The horse was strong and fresh, and Bernard de Rohan rode on rapidly. The stars came out brighter and brighter as the night deepened, and the clear, deep, lustrous purple of those fair southern skies became mingled with yellow light, as the moon, looking large and defined, rose over the deep black summits of the eastern hills. It was not long before the French frontier was passed; and in those days, as Savoy was completely in the occupation of the French, no guards watched upon the way to stop or question the stranger coming from the neighbouring land.

Judging the distance which Isabel must have gone, even at a slow pace, to be considerable, Bernard de Rohan did not think fit to pause at any of the first towns or villages which he met with, but, avoiding man's habitation as far as possible, went on till his horse's speed began to flag, and he found it necessary to stop for repose and refreshment. He had now gone on, however, for about five hours, so that it was by this time the middle of the night, and with difficulty he made himself heard in a small hamlet on the rode to Grenoble. He procured, at length, some refreshment for himself and for his horse, but no tidings whatsoever which could lead him to judge whether Isabel and his servants had or had not taken the same road which he himself was following. He remained, however, for two hours, to allow the horse time to rest, and then, once more putting his foot in the stirrup, rode onward at a slower pace.

About an hour after, the day once more began to dawn, and he found himself winding in and out among the beautiful hills which border the Isere. Everything was rich, and fertile, and picturesque, and upon those scenes the eye of Bernard de Rohan could have rested with infinite pleasure at any other time; but now anxious eagerness hurried him on, scarcely remarking the objects around for any other purpose than to judge where he was, and how far from Grenoble. A little after five in the morning he passed through the small village of Montbonnat, and heard with gladness the assurance of the people of the place that he was not much more than two leagues from Grenoble.

After giving his horse a draught of water, he went on his way again through that beautiful district of streams and mountains, constantly ascending and descending, till at length, not far from the hamlet of Imfray, he saw before him a single horseman coming slowly on, the first person, in fact, whom he had met upon the road since he had set out the night before.

When the young cavalier first perceived him, the man was at the distance of some two hundred yards; but it was with no small pleasure that Bernard de Rohan at once recognised one of his own servants, named Pierre Millort, an honest but somewhat weak man, who had been born upon his own estates, and had served him for many years. He now felt certain of obtaining speedy news of Isabel de Brienne, and rode directly towards the other horseman, expecting that the man would remember his lord's person at once. The young nobleman, however, dressed in the habit which had been given him by Corse de Leon, bore not at all his usual aspect, and good Pierre Millort also devoutly believed him to be dead. It is not to be wondered at, therefore, that he looked upon the person who approached him as a complete stranger; and, fancying that there was something in his appearance of a very doubtful nature, he drew his sword a little forward as he saw the strange cavalier riding directly up to him, and prepared to defend himself, in case of need, as well as might be.

When Bernard de Rohan called him by his name, however, asking if he did not recollect him, astonishment, not a little mingled with superstitious fear, made the man nearly fall from his horse, and he felt strongly inclined to argue the matter with his young master, in order to persuade him that he was really dead. At length, becoming fully convinced that such was not the case, and that Bernard himself, in a bodily and corporeal form, was before his eyes, he gave him the information which he desired regarding Isabel de Brienne, though that information was by no means satisfactory to the young cavalier.

The lady had arrived at Grenoble, he said, on the very same day that she had set out from Gandelot's inn; but, finding that her brother was not there, and had not sent any notice of his coming to the house in the city where she expected to hear of him, she had taken her departure on the following morning, in order to reach the capital and throw herself upon the protection of the king as speedily as possible. She hoped to arrive at Vienne in one day, the man continued, and had sent him off at once to convey intelligence of her route to somebody he was to meet at Gandelot's inn.

"Then how happened you not to be there last night?" demanded Bernard de Rohan. "Had you pursued your journey, you would have saved me the trouble of coming to Grenoble, and would have enabled me to cut across the country and join her at Vienne this morning. Now she will be two whole days in advance of me."

