"Sir Henry Delmé," said he, "I have before this wished to see you, to implore the forgiveness of your family for the misery I have occasioned. How often have I cursed my folly! I acted on an impulse, which at the time I could not withstand. I had never serious views with regard to Acmé Frascati. Indeed, I may here tell you,-to no other man have I ever named it,—that I have ties in my own country far dearer, and more imperatively binding. I knew I had erred. The laws of society could alone have made me meet George Delmé as a foe; but even then-on the ground-God and my second know that my weapon was never directed at my friend. I am an unsocial being, Sir Henry, and, from my habits, not likely to be popular. Your brother knew this, and saved me from petty contentions and invidious calumnies. He was the best and only friend I possessed. I purpose soon to leave Malta and the army. The former is become painful to me,-for the latter I have a distaste. A feeling of delicacy to Acmé Frascati would prevent my seeing your brother, even if Mr.

Graham had not forbidden the interview, as likely to harass his mind. Will you, then, assure him of my unabated attachment, and tell me that you forgive me for the part I have taken in this unhappy affair."

Delmé was much moved as he assured him he would do all he wished; that he could see little to blame him for-that George's excited feelings had brought on the present crisis, and that he had amply atoned for any share he might have had in the transaction. Delancey pressed his hand gratefully.

It was at a somewhat late hour that Delmé joined Acmé and his brother; declining the hearty invitation of the Quartermaster to come down to his quarters.

"He could give him a devilled turkey and a capital cigar."

CHAPTER XIII.

OLIVER DELANCEY.

"Then the few, whose spirits float above the wreck of happiness,

Are driven o'er the shoals of guilt, or ocean of excess; The magnet of their course is gone, or only points in vain

The shore to which their shiver'd sail shall never reach again."

WE have said that Delmé saw Delancey once more. It was at a later period of our story, when business had taken Sir Henry to Bath. He had been dining with Mr. Belliston Græme, who possessed a villa in the neighbourhood. Tempted by the beauty of the night, he dismissed his carriage, and, turning from the high road, took a by-path which led to the city. The air was serene and mild. The moon-light was sufficiently

clear to chase away night's dank vapours. The ground had imperceptibly risen, until having ascended a grassy eminence, over which the path stretched, the well-lighted city burst upon the

eye.

Immediately in front of the view, a principal street presented itself, the lamps on either side stretching in regular succession, until they gradually narrowed and joined in the perspective. Nearer to the spectator, the flickering lights of the detached villas, and the moving ones of the carriages in the public road, relieved the stillness of the scene. Delmé paused to regard it, with that subdued feeling with which men, arrived at a certain period of life, scan the aspect of nature. The moon at the moment was enveloped in light clouds. As it broke through them, its shimmering light revealed a face and form that Delmé at once recognised as Delancey's. It was with a consciousness of pain he did so, for it brought before him recollections of scenes, whose impressions had still power to subdue him. All emotions, however, soon became absorbed in that of curiosity, as he

noted the still figure and agitated features before him. A block of granite lay near the path. Delancey leant back over it—his right hand nearly touched the ground-his hat lay beside him. The dark hair, wet with the dews of night, was blown back by the breeze. His high forehead was fully shewn. His vest and shirt were open, as he gazed with an air of fixedness on the city, and conversed to himself. His teeth were firmly clenched, and it seemed that the lips moved not, but the words were fearfully distinct. We often hear of these soliloquies,-they afford scope to the dramatist, food for the poet, a chapter for the narrator of fiction,-but we rarely witness them. When we do, they are eminently calculated to thrill and alarm. It was evident that Delancey saw him not; but had it been otherwise, Delmé's interest was so aroused that he could not have left

the spot.

"Hail! sympathising night!" thus spoke the young man," the calm of thy silent hour seems in unison with my lone heart-thy dewy breeze imparts a freshness to this languid and darkened