who knows but in our revels to-night, you may find a lady less liable to change her mind?” Sir Lubin did not understand this mode of proceeding, and would have come to high words but for the peculiar expression of Childe Wilful's eye, which kept them bubbling in his throat. He could by no means decide upon what to say. He gave two or three pretty considerable hems, but he cleared the road in vain, for nothing was coming; and so, at last, he made up his mind to treat the matter with silent contempt. He bowed to the company with a haughty dive, kicked his long sword, as he turned, between his legs, and strode, or rather rode, out of the church as fast as his dignity would permit. The crowd on the outside, not being aware of what had passed within, and taking it for granted that it was all right that the bridegroom, on such great occasions, should go home alone, wished him joy very heartily and clamorously, and the six horses went off at a long trot, which was quite grand. Sibyl and her cavalier looked breathlessly for what was to come next. "The wedding feast must not be lost," said the old lord; “will nobody be married?” Sibyl was again placed at the altar, and, in the roon of Sir Lubin, was handed the Cavalier Wilful. "Wilt thou take this man for thy wedded husband?" demanded the priest. Sibyl blushed, and still trembled, but her faintings did not return; and if her voice was low when she spoke the words "I will," it was distinct and musical as the clearest note of the nightingale. FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. A Dramatic Sketch. PERSONS. EUSTACHE. MERZON. GERAULT. OFFICERS, GENS-D'ARMES, &c. ANNABELLE. MARGUERITE. PEASANTRY, &c. FAITHFUL AND FORSAKEN. PART I. SCENE-The Country near Paris-Evening.—Annabelle, MargueRITE; Peasant Girls, &c. dropping off by degrees. ANNABELLE, (taking MARGUERITE by the hand). LIGHT-HEARTED France, whose deepest groans are breathed To merry pipes and mirth-resounding feet, When wilt thou learn to feel? O, what a brow Alas! Mar. Sweet Annabelle, why dost thou weep? O, we have friends and brothers! Mar. We have lost none. Ann. We have the more to lose. Those crimson streets Of the dread city never will be dry Till every eye and every throbbing vein Has paid its tributary drop-Didst hear That leaden sound come shuddering through the air? Didst hear it, Marguerite? Mar. Too true, I heard The ceaseless voice of that inhuman engine Telling its tale of death. Ann. What spirit, newly freed, And canst thou guess floats on the wind That passes us? This morn we might have told Each star that form'd the blessed constellation About our hearts-How may we count them now? Mar. Thy fancy is too busy. More than this I shar'd with thee at first, but frequent horrors Have grown familiar; and the worn in battle, Though he can find a sigh for those who fall, Forgets his fears for those who may. E'en thou Hast not been long a yellow leaf amidst |