"And not a horse will you get in Grenoble with which to pursue your way," replied the man; "for that's the reason, sir, why I did not come on at once."

"Had you not your own horse?" demanded Bernard de Rohan, somewhat angrily.

"Yes, sir," answered the servant, "I had; but a sad accident happened to him, poor fellow. I left Grenoble at the very same moment that the lady set out for Vienne; but I had not got far beyond La Tronche, when, the road being covered with loose stones which had rolled down from the hill, my horse slipped and fell, cutting both his knees to pieces. I was obliged to lead him back into the town, and no horse could I get for love or money, till at length I made a bargain with a peasant from Bachat to change with me, he taking my fine beast on the chance of curing him, and giving me this wretched animal in his stead, to enable me to go on my way. It is not, however, an hour since he brought the beast in. So you see, Sir, I have lost no time."

"That is enough," said Bernard de Rohan, thoughtfully, "that is enough. I must go on to Grenoble now, however. Come with me; you will not be wanted at Gandelot's inn;" and, thus saying, he rode on to the town, where it was necessary to give his own horse a long time to rest, for the distance which he had come was more than fifty miles, and the road steep, difficult, and fatiguing.

Judging by the rate at which Isabel was proceeding, it was clear that she must reach Lyons before that day closed; for, though she might not accomplish her purpose of arriving at Vienne on the day before, yet the distance to Lyons itself was but two easy days' journey.

Every means that long military experience suggested was employed by Bernard de Rohan to refresh and invigorate his horse more speedily, and those means were very successful, although some of them may appear to us, in this age, somewhat fantastic. Balls of spice were given to the animal, his feet and pasterns were bathed in red wine, and various other proceedings of the same kind were adopted with a similar view. It was impossible, however, to go on till towards the evening, and even then the young cavalier found that it was in vain to seek Vienne that night, as neither his own horse nor that of his attendant could accomplish the distance. They proceeded as far as possible, however, so as to leave a moderate day's journey between them and Lyons; and on the succeeding evening Bernard de Rohan had the pleasure of seeing the fair city of the Rhone spread out before his eyes, and of knowing that there could not well be more than one day's journey between him and her he loved.

The great difficulty, however, now was to discover at what inn Isabel had lodged on the preceding night, in order to ascertain what route she had followed on her farther journey. Lyons, even at that time, was a very large and important city, filled with inns of every sort and description; and, as in those days despotic suspicion had not invented the fetter-lock of passports; as there was no tyrannical police, no licensed spies to whom the abode of every citizen, the sleeping-place of every traveller, the movements of every being in the realm were known, as is now the case in France, Bernard de Rohan had no other means of ascertaining the resting-place of Isabel during the preceding night than his own conjectures or inquiries made at all the principal places of public reception.

When he had himself passed through Lyons some time before, he had been in command of a considerable body of soldiers, and had lodged at an inn in the suburb of La Guillotiere. That suburb was not so large in those days as at present; but it possessed at that period one of the best inns which Lyons could boast of; and, as the servants who now accompanied Isabel de Brienne were then with him, and he had remained for several days there, he judged it not at all unlikely that they might have conducted his fair bride to the resting-place where they had previously lodged. He rode, then, directly to the same inn, which was surrounded by its own court and gardens; but the faces that presented themselves were strange to him; for, among all the mutable things of this earth, there are few more mutable than the servants of an inn.

In general, at all the auberges on the road, a man on horseback was sure to meet with attention and good treatment; but, in such a city as Lyons, luxury had of course brought fastidious notions along with it; and the frequent visits of persons with large trains, ladies in immense rumbling carriages or clumsy horse-litters, made the horseman with his single attendant and weary horses an object of very little importance in the eyes of the drawers and ostlers.

