whom it shall ever be offered." She took from the table а curiously wrought bottle, and, filling a silver beaker with wine of a deep golden color, said, "Drink this; it is old Pascaret and came from Laffontine Abbey; it will save you from chills, and from our sorrow palling on you." Santal thought of Laffontine Abbey as he had seen it a mass of ruins that very evening, and it seemed to him that the wine must indeed be strangely old.

Bowing to his hostess, he drank deep; the generous liquor warmed him; he felt a strange strength and gladness move through every limb, and the incidents and fatigues of the evening became scarce remembered things. While he humored her by partaking of the food she set before him, he learnt so much of her history, without unduly pressing her or appearing to ask questions, as informed him that she was Cecilia Bejant, only child to the late Roger Bejant, who had died two days before.

She filled his silver cup again, and when he drained the second draught he saw how wonderfully beautiful she was. The great room was but faintly lighted; there were only a few candles of wax placed here and there, but one stood on the table opposite her, and the light fell full on her face. Her hair was of the lightest flaxen, her eyes were liquid blue, and her countenance wore an air of unmistakable distinction.

Santal drained a third draught and felt a new fire coursing in his veins, and knew that it was love. She spoke again in her low, clear voice; and now she no longer kept her head bowed but raised it, looking at him as she spoke, and their glance meeting, he gazed into the depths of her eyes, and read there answering love. She told him that to the bitterness of her father's death was added the bitterness of leaving her home and going as an outcast, she knew not whither. All the

estates passed by entail to a distant cousin, who would have her marry him, and whom she hated; and then she hid her face again and sobbed as though her heart would break.

They were alone in the shadowy hall, and Santal felt an infinite pity steal over him. He moved nearer and sat by her side. "Lady," he said, and his own voice sounded strange to him and like another's, "do not grieve as one without hope. I, Anthony Santal, will give you a home: I will be your protector, and you shall be my wife." He put his arms about her and drew her to him. She did not resist, but rather moved towards him, and a

great tenderness mastered him as he felt her young form pressed against him. She hid her face on his breast, and he bent down and kissed very reverently the flaxen hair, and then raised the tear-stained face to his and kissed her on the lips. So she sat, locked in his arms; it seemed a minute; and yet it seemed a lifetime, for the event of a lifetime had happened to him, and his old life stood far away.

They spoke little, and no one entered to interrupt their sweet fancies; but at length the tinkling of a bell, heard faintly from within, roused their attention. The girl rose, and taking her lover by the hand, led him through several passages to another part of the house. They reached at length a Gothic archway, and passing through, Santal found himself in a chapel. Here was a strong scent of incense, and the air was heavy with the fume. A few candles shining through the haze gave a look of unreality to the objects on which their light fell, and left the greater part of the building wrapped in vague gloom. In the aisle there was placed a coffin, supported on tressels, and covered with a rich pall. There were a number of persons present, all kneeling, motionless, and apparently devoutly following the service which a priest was conducting at the altar, his low

monotonous chanting seeming only to intensify the stillness. The girl loosed her hand from Santal's, and, motioning to one of the benches towards the west, on which only one man was sitting, she passed on up the aisle, and knelt on a fald-stool which had evidently been placed for her near the head of the coffin. Santal copied the attitude of his neighbors, and fell on his knees; indeed, the strange solemnity of the scene was well calculated to inspire feelings of sorrow and reverence to the exclusion of all ordinary thoughts and everyday concerns. The low chanting of the priest was only varied at long intervals by his reciting in a louder voice the versicle, "Subvenite Sancti Dei, occurrite Angeli Dei," to which the congregation responded in a deep murmur, "Suscipientes animam ejus."

