had not Maudsley, bursting at last from his concealment, sprung with a bound towards the ferocious Rednape.

"Stop, thou cowardly thief," cried he indignantly; "unhand that slender boy, and face a man, if thou hast courage enow for aught but robbing hen-roosts. Turn here, or by heaven, I will clip thy other ear for thee upon the spot, and cheat the pillory of its due."

Rednape, thus purposely taunted by Maudsley, who wished to divert his rage from the stranger to himself, turned suddenly from the pursuit of the weaker enemy, and rushed ferociously at his new assailant. Maudsley received his onset with composure, parried successfully a desperate blow aimed at his head, and dealt him in return a crushing stroke with his sword which nearly severed the ruffian's right arm from his shoulder, and sent him bleeding and howling back to his companions. Cakebread and the two others, who had been but just enabled through the deepening twilight to witness the sudden arrival of this new protector of the stranger, and the result of his conflict with their champion, desired to see no more of a controversy whose aspect was thus decidedly changed, but, without more ado, took to their heels, and ran with headlong haste to the palace, not even waiting to see whether their wounded confederate, who had sunk exhausted and groaning upon the field, were alive or dead.

The field being thus cleared of the ruffians, the stranger, who had stood stock-still upon the arrival of Maudsley's unexpected assistance until the issue of the contest, now advanced towards his deliverer.

"We meet again, Harry Maudsley," said he, with the silvery accents in which Maudsley instantly recognised the voice of his mysterious companion at Naumkeak. "We meet again, Harry Maudsley, and truly I may thank your most opportune assistance, that we do meet once more in this weary world. Truly I do thank you, and from my heart, for your bravery, al

though, alas, you would wonder that I should thank you for so worthless a boon as life, could you read my heart this night."

"I supposed, indeed," replied Maudsley, "that it was my enigmatical and most shadowy friend, whom I had the pleasure of assisting. You may spare your encomiums upon my❜bravery, for it needed none to whip away a pair of cowardly curs, like those who presumed to meddle with you. But what do you here amid this wild and worthless crew, and what means the cowardly attack which was even now made upon you?"

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Why I am here," replied the other, "I could hardly myself explain, saving that I am but an instrument in the hands of others, or rather, perhaps, because I yield without hesitation to a destiny which hurries me hither and thither, like a withered leaf before the whirlwind. You would with difficulty understand my purposes, even if I should endeavor to explain them. As to the obstacles which yonder ruffians interposed to my departure, it is no mystery to me, although no doubt to you it is somewhat inexplicable, and for the present at least must so

remain."

"You still speak in parables," answered Maudsley. "We meet, in gathering twilight, in lonely forests, drawn together by some irresistible influence, as if our fates were bound together by an invisible chain. And yet I have hardly gazed upon your face, except through dim shadows; you appear to me, and you vanish, like some spiritual inhabitant haunting these solitudes."

"Distress yourself no longer, Master Maudsley," interrupted his companion. "I am, I do assure you, no unearthly sprite, but healthy flesh and blood. I am now about to bid you farewell, with one word of consolation. I swear to you, then, that what you most dread shall never happen, that what you have almost ceased to hope, shall yet occur. Believe me or not, but when to-morrow's sun shall first shine upon you, you shall acknowledge my power, for you shall already behold its influence.

You shall feel still more sensibly that we are indeed bound together by a chain, and you may, perhaps, remembering the fidelity with which I have hitherto observed my promises, be the more disposed to trust me for the future. And now farewell, Harry Maudsley, and if you value the continuance of our friendship, follow me not."

The stranger extended both arms through the gathering gloom towards Maudsley, as if he would have embraced him. Maudsley advanced more closely, and it seemed as if his companion's arms for an instant touched his neck. In another moment he had vanished into the depths of the forest.

""Tis strange," muttered Maudsley, after his strange companion had left him. "So gentle and so frail a form, and yet so imperious an air, so bold a heart, so wayward a mood, so mystic a fancy."

He turned away, but suddenly as he advanced, his ear was struck by a deep groan, as of one in pain.

"Hey-day, who speaks?" cried Maudsley, suddenly startled from his reverie, and immediately afterwards recollecting more distinctly what had happened so short a time before. "By heavens, if that be really the voice of Humphrey Rednape, perhaps I may have some ocular proof that the whole scene hath not been a creation of my imagination."

Groping his way towards the spot whence the groans proceeded, he soon became aware of the presence of the unfortunate Rednape. Finding that his wound, although attended with a very profuse loss of blood, did not seem to be so dangerous as he had at first supposed, he left him lying upon the ground, while he coolly paused for a moment at the door of the palace upon his way to his own hut, and recommended the condition of the suffering ruffian to the particular regards of several of his fraternity. Rejecting very peremptorily all entreaties

upon the part of the sovereign, to enter the palace and partake of the concluding festivities, and with eye, ear, and brain wearied with the fantastic scenes of which he had been all day long an unwilling witness, he sought relief and repose in the humble solitude of his own dwelling.

Long and loud was the merriment within the palace. Fierce and furious was the revelry, whose discordant din vexed hour after hour the solemn ear of night. But we willingly drop the curtain over the concluding scenes of the Merry-Mount holiday.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE MINOTAUR.

UPON the afternoon of a glowing and sultry day, the solitary of Shawmut was sauntering beneath the ample shade of the oaks and chestnuts which decorated his natural park.

A few weeks had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, and the fervid summer had already succeeded to the coy and reluctant spring. It was early June, but, as is not uncommon in a climate which loves the intense so much as ours, the heat was already that of mid-summer.

The verdure of the forest as well as of the open glades was of that tender and peculiarly vivid green, which marks the summer's infancy; and the many flowering trees and shrubs which, for a few brief weeks, decorate themselves at this genial season with their brilliant garlands, seemed to have changed the stern wilderness scene where the exile dwelt to a gay and painted garden. The red rose and the wild eglantine festooned themselves about the sterile cliffs; innumerable dogwood trees, scat tered profusely through the woods, displayed their large, white, magnificent flowers; the laurel upon the hill-sides blushed with its rose-colored chalices; the dainty privet, which loves the abode of man, hung over the rude palisades and tortuous fences its clustering and snowy panicles; the gaudy iris and the purple flower de luce made the fountain's edge, the brook-side, and the damp meadows gay; while from the stern and hideous morass, which bounded one side of the park, was diffused the delicious odor of the azalea, that obscure and hidden shrub which makes an atmosphere of fragrance about the foul and repulsive swamps