Perceiving some slackness of civility, the young cavalier ordered the host to be sent to him, and the landlord of the Checkers—for so the inn was called—presented himself, gazing upon the young gentleman at first as a perfect stranger. A moment after, however, the face of the Baron de Rohan came to his remembrance, at first connecting itself vaguely with considerable sums of money received, and numerous expensive attendants, horses, arms, banners, et cetera; so that his satellites were very soon surprised by seeing various low and profound inclinations of his head, as he welcomed "his lordship" back to Lyons; hoped that the campaign had gone well with him. Gradually recollecting more of the circumstances, he recalled even his visiter's name itself, and, in tones of indignant haste, bade the stable-boys take Monseigneur de Rohan's horses, and the chamberlain show monseigneur himself to the best apartments of the inn, while he followed, bowing lowly every time the young cavalier turned round.

Bernard de Rohan's first inquiries were for Isabel de Brienne; but the good host was far too wise and practised in his profession to satisfy the young gentleman fully before he had fixed him at his own inn. Oh yes, undoubtedly, he said, such a lady had been there, and had set off that very morning, with just such attendants as monseigneur described. He would come back and tell him more, he continued, in one minute, when he had merely given orders for a nice little supper to be sent up, and had seen that the horses were properly cared for. But, when he at length made his appearance, after being absent till the supper he talked of was nearly ready, and the young gentleman actually sent for him, it then turned out, of course, that the lady he spoke of was quite a different person, some forty years of age, and the widow of some famous marshal dead many years before.

Bernard de Rohan was disappointed, but he did not suffer his equanimity to be disturbed at finding some little want of sincerity in an innkeeper. He partook but lightly, however, of the good host's supper; and then, directing the attendant who accompanied him to make inquiries at all the inns in the suburb where they then were, he himself set out on foot, and, passing the bridge, pursued the search throughout the town of Lyons. That search, however, proved vain; and not the slightest tidings of Isabel and her train had Bernard de Rohan been able to find before the sun went down.

He was preparing to return to the inn, in the hope that his servant might have been more successful than himself, when, in passing down one of the long, narrow streets which led from the great square, he was met by a crowd of people so dense that he found it would be absolutely impossible to traverse it, and he accordingly turned (little caring what had caused the assemblage) in order to pass round by the Church of the Feuillans, and make his way homeward by another street.

The pavement of the good town of Lyons is by no means pleasant or easy to walk upon in the present day, being entirely composed of round, slippery stones, on which the feet seem to have no hold. In those times it was even worse, for it was irregular in construction as well as bad in material; and Bernard de Rohan himself, though strong and active, found it no easy task to outwalk, even by a pace or two, a crowd of persons better accustomed to tread those streets than himself. He had contrived to get a few steps in advance, however, and had reached the long, narrow street which passes round by the side of the church, when he was stopped, just as he was about to pass down it, by another crowd as dense as the first, by which he was forcibly borne along. The two currents, meeting in the more open street he had just quitted, carried him forward in the midst of them; and, finding it impossible to escape, he gave himself up for the time, and, turning to a lad who was near, inquired what was the occasion which called so many persons together.

"Why, where do you come from, seigneur," said the young man, "that you don't know all this business?"

"I come from Italy," replied Bernard de Rohan, "where I have been with the army; but, once again, what is all this about?"

"Why, I should have thought it might have reached there," replied the lad. "But don't you know they are bringing along Jamets, the great heretic printer, to burn him in the Place de Terreaux?"

"Indeed!" said Bernard de Rohan. "Pray what has he done to merit such a terrible punishment?"

"What has he done?" cried the young man, with a look of indignation. "He is a heretic; is not that enough? Don't they all mock the holy mass? What has he done? I should not wonder if you were a heretic yourself."

"No, no, my good youth," replied Bernard de Rohan, "I certainly am not that. But they were not so strict about these matters a year or two ago, when I went with the army into Italy."

"There is much need they should be strict now," replied the boy, who, as usual, thought it manly to outdo the follies of his elders, "for the poisonous vermin have infected the whole place. Don't push so, Peter," he continued, speaking to one of those behind him, who was urging him forward exactly in the same manner that he was pressing on those before him.

