CHAPTER IV. "But if the rogue have gone a cup too far, WE must now shift the scene to the ancestral residence of the De Veres. Dun Edin Towers, or as it was called, for brevity's sake, The Towers, stood on a slight eminence at the foot of the Lammermoor Hills. On three sides it was bounded by the densest woods, whilst in front an ample park, dotted over with fine trees, stretched downwards till it ended in a bosky dell, the resort of woodcocks, pheasants, and all kinds of game; at the bottom of this dell a mountain torrent gushed amid the stones, now lost in rocks rough with brachen, now bursting over the sunny shingle, and revealing to the practised eye myriads of trout gaily shooting past. After heavy rains, or when the snows on the hill began to thaw, the bubbling rivulet changed its character, and "tumbling brown the burn came down, and roared frae bank to brae." The castle was itself a large quadrangular pile, with four lofty towers at the four corners: from these towers it took its name, and as they peeped above the woods they served for a landmark to the country for many a league round. The round towers proclaimed its Norman architecture, and the building was now hoary with age, but its masonry seemed solid as when it was first raised, and having outlived its lords for so many ages it seemed as though it would serve not only as the home, but the tomb of its present occupant; for in one tower was the long last dwelling-place of the De Veres. Partly covered over with ivy, its buttresses formed an asylum for owls and bats, which from time immemorial had built their nests there, and they seemed as much the rightful possessors as any of its human masters. My readers must cross with me the drawbridge, swinging, on its hoarsely sounding chains, over the deep moat that surrounded the castle, and passing the frowning gateway, under the old portcullis, along the winding passage, with loopholes pierced on either side, we enter the ample courtyard paved with stone. In its centre stood an ancient sun-dial. Opposite us is the doorway, and as our story leads us to the inmates of this hold we will continue our journey up the broad flight of stairs, and, sounding the bell which, in conformity with ancient usage, was still hung there, wait till the massive oaken door with its clamps of brass is opened, and discloses the entrance hall, a small square room full of ancient armour, intermingled with trophies of the chase. Above the door are crossed two pennons, which had been wrung from the Moslems in the days of the Crusades. All round spears, battle-axes, and lances of the olden time, with whole suits of chain and steel armour, hung side by side with more modern implements of war, guns-swords, pistols, and bayonets, that had fought well in battle fierce. Stags' antlers, boars' tusks, and grinning heads of wolves and foxes peeped forth here and there; and, instead of mats, tigers' and bears' skins were stretched on the polished oak floor. All of these were bequeathed by the ancestors of the present family, or collected by themselves. Strange scenes had been here enacted, if tales told the truth. In the centre of the room was a dark stain on the oaken planks the stain of blood-a stain blood only can wipe away. Opening next a door of carved oak, we find ourselves in the great hall. It is upwards of ninety feet in length, and about the middle on either side is an ancient fireplace, so large that a family might occupy either, seated round the log fire on the stone seats. Above each hung a fine picture. One was of a beautiful young woman in the dress of an abbess, wandering with naked feet through dense woods-this was Augusta de Vere. Opposite, was the portrait of the stern Sir Ralph. From these two pictures an endless line of family portraits was continued to the end of the hall either way. There were many winning faces, none more so than the two last, pictures of the Ladies Edith and Florence. There were many handsome and manly faces, none more so than the three last-pictures of the present lord, and his two brothers. There was a peculiarity in this picture gallery-can any of my readers guess what it was? There was no old face from Sir Ralph downwards. They were all young-all in their early prime-yet all but five were laid low. We must not delay here too long, but ascend the principal staircase, and crossing an almost endless corridor, with doors ranged on each side, at last finish our route by opening the door of the boudoir, in which the family usually assembled after breakfast. There are three members only present. From his picture we recognise the young Earl, possessor of the most famed name, and broadest lands in the kingdom. We see the same lofty mien-the artist has but faintly caught-the same noble outline of features, and dark brown hair, curled close as the tendrils of the vine over his broad forehead. His air is dignified and high, he looks what he is, and yet there is about his face something which tells us he has all the love of his race for the field, and his look does not belie his character; never was he happier than when he had flown the pomps of a court in which he shone a star of the first magnitude, and forgot anxious cares in the calm retreats of The Towers-wound the view halloo, and was first in at the death. The Earl was fully six feet in height, and stout and strong in proportion. He is now standing before a blazing wood fire, and close beside him stands a fair-haired girl of perhaps fifteen years. Her melting blue eyes and complexion of dazzling purity, lit up with the chastest and sweetest of smiles, gave an air of peculiar interest to her face. To look at Lady Florence was to love her. How dim, how earthly is the picture now, when before us stands the bright original. Her sister, the proud, romantic Lady Edith, remains to be described; she is deeply interested in some book over which she is bent, her dark brown hair and hazel eyes lend an air of pleasing melancholy to her face; she has áll the proud hauteur of an English beauty, and carries birth and majesty in every movement. She was three years older than her sister. "I suppose we are too late for church this morning," said Lady Edith, glancing a moment off her book. "Oh! much too late; but I have ordered the carriage to be here in plenty of time for the afternoon service," answered her brother. "Are you going, Edie?" said Lady Florence. "I suppose so; you are going too, are you not?" "Oh dear, yes; I do so long to see the wonderful pew; do you think, Wentworth, it will be altered all nicely now?" I fancy so; Taylor knows me too well now to neglect my orders again. Are you going?" continued Lord Wentworth, addressing a young man who then entered, followed by the Marquis of Arranmore. This was Captain De Vere; to look at him one could not help calling him handsome: his dark eye, and closelycut black hair gave him a military air-a dashing, soldierly appearance, and his height, which exceeded the Earl's slightly, combined with a splendid figure, gave him a fine manly mien ; but there was something in his face cruel and unrelenting; his fierce moustache, and arched nose were those of a Roman, and in his eye there was the twinkle that told the libertine ;-his handsomeness was that of a Nero, not so in its true significance. "Going where?" he answered abruptly. "To church," replied the Earl. "See you d―d first," was the curt reply. "Nor will Arranmore; he and I are going to the barracks to look out Musgrave.” “Oh! John, you shouldn't swear so," said Lady Florence; but where is Frank? perhaps he will come." "How the devil should I know-I am not Frank's keeper?" answered the Captain, showing how little he cared for the reproof. "Frank is in the dell," said Lord Arranmore, "looking after some woodcocks the keeper had told him about." "A hopeful set you all seem," said the good-natured Earl; "however, this is Liberty Hall, every one to his own mind, and no questions asked." "But won't you come, Arranmore?" said his betrothed. The Marquis looked doubtful. "No, no, that won't do, Edith," said the Captain, interrupting; "you are not going to get round Arranmore, and rob me of my companion; you don't catch us darkening your accursed church doors. Come along, old fellow," pulling the Marquis by the sleeve, "leave them to read sermons." "You should be ashamed to say so," answered Lady Edith, but her voice was lost in the clap of the door, as the irreligious young officer went off with his friend, coolly whistling "Deil tak' the minister,” an old Scotch song. "Order two horses, Andrew, and |