Santal's attention was at first engrossed in the service that was going forward, and in the effort to distinguish the words of the Latin prayers that the priest was reciting. But after a while the monotony wearied him, his thoughts wandered, and he began to observe his surroundings more accurately. He perceived that the forty or fifty persons present were all men, and all habited in black gowns, and that the priest kneeling at the altar wore a black cope with a Calvary embroidered in scarlet on the back. The altar itself was draped with purple, having on it four lighted candles, and a silver crucifix in the centre. Beside the coffin also were lighted wax candles, of a taper shape, three on either side, in tall silver candlesticks; and by the candles stood mutes gowned in black, whose heads were bowed in an attitude of grief, and entirely veiled in hoods or cowls. The coffin itself was placed with the feet to the east, and covered with a black pall, bordered with silver, and embroidered with a coat of arms, many times repeated. Except for the candles on the altar and those which stood by the coffin,

there was no light in the chapel, but he could see that there was over the altar a large window of the Gothic style, divided by stone mullions; and that the roof was lofty with much ornate timber-work, although the details were lost in obscurity. High up on the walls were suspended helmets, frayed banners, and funeral hatchments with elaborate coats of arms, which the faint light did not permit of his distinguishing.

And still the monotonous chanting went on, and at intervals rose the versicle, "Subvenite Sancti Dei, occurrite Angeli Domini," and the motionless, kneeling mourners responded, "Suscipientes animam ejus."

The figure of Santal's betrothed, for so he now regarded her, kneeling with her flaxen hair and white dress against the pall of the coffin, caught the light from the candles and shone out curiously from the surrounding gloom. She reminded him of kneeling statues of alabaster that he had seen on ancient funeral monuments; her head was bent, and she was absorbed in her devotions. Then his eye wandered from the bowed form to the pall, and he saw that the coat of arms embroidered on it was a plain shield, crossed by wavy bars of silver and black alternately. The tall silver candlesticks which stood at the side of the coffin flung a light sufficiently strong to enable him to decipher the motto repeated in Gothic characters under each shield, and he found it to be "Beando Beatior." This discovery at once arrested his thoughts and brought him back for a moment to the realm of ordinary life, for he remembered that the gold ring that he had bought at Oxford was charged with similar arms and motto. He took it off his finger and examined to make sure. There were the same wavy bars across the shield, and on the inside the same inscription, "Beando Beatior," which he now recognized as a motto punning on the name of Bejant, in the

notice, appearing either not to perceive or to be indifferent to his presence. The priest had fallen again to monotonous prayer, only raising his voice at intervals to recite the versicle, "Subvenite Sancti Dei, occurrite Angeli Domini," and Santal found himself repeating with the rest the antiphon-"Suscipientes animam ejus." Among the murmur of deep voices he could distinguish the thin tones of the little surgeon-barber. He held Cecilia's hand in his and felt it deathly cold, and as their heads bent together over the desk, he whispered to her, telling her that he was resolved to ask the priest to marry them that night, and asking her consent. She did not answer, and he urged upon her the expediency of such a step; saying that he dared not leave her even for a day unprotected, and repeating the phrase of the surgeon-barber, that "they were living in troublous times," though he did not know the meaning of it. She said nothing, nor did she look at him, but he felt the grasp of her hand tighten, and knew that he had her

consent.

The most solemn part of the service was approaching; an altar ministrant rung a silver bell, and the black-robed worshippers sunk their heads still lower at the elevation of the Host. Strangely moved, Santal bowed his head with the rest, and for a moment in the wave of devotion which swept over the whole congregation all sense of present things was lost.

When he looked up again he saw that daybreak was near at hand, for the great window over the altar was growing light with a pale radiance. The flame of the candles burnt fainter and yellower, and the figure of the priest and the crucifix before which he stood grew darker against the brightening sky. Though the windows were shut, Santal fancied he could feel the cooler breath of morning mingling with the heavy incense-laden air of the chapel, and there was a little sprig

of ivy projecting across a side pane, which by its constant tapping against the glass showed that a breeze was moving outside.

The mass was ended, the priest slowly turned and raised his hand in the parting benediction, yet none of the congregation stirred; it seemed as though they were expecting something more to come.