"Get on! get on! or we shall not see the sight," cried the other. "They have taken him on through the lane."

In a few minutes the crowd began to issue forth into the Place de Terreaux; and, before he could disengage himself, the terrible preparations for burning one of the unfortunate victims of superstition were before the eyes of Bernard de Rohan. A space was railed off in the centre of the square, and kept clear by guards; but in the midst thereof, at the distance of about thirty yards from the young cavalier, appeared an elderly man, with a fine and intelligent countenance, pale as ashes, and evidently fully sensible of all the agonies of the death he was about to endure. He was chained upright to an enormous post or stake driven into the ground, and one of the brutal executioners was seen fastening the chain tighter round his neck, though another had by this time lighted the fagots which had been piled up underneath and around his feet. From time to time the victim closed his eyes, and his lips moved as if murmuring forth a prayer; at other moments he cast a wild and fearful glance round upon the people; but, in general, he remained still and quiet, as if striving within himself to subdue the natural repugnance of the flesh to the endurance of pain and death.

Bernard de Rohan loved not such sights nor such acts; and as in that open space the crowd was thinner around him, he was turning away once more to pursue his path homeward, when a capuchin friar approached the unfortunate man, and, holding up a crucifix, seemed to exhort him to abandon his faith. At that point, however, all the firmness which had supported him through imprisonment and trial came back, and, waving his hand indignantly, he turned away his head with a gesture of disgust.

The capuchin raised both his arms towards the sky; and a roar of furious exultation burst from the people, as the flames, almost at the same moment, were seen to rise up round the unfortunate victim, and the convulsive gasp of agony distorted his countenance.

Bernard de Rohan forced his way on; but, as he did so, some one touched his arm from behind, evidently intentionally, and, looking in that direction, he beheld, to his great surprise, the countenance of Corse de Leon.

The brigand gazed upon him for a moment, but without speaking, then turned his head away; and, recollecting the warning which he had received, not to notice him unless spoken to by him, Bernard de Rohan made his way out through the people, and reached the inn just as it was growing dark. He now found that his attendant had been as little successful as himself in the search for Isabel de Brienne; but the landlord informed him that a gentleman named the Chevalier Lenoir had been there to inquire for him; and Bernard de Rohan, trusting that Corse de Leon might possess some better means of information than himself concerning the course which Isabel had taken, waited impatiently for the brigand's return.

Bernard de Rohan waited for nearly an hour before the person whom he wished to see made his appearance. At length, however, the aubergiste entered; and—with a face of so much mystery and importance as almost to make the young gentleman believe that he was acquainted with the character and pursuits of the brigand—he announced that the Chevalier Lenoir had called again to know if the Baron de Rohan had returned. In a minute or two after, Corse de Leon himself entered the room; and Bernard could not but feel some surprise at the manner in which the wild, bold, vehement rover of the mountain side conformed to the usages of society, and bent down his energies, if we may so say, to the customary trammels of an artificial mode of life.

He shook hands with Bernard de Rohan as an old friend, put down his hat upon the table by his side, remarked that the dust had soiled his plume, spoke of the heat of the past day, and with such empty nothings carried on the interview till the aubergiste had retired and closed the large oaken door behind him.

The moment he was gone, however, the brigand said abruptly, "I came hither before, to lead you to the scene whither it seems you had gone without me. Is not that a lovely sport?" he continued, with a curling lip and a flashing eye; "is not that a lovely sport for keen, sleek priests, after feasting in the refectory? Is not that a sweet amusement for these holy and gentle pastors to go to, with the grease of their patties still sticking upon their lips? Pastors! why our pastors of the Alps would teach them better than that: they take the wool and use the milk, but they roast not the lambs of their flock, as the people of the plains do. By Heaven, it would do my soul good to make yon bloodthirsty capuchin eat the flesh he has cooked this night. They call us lawless brigands," he continued. "Pray God that we may ever be lawless, so long as there are such laws as these. I came to show you this spectacle, for I once told you I would make you witness such things, but you had gone without me."

