"I AM weary already of this dismal castle," said a youthful page to an aged warrior, who kept watch on the tower of one of those feudal fortresses that studded the south-western provinces of France; "I am weary of a castle where every face wears the aspect of settled gloom-where no sound is heard but the warder's measured tread, and the monotonous word of the sentinel-when my father sent me to learn the exercises of chivalry under a chevalier so celebrated as Count Arnold, I thought that highborn dames, and gallant knights, crowded his halls, but here I find none but moving statues, whose motions are as mechanical as those of the great clock on the towers of Notre Dame.

"When you have remained in it longer you will be more weary, Master Jocelyn," replied the warder.

"But, good Hubert, tell me what spell is there upon this mansion of the silent. The countess and the Lady Emmeline keep their chamber, and have but once come to the hall during the three days I have been here; Count Arnold has scarcely spoken since I presented my letters of introduction; and even thou, whom my father described as a merry soldier, art as stiff and silent as thy own pike. I am weary of this castle, and will fly it ere the world is a week older."

"That is easier said than done, my young gallant."

Why, what mean you? Would Count Arnold detain me here against my will? If I thought so I should leap the wall, swim the moat, and show a fair pair of heels to pursuers.' JAN. 1832.

"You would not, because you could not do any of these things, Master Jocelyn. Hark in your ear; Count Arnold possesses powers that we know not of no one that has once joined his train can escape: he knows the moment that such a thought is formed, and-who goes there?"

"A friend," answered the harsh voice of the count, who suddenly appeared upon the parapet. "Hubert, thou art not alone-who shares thy watch?"

"It is young Master Jocelyn, may it please your lordship."

"It pleaseth me right well to find one so young quitting his couch to learn the art of war from an old soldier's conversation: he will soon be fit for the honourable post of esquire. But, young sir, be not in too great a hurry to take the lance-as page, thou hast yet to practise courtesies to the fair."

There seemed a concealed irony in the tone with which the speech was uttered, for which Jocelyn could not account: he felt abashed he knew not why, and, muttering some indistinct acknowledgments, he left the walls, and hasted to his own apartment.

Arnold waited until the page was out of hearing, and then advancing to Hubert, said, "Wouldst thou betray me, old comrade-me with whom thou hast stood on the plains of Edessa, the rocks of Carmel, and the sands of Egypt? and to a boy, Hubert-a boy whom thou hast but seen within these three days?"

"My lord," replied the warder, "I cannot betray a secret with which I was never entrusted: all I know is,

B