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him of one of his fattest bucks; and, by the walls of Saint Mary, where they say he resides, I will keep my promise."

"Why thou art the veriest little varlet mine eyes ever saw!" cried Whatton, rage now overcoming every other feeling. "But let me warn thee, stripling, and see thou take it in time; desist from thy purpose, or it will cost thee dear perhaps, for the walls of Saint Mary are strong, and dark within. Thou understandest me?"

The youth bowed expressively, whilst a smile of derision again sat upon his face.

"I dread neither priests nor walls: I care not, so I cure the Prior of Ulvescroft of his churlish propensities, for, like myself, I deem him worthy of better things."

There was a stress on the word "better," and a laughter in the eye, as he uttered the last sentence, which were provoking enough. He drew the silken mantle that had hitherto hung carelessly behind him across one shoulder, and, snatching up his bow, which during the course of parley he had suffered to fall to the ground, turned short upon his heel, of which he made so good a use, that he was very soon out of sight.

"Sayest thou so, young Swiftfoot? we shall see," said Whatton, pulling down the sleeves of his dress with the air of one who hardly knows how to vent his mortification. "But I believe thee capable of that, or aught else thou art bent upon. However, once more I say beware!"

The words of the Prior were spent in air, the youth was past hearing, and Whatton, after a moment's pause, again pursued his way homeward. He could not, however, easily divest his thoughts of what had occurred; the figure of the boy, in all his native grace and beauty, was constantly present to his imagination. Who or what he was he could not so readily determine; noble, his whole appearance bespoke him; and Whatton suspected him to be one of the followers of Witwicke's Lord, who, having heard of the feuds subsisting between that nobleman and himself, had in the sportiveness of boyhood thus insulted him. The mind of the Prior was rather disposed to generosity than otherwise, but he could not very rea

dily forgive this seeming fresh affront,

since he doubted not but the Lord Hastings had a share in it. And this it was, more than the pertinacious loquacity of the boy, that really mortified and displeased him.

Two days were passed by the Prior, subsequent to his rencounter in the forest, in retirement at home, nor had he once wandered forth, as was usual for him to do, in search of amusement. The third day was the Anniversary of Saint Mary, to whom the priory was dedicated, and it was ushered in by the inmates of Ulvescroft with the usual solemnity. As the duties of the occasion were numerous, they engrossed the whole attention of the Superior. His heart was tranquil, his brow was serene, and he thought only on the various religious ceremonies of the day. But a different scene awaited him.

It was nearly noon, and the Prior, somewhat wearied by his exertions, was crossing the outer court from the chapel, for the purpose of enjoying a short interval of repose in his private chamber, when his observation was attracted by a large party of menials, belonging to the establishment, in deep and confused altercation. Their eager looks and loud hurried tones betokened that something more than usual had happened. Whatton, vexed that any thing like tumult should interrupt the tranquillity of the festival, advanced hastily towards them.

"Whence this commotion, brethren? It suits not with the sacred duties we have been engaged in, and surely might have been spared this day."

The men looked at each other; they hesitated, for they were well acquainted with the rigidity of their Superior, as respected religious observances, and feared to incur his displeasure; but the case was urgent, and it was necessary he should be informed of it. At length one of them, older and somewhat more elevated in situation than the others, advanced towards him; he laid one hand reverently upon his breast, and with the other made the usual sign of the cross.

"Think not, holy Father, that our minds are evil in the midst of thankfulness! or that we would offer any disrespect at the foot of that shrine

to which we all yield obedience: but-"

"Declare your meaning!" said Whatton, not without some apprehension of what was to be related. "The forest! reverend Sir, our rights are trampled on, your power contemned, even the walls of the priory have not in this instance been respected, nor have they afforded safety to the animals that browse beneath them."