"I went not willingly," replied Bernard de Rohan. "I was caught in the crowd, and could not disentangle myself. I hate and abhor such sights, and think that these acts are disgraceful and ruinous to our religion. If anything could justify heresy, such persecution surely would do it."

"Think not, think not," cried Corse de Leon, eagerly, "think not that this is a crime of our religion alone, or of any other. It is man, and man's infamous laws, and the foul vice of that strange compact which rogue has made with rogue, and villain with villain, and tyrant with tyrant, and fool with fool, in order that the cunning may have the best means of outwitting the strong; that the criminal may torture and destroy the innocent, and the virtuous be for ever the prey of the vicious. Catholic or Protestant, heretic, infidel, Turk, it is all the same: man is bound together, not by a league for mutual defence, but by a league for mutual destruction and corruption. Here you yourself have a friend and comrade, who fights by your side, and whom you trust. What is the first thing that he does! Betrays you—seeks to injure you in the darkest way—plots—contrives—cabals—"

"There is a day of reckoning coming," replied Bernard de Rohan.

"Ay, and it may come soon," answered Corse de Leon, "for that very man is now in Lyons."

Bernard de Rohan started up and laid his hand upon his sword, which he had thrown down upon a chair beside him; but the brigand went on, saying, "Not to-night, not to-night. Let it be in the open day; and it were better, too, before the whole court of France."

"I will not wait for that," replied Bernard de Rohan. "Where I find him, there will I punish him. But, as you say, it must be in the open day. Yet I must not let him escape me; I will write to him this instant."

"The way of all others to make him escape you," replied Corse de Leon. "He might, on this occasion, refuse to meet you hand to hand; he might—"

"No," answered Bernard de Rohan, "no, he dare not. There is no French gentleman who dares to be a coward. To those whom he has wronged he must make reparation, even though it were with life. Besides, this is not a man to turn away from the sword's point."

"I know not," answered Corse de Leon, "for I am not one of you; but methinks—though there is nothing upon all the earth now living that could make me turn aside from my path—there would be something very terrible to me in a wronged friend. However, this man may have an excuse you know not of to refuse you that which you desire: he may say that the matter is before the king, which, as I learn, it is. Be persuaded: wait till to-morrow: then let him be narrowly watched: meet him alone; and, when your sword is drawn upon him, then, as you say, he cannot well evade you."

"He shall not," answered Bernard de Rohan. "But still it is not him that I now seek, it is my own dear Isabel; and here, in this town of Lyons, I have lost all trace of her, though she must have been here last night."

"Perhaps not," replied the brigand. "I have no certain tidings of her any more than you have; but listen to what I do know. I reached this place in haste to-day; and during the morning, at the inn called the Dolphin, near the old church by the river, I saw a man who had been with this Meyrand in Savoy, his guide, and assistant, and confidential knave. He knew me not, and indeed, perhaps, had never seen me; for I see many, but am seen by few. I made inquiries, however, and I found that this man had preceded his lord from Paris on business, it was said, of mighty moment. He was preparing rooms for him, gaining intelligence, and, in fact, making all things ready for whatever knavery so skilful a master might have in hand. I inquired farther, and found that yesterday, shortly after the man's arrival, a lady and her train had paused for some moments at the same inn; that one of his servants had spoken to this serviceable villain, and that, without descending from her litter, she had gone on, it was said, towards Geneva. To-day I waited and watched for the arrival of your enemy, and the moment he did come, he was closeted with his knave. A minute after, the host was summoned, and much inquiry made for fresh horses to go towards Geneva. By this time, however, it was late; none but tired beasts could be found, and the journey was put off till daybreak to-morrow morning."

"We will travel the same road," said Bernard de Rohan, "we will travel the same road. But what can have induced Isabel to take the way to Geneva?"