Santal rose from his knees, and taking Cecilia by the hand led her up the aisle to the altar steps. "Father," he said, addressing the priest, "this noble lady and I desire that you will join us in marriage before these honorable gentlemen and before the world.” The priest showed no sign of surprise at the request, but only motioned to them to kneel at the altar-rail. No voice was raised among those present, and no one moved except the ill-favored cousin, who left his place and drew a little nearer. The pair knelt together, but Santal's thought was so bewildered that he scarcely took notice of the service that the priest had begun to read, until he heard the question-"Wilt thou take Cecilia here present for thy lawful wife according to the rites of our Holy Mother, the Church?" He answered, "I will," and his bride making a like response, the service went on. In a few moments the priest joined their hands, and Santal repeated slowly after him—“I, Anthony, take thee, Cecilia, to be my wedded wife if Holy Church will it permit, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, till death do us part, and thereto I plight thee my troth."

The priest instructed him in a low voice that he must put into his bride's hand a piece of gold and of silver, and on her finger a ring. He took from his purse a guinea and a shilling, and placed them in the white hand stretched towards him; and for a ring he drew from his third finger the gold ring with the Bejant Arms that he had

bought in Oxford, and slipped it on to the thumb of her left hand, saying as he did so "With this ring I thee wed; this gold and silver I thee give; with my body I thee worship; and with all my worldly goods I thee endow."

Then the priest turned to the congregation and said in a clear voice, "Sirs, ye are all witnesses that this man hath taken this woman to be his lawful wedded wife, and that the bond which hath this day been tied cannot again be loosed in life, but that they are sealed one to another till death shall them part."

It was at this moment that Santal, turning round, saw for the first time the countenances of the other worshippers. They wore a fixed gaze as though not cognizant of the scene that was being enacted, and he was suddenly aware of a ghastly contrast between their white faces and black dresses in the low light of the rising sun. He was conscious, at the same time, that the ill-favored cousin had moved a little nearer to him. The priest read a few more prayers, and then, holding his hands over them, gave them the benediction, and Santal was about to rise from his knees when he felt a heavy hand laid on his shoulder.

II.

It was his servant's hand that was placed on his shoulder and that shook him vigorously. He woke and found the man standing by him with the landlord of the inn at which he had intended to pass the night. They had sat up late for him on the previous evening, and when he did not arrive, had at length come out to look for him. It was not till after sunrise, however, that their search was rewarded, and they had discovered him in the ruined chapel of an old and dismantled house, near Winterbourne, sleeping heavily, with his head on the broken altar-step.

Santal managed to walk back with them to the inn at Winterbourne, but only with considerable difficulty, for

his exposure had affected him strangely, and he felt that sickness and extreme prostration which generally accompanies the return of consciousness after the administration of a powerful anaesthetic. For some hours he lay in a semi-stupor, and his state was such that his servant considered it advisable to seek medical advice. The village practitioner, who was shortly in attendance, bled him and prescribed a febrifuge. He inquired of the servant the particulars of his master's attack, and being informed of what had happened, said that the exposure could not account for such a condition and that Mr. Santal had undoubtedly been drugged. He put some searching questions in an attempt to discover how any drug could have been administered; but his patient ridiculed the idea, saying that his time was fully accounted for up to his being knocked down by the horse in its efforts to break loose; and that his present seizure must be attributed to a violent fall and subsequent exposure in a semi-stunned condition. The doctor, however, would not abandon his position, and remarked drily to the landlord that boys would be boys; hinting that Mr. Santal had fallen among bad company on the way; and professing to be able to diagnose from certain symptoms that the drug had been administered in the medium of wine.

The young man's vigorous constitution soon rallied, and, though he kept his bed the next day, his head was clear and he was able to listen with interest to the account given him by his servant and the landlord of their search for him. The delay in his arrival had not at first aroused their anxiety, as they concluded that he had taken shelter somewhere from the storm; but when twelve o'clock struck, and still nothing was seen of him, they began to think that some misadventure had occurred. It was shortly after midnight that the sound of hoofs called them to the door of the