"The forest!" The Prior started, the words of the unknown rushed to his remembrance. "Hath any one dared ?—But, no. Youth may vaunt itself, but it cannot accomplish much." He recollected the prowess he had already witnessed, and was half disposed to recall what he had uttered: he turned calmly to the monk, "Well, Bernard, what mischief is this that hath happened?"

"Three goodly bucks already lie slaughtered beneath the very walls of the priory, and three more, for aught I know."

"Stop, stop," said the Prior, in a voice tremulous with agitation:"Who hath done this deed?"

"We know not; it seemed almost the work of magic, so swiftly, so silently whizzed the arrows from amidst the copse. But the hand that drew them has hitherto eluded our search, no one was to be seen."

"A plague on that young imp," said Whatton, stamping his foot furiously on the ground; "none less daring than himself would so have defied me. Run, Bernard; William, run. Search well each covert, thicket, fern. See you leave no spot unsought; and, mark me, Sirs, find whom you will, bring them straight before me."

The Prior turned to his chamber as he spoke, but it was in no enviable frame of mind: for some time he paced to and fro, with the rapid uneven tread of one who is uncertain how to act; so angry did he feel at being made the sport of so young a stripling.

The brethren, in the mean time, had sped the best of their way into the intricacies of the forest, not a whit less anxious than their Superior to discover who was the perpetrator of so daring an act. Two hours intervened before they returned, an interval passed by Whatton in painful

suspense. Again and again he ac cused himself for not having called off his dog, and avoided altercation with the young and apparently maliciously disposed boy. The return of the brethren, however, who had at last been successful, drew his thoughts into another channel, and Whatton lost no time in hastening to confront the aggressor.

The conjectures of the Prior had not been wrong. The same fair boy stood before him: with this only difference in his appearance, that the light fantastic habit, he had worn on their former rencounter, had been exchanged for a suit of simple green, skirted by a coat or jacket, that buttoned closely around him, and, descending nearly as low as the knee, hid his figure almost entirely from observance. His cap, too, that had previously glittered with the brilliant rays of the diamond and the ruby, and had been adorned with partycoloured plumes, now bore but one long sable feather, which, falling gracefully over the left temple, did but set off the clearness of a complexion for which nature and exercise had done much.

In sooth, if the Prior had thought the lad handsome at their first interview, spite of his indignation he could not now alter his opinion, so exquisitely beautiful did he appear. He seemed to take but little notice of the Superior as he approached him; his arms were pinioned, and his looks almost wholly bent upon the ground; but there lurked so deep an expression of archness in them, when they turned at intervals upon Whatton, that he knew not what to think.

He looked steadfastly at him, but the dark orbs of the lad avoided his gaze. He seemed to delight in sidelong glances, and appeared capable of using them as much to the purpose as the bolts he had so wantonly let fly from his bow. Determined, however, to trace the motives which had led to such extraordinary conduct to their most latent source, Whatton suppressed the kindly sensations, which, notwithstanding his endeayours, he felt arising towards him, and assuming an air at once stern, haughty, and forbidding, thus addressed him :

"So, boy, thou hast really and truly had audacity enough to put thy



wicked threat into execution:-And Underneath the animal was written
what thinkest thou shall now be the in small silver letters
reward for such wantonness?"

The culprit answered not, but
tossing back the plume, that had
hitherto partially shaded one side of
his features, with that kind of in-
stinctive motion of the head that ex-
presses more than words, he greeted
the Prior with the same incompre-
hensible smile he had before bestowed
upon him.

"I understand you," said Whatton; 66 you bid defiance to my authority. But beware, silly urchin, your life, if we so will it, may be made answerable for the crime you have been guilty of this day."

"I deny not your authority, Prior; yet I would ask, and I believe you will not deny my right of doing so, how far such authority extends? or whether you take in the free born, as well as the hind-the noble as the peasant? When these questions are replied to, I, in my turn, may perhaps declare the punishment I look forward to."