"We know not that this lady was the same," replied Corse de Leon; "but, supposing her to be so, forget not that she believes you to be dead. I have told you that the matter is before the king; and she may fear that, as this Count de Meyrand is a known intimate of a woman all too powerful in this land of France, some constraint may be laid upon her will in order to make her give her hand to him."

"They shall find," replied Bernard de Rohan, "that there is one whose claim upon her hand is not so easily to be cast off; and, even were I dead, I am full sure that to the last day of her existence she would look on one who could betray his friend with nothing but abhorrence and disgust."

"It may be so," replied the brigand; "but you have yet one thing to learn. Your claim upon her hand is already disallowed. On that the king's decision has gone forth three days ago. An edict, which has just reached Lyons, was then registered in the Parliament of Paris, rendering all clandestine marriages, past or future, null and void. This was aimed at you, depend upon it, for both the wily Italian and the artful Frenchman were then at the court of France."

Bernard de Rohan covered his eyes with his hand, and paused thoughtfully without reply. "All this," he said at length, "all this shows, my friend, the absolute need there is of my being speedily in Paris. Wherever Isabel may turn her steps, she will soon hear that I am living if I appear before the king; and in another point of view, also, my speedy appeal to Henry himself may do good. There is one whom you have mentioned who does certainly possess much power—far too much for any subject in the realm; but yet I judge not of her so harshly as you perhaps may do. She has a noble spirit, and I think would not willingly do wrong. Besides all this, she is the trusted friend of one who loves me well—the Maréchal de Brissac; therefore I do believe that especially she would not wish to injure me. When I have seen her, she has always seemed to regard me highly; and I will own—although I must regret that any one should hold such authority in the land of France as often to overrule the king's wisest ministers—I do believe that, for her own personal advantage, she would in no degree seek what is unjust to another, or do that which might be dangerous to her country. I have no doubt that one of her first wishes is to promote, in every way, such plans as she considers just and wise; and although, of course, she may from time to time be biased, like every other person, by blinding mists of prejudice or of self-interest, yet I do think that she is less so than any other being who ever yet filled a situation of splendid disgrace and ill-bought authority. I believe, then, that with her, as with the king, a few plain words of remonstrance and explanation will win that support which is alone needful to my just claims."

"Then go thither at once," said Corse de Leon, with a dissatisfied air. "If you will still trust to those whom you have not tried, go thither, and encounter whatever the consequence may be. Were I you, my conduct would be different."

"What would you do, then?" asked Bernard de Rohan. "I do not propose to go to the court at once, but merely after I have done all that I can to trace my Isabel on the road that she has taken. Say! what would you do were you situated as I am?"

"It matters little," replied Corse de Leon, "for we are differently formed. You are like the stately warhorse, doubtless strong and full of fire, but broken down to the bit and rein of custom, and trained to pace hither and thither, as the great riding-master called society wills. Your affections may be vehement, your courage high, your heart sincere, but you are not fitted and formed for the wild life of freedom, or for a desperate and deadly struggle against the trammels of habit, and the lash and spur of opinion. I, on the contrary, am the lion—or, if you will, the tiger, or the wolf. No hand tames me and goads me on—my mouth knows no bit and curb—the desert is my home—solitude my society—my own will my law—and they who strive to take and chain me, to break me down to the world's habits, or to bind me by man's opinions, will either rue the bite of the free wild beast, or see him die before the hunters, in silence and despair. If you would know what I would do, I would take my revenge of that bad man; I would seek the lady till I found her; I would tell her that dangers, obstructions, impediments, and the vain idleness of a world's laws were before us if we did not trample upon that world's judgments; I would ask her to cast off for me and with me the prejudices of country and connexions; I would make my native place of the first land of freedom I could find; I would find my friends and my relations among the brave, and the free, and the good, wherever I met them; I would press out from the grape of liberty the wine of my own happiness, and I would drink of the cup that my own hand had prepared. But such counsels are not for you; such things are not parts of your nature."

