since the day when he had twice given the Earl Nevil his life, no words had passed between him and his enemy, for the Earl avoided him with increased care; nevertheless he seemed to relax somewhat of his rigid watchfulness as the time drew near for the execution of his purpose, which he never in any way manifested the slightest intention of relinquishing. It was told to Sir Oliver that the King had been heard to say of late, that the young knight had borne himself so gallantly in this expedition that he would

gladly have recalled the promise which the Earl had! On arriving at the camp, the Earl visited the King, won of him, but he knew it was vain to ask him to and told him all that had befallen the poor young forgive the past. Sir Oliver pondered awhile how to knight, Sir Oliver de Versy. He told the tale briefly, proceed; he had asked forgiveness of the Earl, and had and spoke neither of pity nor of triumph; but he debeen refused, and he was not fain to sue any more. At manded that the body of the knight should be left length he collected around him all the men at arms wholly in his keeping. With this request the king was who owned his command, and rode forth resolved to very loth to comply. The Earl, seeing that he was find the Scots; he went to lie in ambush in a defile deliberating how to refuse, spake solemnly, and said, among the mountains of Cumberland, where it was "Sire, neither thou nor the kinsmen of the knight known that they were to pass. When this came to the shall have any cause to regret compliance with this ears of the king, he turned to the Earl Nevil, and said: request. Thy first promise thou canst not redeem; "This will save thee and me the pains of passing grant me therefore my present suit." Then the King judgment on the knight; he will probably perish in no longer refused, only he cautioned the Earl not to this adventure, for it is a foolhardy one. In good truth, forget the gentleness of knighthood. The Earl caused Sir Earl, if he return safe, it will be through so much a coffin to be made, and therein conveyed the body of courage and good conduct that methinks thy wrath Sir Oliver to the church in which his son was buried. should no longer stand in the way of my favour." There laid he them side by side. Kneeling near to those graves he prayed, "Peace be to their souls;" then he added, "Lord, forgive me, as I have forgiven." The Earl was a changed man since last he knelt upon that spot; then every angry and vindictive passion was at work within; now he was sad and sorrowful, and gentle withal. The outward change was also great; then was he a stern and terrible warrior; now was he a grey, broken down man. Many of his own kinsmen and of those of Sir Oliver had flocked thither, curiously to mark the manner of his proceeding, and great was the surprise which he awakened. There were many who were moved to tears. Some there were who deemed that they knew the Earl well, who thought that in spite of the tenderness he had manifested, if Sir Oliver had lived he would not have failed to bring him to justice, though they doubted not that he truly rejoiced in the removal of such a necessity. In no respect did the Earl fail to render the same honours to the remains of Sir Oliver de Versy, as he had bestowed on his own When the funeral ceremony was ended, he betook himself to the church of St. John in Beverley, and demanded an interview with that same Father Philip who had received Sir Oliver into the sanctuary. He was straightway permitted to see that holy man, and he held with him a conference which endured for some hours.

The Earl turned very pale at this intimation. "Justice cometh before favour, Sire," he replied, and retired from his presence as speedily as he could. Going to his own quarters, he called lustily for his arms, directed his horses to be saddled, bid all his men mount, and rode quickly forth in the same direction which Sir Oliver had taken. His kinsman, Sir Evan Cocherel, rode beside him, and thinking that he read the cause of his discomfort, he said to him, "Fear not that thou shalt lose thy revenge, for the knight hath, ere now, surely fallen." It was easy to see that this speech only caused the Earl displeasure. When they had riden a little way, they met a horseman flying as for his life, who, when he recognised the Earl's pennon, checked his speed.

"Where goest thou, caitiff?" cried the Earl, recognising in him one of Sir Oliver's train, "Dost thou forsake thy noble master?"

"My master," said the man, somewhat abashed, “hath encountered fearful odds, yet may ye arrive in time to turn the fortune of the day."

"Lead us in the road to him," said the Earl briefly, and breaking into a gallop they made their way onward. The Scots, discerning this party afar off, and knowing not what forces might be coming to the aid of those they had first fallen in with, waited not their arrival. When the Earl came up to the field of the skirmish, he cast his eye fearfully around, scarcely less anxiously than if he expected to look upon another fallen son. There was Sir Oliver outstretched on the ground, the blood welling out at more than one mortal wound. The Earl quickly distinguished him from the others that lay around, and the dying man also recognised his foe bending over him. He made an effort to speak, and spent all his remaining strength in the endeavour. Words could not force their way through his parched throat; he cast one earnest look on the Earl, asking forgiveness as plainly as speech could do ;-perhaps as much for the death blow he had sought and found, as for the one he had given. With this struggle he expired. The Earl, kneeling beside him on the sward, was soon convinced that the knight would never speak nor move more-then his head sunk on his chest, and deep grief and shame overclouded his countenance. No one dared to rouse him from his moody silence. Suddenly he raised his head, and looking round to Sir Evan Cocherel, who was near at hand, he said,

"This is no more my foe, but a senseless piece of clay." "It is much more than that," cried Sir Evan. "There lies all that remains of a true knight and a brave, who did but one ill deed, and paid dearly for it."

The Earl did not gainsay this speech, but, rising slowly and sadly from the earth, he said, "Let my followers prepare a litter of boughs, and on that we will bear him back to the camp ;" and, when his orders were executed, the Earl himself assisted to raise the poor mangled form, and laying it on the bier, composed the limbs, and decently covered it from sight, with a tenderness and a consideration that seemed to speak of love, not of hate.

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No sooner was the army disbanded, and the Earl returned home, than he called his people together, and proclaimed to them his intention of proceeding forthwith on a pilgrimage to the Holy Land; and he made known to them that he went no less to implore forgiveness for his own vindictive temper, (so unmeet for the servant of Him at whose sepulchre he went to worship,) and to commend to mercy the soul of Sir Oliver, than to pray for the happiness of that son whom he so dearly loved. He therefore set his affairs in order, and took leave of the lady, his wife, the mother of young Lionel. Then went he forth to return to his home no more, for, as he retraced his steps, after the performance of the vow which held him, he sickened at Rhodes, and died there. He was known to have led a very holy life during the time of his pilgrimage, showing how truly he bewailed the pride and the errors of his former days. He surrendered his soul peacefully, believing that God, out of His grace, would show him mercy. Such was the account of him from the time of his quitting England, which was brought to the Lord Palmer, his heir, and to the Countess, by one who had shared his journeys.

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