"Thy tongue seems to keep pace with thy fingers, youth; but should I condescend to hold parley with thee, wilt thou promise to declare truly who, and what thou art, and whence thy wantonness hath arisen?" "You will learn both, ere part," said the boy significantly, "I promise that."


"Might I presume to interfere," said one of the brethren coming forward, and casting a look full of anger and inveteracy upon the fairheaded offender. "Such conduct deserves no common punishment, since this stripling hath learnt his trade too perfectly and too early to hope for amendment from your worship's lenity."

"Enough, enough," said the Superior, addressing himself to the monk, and without noticing the questions of his prisoner. "Where is the weapon with which this mischief has been perpetrated?”

"Here, Father, here."

Whatton took the youth's bow from the hands of the monk who tendered it he examinedit minutely; it was formed from the maple wood, and was of exquisite workmanship, having the figure of a stag in the attitude of fleeing, with an arrow in front, beautifully carved in its centre.

Isabel of Hastings.

eye from the weapon to the face of The friar started. He passed his its owner; the transition and the expression it conveyed had not passed unnoticed, and the rising colour upon her cheek proclaimed that his surmise was not ill founded. It was, neighbour-of his foe, that then stood indeed, the daughter of his proud. frolicsomeness of youth had played before him! who in the gaiety and this trick upon him. And Whatton, uncertain what to say, or how to proupon her. Isabel, certain that all ceed, stood confusedly silent, gazing must now be discovered, signified her wish to be alone with him, and the Prior immediately complied with her request. The brethren were ordered to withdraw, and, having unloosed the noose that fettered her arms, Whatton again retired to some distance from her.

mained as silent as the Prior-she For a short interval Isabel reseemed indeed communing with herself; but, though her cheeks continued to retain their deep suffusion, her eye lost not a whit of its archness, as at length she said:

you satisfied that, whether in the "Well, my Lord of Ulvescroft, are ers of Witwicke are punctual to their light of friends or enemies, the ownpromise?



doubted, noble damsel, yet methinks
"Such punctuality was
the fair Isabel might have found fitter
employment than to have taken part
in the feuds of her father. And sure-
ly my Lord of Hastings, had he
wished to do another ill turn to those
have found an abler hand than one so
who meddle not with him, might
truly formed for gentleness."

the lady, not ill pleased with the ter-
"Say not so, good Father," said
mination of the Prior's speech, "con-
temn not the abilities of Isabel in the
pride of Hastings to think his child
cross-bow, nor in the field. It is the
excels in them. Nay, Prior, have not
you yourself commended them?"

"True, lady, but-"

generously, and he were indeed a
"Holy Father-use an adversary
dastard, did he not follow the ex-

What motive, think you,

guided my feet hither, or nerved my arm, so near your dwelling?”

The Prior bent his head; he was unwilling to declare to Isabel that he believed her actions under the sanction of a higher power: he was also above a subterfuge. Isabel was not slow in comprehension.

"I know what you would say. It was by my father's orders that I came so boldly to your gate?"

Whatton bowed an affirmative. "Listen, good Father. The Lord of Witwicke is no man's enemy. He is not ignorant of your virtues, estranged as he is at this moment from you. He is above the base act of mean destruction. That I, his daughter, have drawn the bow, I admit; but not as you charge me with, through wantonness. I know my father's sentiments toward you; I know he seeks an opportunity to be reconciled; and I shall be deceived if I have not formed a correct estimate of your generosity. Father, the evil I have done you shall be repaired, amply repaired. But I beseech you to let all animosity cease betwixt the Lord of Hastings and yourself."

As she pronounced the last words, she bent one knee to the ground, crossed her hands submissively upon her bosom, and looked earnestly at the Prior. She was no longer the fiery frolicsome youth whose eye spoke daringly, whose lips breathed contemptuously-she was the gentle, the interesting woman, kneeling before her spiritual adviser, imploring the blessing of peace and of amity for a beloved parent!