"I believe not," replied Bernard de Rohan; "but still the first part of your advice I shall follow, and at daybreak to-morrow will set out to meet this man upon the way, and bid him draw his sword where there is none to interrupt us."

"Should he refuse?" said the brigand. "He is well accompanied—has many men with him, and some who seem to bear a high rank and station. He may refuse to draw his sword, and say that the matter is before the king: what then?"

"I will spurn him as a cur," replied Bernard de Rohan. "I will strike him in the midst of his people; call him a coward as well as a knave, and send him back with the brand of shame upon his brow. It matters not to me who are with him! If gentlemen be there, so much the better; Bernard de Rohan's name is not unknown, Bernard de Rohan's honour bears no stain; and they shall hear his treachery and baseness blazoned in the open day by a tongue unknown to falsehood."

Corse de Leon gazed upon him for a moment with a grave, perhaps one might call it a pitying smile. "You have forgotten," he said, "or never fully known, the court of France. There has there risen up," he added, "within my memory, a habit, an affectation of indifference, if you like to call it so, to all things on this earth; which indifference is born of a corrupt and a degraded heart, and of sated and exhausted appetites. To a high mind, furnished with keen and vigorous faculties, nothing on earth can be indifferent; for acuteness of perception—a quality which, in its degree, assimilates us to the Divine nature—weighs all distinctions. As God himself sees all the qualities of everything, whether minute or great, and gives them their due place, so, the grander and the more expansive the intellect may be, the more accurately it feels, perceives, and estimates the good or evil of each individual thing. The low and the base, the palled taste of luxury, the satiated sense of licentiousness, the callous heart of selfishness, the blunted sensibilities of lust, covetousness, gluttony, effeminacy, and idleness, take refuge in indifference, and call it to their aid, lest vanity—the weakest, but the last point to become hardened in the heart of man—should be wounded. They take for their protection the shield of a false and tinsel wit, the answer of a sneer, the argument of a supercilious look, and try to gloze over everything, to themselves and others, with a contemptuous persiflage which confounds all right and wrong. Thus will this count and his companions meet you; and you will gain neither answer nor satisfaction, but a jest, a sneer, or a look of pity."

"It matters not," replied Bernard de Rohan, "it matters not! There are some things that men cannot laugh away! Honour, and courage, and virtue are not columns planted so loosely that a light gale can blow them down; and I will mark his brow with such disgrace that an ocean of laughter and light jests will never wash the stain off again. When I have done that, I will seek my Isabel, and by her own wishes shall our future conduct be guided. You have reasoned like a learned scholar, my good friend; but yet you see you have not converted me to your thoughts, though I will own that it much surprises me to find you have such varied knowledge of courts, and, I should think, of schools also."

"I have of both," replied Corse de Leon: "the one I have seen, though in an humble sphere; the other in my youth I frequented, and gained there knowledge which those who taught me did not know that they communicated. However, I wished not to convince you or to overrule your determination, for that determination is not wrong. I only desired that you should go to its execution with a full knowledge of all that you might meet with. Follow your plan, therefore, as you have laid it down, and in executing it I will not be far from you in case of need. There is no knowing what a bad man may do, and you ride too slightly attended to offer much resistance in case they sought to do you wrong."

"Oh, I fear not, I fear not," replied Bernard de Rohan. "Here, on the soil of France, I have no fear of any acts of violence, such as that from which I suffered in Savoy."

"Have you not seen to-night," said his companion, "have you not seen this night what wrongs are daily done, even here? However, as I have said, I will not be far from you; so, for the present, farewell, and let not daylight see you a lingerer in this dark city."

Thus saying, he turned and left his young companion, who remained for some time plunged in deep thought; and, though the light of bright hope continued still unextinguished before him, mists and clouds came across the flame from time to time, making it wavering, uncertain, and obscure.

END OF VOL. I.

NOVELS.

NIGHT AND MORNING. By Sir E. L. Bulwer, Bart.

