of the old oak, he disturbed the silence around by whistling the then prohibited Jacobite air of 'Over the water to Charlie;' a thing more creditable to his courage than to his loyalty to King George. His whistling, however, was soon stopped.

In the very height of his tune, he all at once heard a violent rush, as if something darted forward from another path that issued from an opposite point of Hartland valley, and passed under the oak. But who shall speak his feelings when in another instant he beheld in that part of the way beyond the oak which lay in the full light of an unclouded moon, a figure, tall and cloaked, mounted on a horse that bore his rider with fury towards the Abbey gates?

Now, whether it was that Tom Wakeum, who was really as bold as a lion in any moment of real danger, urged on his own steed to overtake the other, or whether, as is often the case, the one horse in violent motion excited the other to set off, in emulation of his pace, we cannot say; but certain it is, Tom's old sluggish hunter did no sooner see the other animal dash on before him than he followed with like

speed, and came up to the Abbey just as the first runaway horse stopped before the gates and his rider fell from his back, as if spent and totally helpless.

Tom Wakeum leapt off his horse, ran to the assistance of the fallen man, and, as he bent over him, heard him exclaim, in a low voice of inward agony, 'The Lord have mercy on my soul!' He looked at the fallen rider more closely, and examined his face, as the moon shone direct upon it.

'Good heavens !' exclaimed Tom, 'it is my master! Oh! sir, what has happened? Are you hurt?'

No answer was given. Tom left Sir John Fairland for a moment on the ground, flew to the gates, roused the house within, and in a few minutes his master was carried into the Abbey hall.

CHAPTER IX.

Thus o'er the dying lamp th' unsteady flame
Hangs quivering on the point, leaps off by fits,

And falls again, as loth to quit its hold.-Addison.

SIR JOHN FAIRLAND was removed from the hall to his own chamber, and laid gently on the bed. He was not dead, though speechless. A servant, mounted on the swiftest horse, was instantly despatched to summon the attendance of Mr. Tournequet, a young surgeon, who lived not very far off in the adjoining parish. In about half an hour he arrived.

It appeared that Sir John had received a wound in the breast from a pistol shot, and in his paralytic habit (for not very long before he had had a slight seizure), either by the exhaustion arising from internal flow of blood, or from the shock the nerves had sustained, probably in some struggle, before he had been fired at in the forest, loss of speech was the consequence.

Mr. Tournequet extracted the ball, and a part of the wadding which stuck in the waistcoat, and had not penetrated the skin. Both the ball and the wadding the surgeon wrapped up with care, and put them into his own pocket, without making the slightest remark to any one present. He next desired to speak with Lady Fairland.

Her demonstrations of grief and anxiety were loud and excessive to such a degree that she would scarcely hear a word the surgeon had to say. Nevertheless, he compelled her to understand him, when he told her that no time should be lost in sending for the children of Sir John, who, the servants had informed him, were absent; for so great was the internal flow of blood, that the danger was imminent. He had done he would do-all he could; but it was impossible he could say how long Sir John might survive; perhaps till the morning, perhaps not to the end of the present hour.

Lady Fairland having heard all he had to say, directed Tom Wakeum to go off in search of the party who were at the harvest home. But Tom

resolutely, sturdily refused to leave his master, declaring that Heaven itself had called upon him that night to go home; and that home he would not quit so long as his master should be alive. Lady Fairland knew well how impracticable a person Tom Wakeum was, and that it was in vain to argue a point with him when he had once made up his mind, she therefore despatched another servant.

Sir John Fairland retained his senses perfectly, and by the motion of his head and hands, as well as by his earnest and expressive looks, made himself tolerably well understood. On his wife saying to him, in a cheering tone, that she was sure he would recover, and that he knew how distressed she felt on his account, he shook his head, and, as well as he could, motioned her to leave him. He then looked imploringly at the surgeon, as much as to say, ‘Take her away from me.'

The surgeon urgently recommended Lady Fairland to retire, and leave Sir John to his care, and that of his faithful servant. But her ladyship, in a haughty and indignant manner, refused to quit the room, and,