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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
Were this to sparkle in some clime of laughter,
Where nothing wither'd, saving guilt and grief!
There it were lovely as the smile of seraphs
Descending heaven to bring a spirit home
But here the paler the more beautiful—
This eye more wet with pity were more bright—
This voice more tremulous, most musical!

Alas!

Mar. Sweet Annabelle, why dost thou weep?
Ann.
Has not each day borne weeds and widowhood
To every hamlet of romantic Seine?
Broke in the midst the lively vintage song,
And made it end in tears and lamentation?

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

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