THE HOUR AND THE MAN. By Miss Harriet Martineau.

THE BUDGET OF THE BUBBLE FAMILY. By Lady LYTTON BULWER.

THE MAN-AT-ARMS; or, Henry de Cerons. By G. P. R. JAMES, Esq.

GODOLPHIN. By Sir E. L. Bulwer, Bart.

STANDARD WORKS.

KEIGHTLEY'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND.

SELECTIONS FROM BRITISH POETS. By Fitz-Greene Halleck.

SELECTIONS FROM AMERICAN POETS. By W. C. Bryant.

ELEMENTS OF MENTAL PHILOSOPHY; embracing the two Departments of the Intellect and Sensibilities. By Thos. C. Upham, Professor of Mental and Moral Philosophy in Bowdoin College.

A PHILOSOPHICAL AND PRACTICAL TREATISE ON THE WILL. By Thomas C. Upham.

LIFE AND WORKS OF DR. JOHNSON. By the Rev. Wm. P. Page.

HISTORY OF THE UNITED STATES. By the Hon. S. Hale.

RELIGION IN ITS RELATION TO THE PRESENT LIFE. In a Series of Lectures, delivered before the Young Men's Association of Utica, by A. B. Johnson, and published at their request.

THE LIFE AND WORKS OF DR. OLIVER GOLDSMITH. By Washington Irving.

NOVELS, ROMANCES, ETC.

MISS SEDGWICK'S WORKS.

The Linwoods; or, Sixty Years since in America.

The Poor Rich Man and the Rich Poor Man.

Live and let Live; or, Domestic Service Illustrated.

A Love Token for Children.

BULWER'S WORKS.

Pelham; or, the Adventures of a Gentleman.

The Disowned; a Tale.

Devereux.

Paul Clifford; a Tale.

Eugene Aram.

The Last Days of Pompeii.

The Student; a Series of Papers.

Rienzi, the Last of the Tribunes.

Ernest Maltravers.

Alice; or, the Mysteries.

Calderon, the Courtier.

Leila; or, the Siege of Grenada.

Falkland; a Tale.

The Pilgrims of the Rhine.

The Rebel, and other Tales.

The Siamese Twins; a Satirical Tale of the Times, &c.

Richelieu; or, the Conspiracy. A Play. With Historical Odes.

The Lady of Lyons. A Play.

The Sea-Captain; or, the Birthright. A Play.

England and the English.

Athens: its Rise and Fall.

PAULDING's WORKS.

Salmagundi; or, the Whim-whams and Opinions of Launcelot Langstaff, Esq., and others.

Letters from the South.

Koningsmarke; or, Old Times in the New World.

The Diverting History of John Bull and Brother Jonathan.

Tales of the Good Woman.

The Dutchman's Fireside.

Westward Ho!

The Book of St. Nicholas.

New Pilgrim's Progress.

The Three Wise Men of Gotham.

John Bull in America.

Winter Nights' Entertainments.

The Atlantic Club-book. By Paulding and others.

Tales of Glauber Spa. By Paulding and others.

A Life of Washington.

Slavery in the United States.

JAMES'S WORKS.

Richelieu; a Tale of France.

Darnley; or, the Field of the Cloth of Gold.

De l'Orme.

Philip Augustus; or, the Brothers in Arms.

Henry Masterton; or, the Young Cavalier.

Mary of Burgundy; or, the Revolt of Ghent.

The Adventures of John Marston Hall.

The Gipsy; a Tale.

One in a Thousand; or, the Days of Henry Quatre.

The Desultory Man.

Attila; a Romance.

The Robber.

The Huguenot; a Tale of the French Protestants.

Charles Tyrrell; or, the Bitter Blood.

The Gentleman of the Old School.

Henry of Guise; or, the States of Blois.

The King's Highway.

The String of Pearls.

The Club-book. By James, and others.

History of Chivalry and the Crusades.

History of Charlemagne