It was impossible for so kindly a heart as Whatton possessed to withstand the appeal of Isabel, couched as it was in so extraordinary a manner; her grace, her beauty, her spirit, but above all, the energetic language of those eyes, that so recently had had sufficient influence to stir up the wrathful emotions of the heart, now pleading forcibly to the milder passions.

"Rise, noble girl!" he exclaimed, "The Prior of Ulvescroft must not be outdone in generosity-he needs no reminding of his duty! Rise, Isabel, and be it as you wish-it were impossible to withstand you. Should, therefore, the Lord of Witwicke really seek a reconciliation--"

Isabel rose joyously.

"I hie me homewards, Prior; in less than three hours I will undertake to greet my Lord Hastings and yourself as friends; and, mark me, Sir, five goodly bucks for one; that is Isabel's penance for the crime so wantonly committed this day-committed in the cause of duty."

She smiled gaily as she spoke. "Thou art most extraordinarily gifted, daughter; yet one thing I would know, ere thy departure."

"Say on, Father."

"Was it necessary, in order to accomplish the reunion of hearts, that three unoffending animals should be the sacrifice?"

"All was necessary. When the wound is deep, deep must be the cure. The Prior of Ulvescroft was no common foe, and it needed all the art, all the stratagem of Isabel to convince him, aggrieved as he believed himself to be, that Witwicke's Lord still deserved his esteem."

"And his child?"-said the Prior"Was anxious to show, that she also longed to share the friendship of Whatton!"

"And she has gained it," said the friar, placing his hand gently upon her head, and blessing her. "Go, get thee gone, fair daughter, and bring thy father as early as thou wilt, for Whatton longs to greet him."

Isabel stayed not for farther permission, but, again crossing her hands reverently upon her bosom, she bowed respectfully to the Prior, and set forward with a light heart and foot towards the mansion of her sire. True to her promise, three hours did not elapse, before the Lord of Hastings himself, attended by Isabel in her own proper habiliments, and a numerous retinue, rode up to the gates of Ulvescroft, for the purpose of ratifying those engagements of amity and good neighbourhood she had already so ably commenced. The Lord of Witwicke brought with him several costly presents for the Prior, amongst which, were the deer promised by his daughter; and, what was more valuable to Whatton, with her own hand, Isabel presented him with the bow that had been the cause of so much mischief.

SUMMER, Summer, come again!
Dost thou dread a little rain?
Canst thou perish in a cloud?
Are the winds so fresh and loud,
Weaving mirth above thy pain?—
Lo! a gloomy sorrow flies
O'er the forehead of the skies,
And o'er ocean dark and deep,
Where the wild sea-natures sleep,-
Those great children of the billows,
Tumbling on their restless pillows!
Summur, Summer, art thou gone?
Is the Autumn pale alone,

With her crown of faithless leaves,-
Like a widow queen, who grieves
O'er her bands of courtiers fled,
And her love and music dead?
Heed it never, Summer fair!
Thou no longer needest care
For the birth or death of flowers,

Nor lament the sullen hours;

Nor the heedless buds that perish
Howsoever thou dost cherish;

Nor the rose who will decay,

Though thou fondly sighest, "Stay!" Kissing her perfumed lips,

While the broad Apollo dips

In the waves his burning hair.—
Mourn not, therefore, Summer fair!

If the jealous rose who died
Could have been thy deathless bride,
Or the lady lily pale

Had not been so false and frail,—
If the trees their gold had never
Flung into the brawling river,
That its hoarse tongue might not say
When they with the winds did play,
Thou might'st then have had sad reason
To complain, sweet Summer season!
But they fled-the leaves, the flowers;
And the illuminated hours
First survived and then decay'd,
And in shrouding mists are laid!

Yet they all shall come again,
Summer sweet, and thou shalt reign
Like a God beneath the sky;
And the thousand worlds that lie
In their bluest homes shall shine,
When thou drinkest thy red wine;

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