lines, and the horsemen could be seen hastily loosing their lances and pennons, and crowding into order before the ford. In a little time the whole body were mounted along the bank of the stream, and a numerous company of bowmen crossed the water towards the Scots.

Lord James descended midway, where he halted his array upon the green slope, while the archers advanced up the hill with hoods off and bows in hand till within shot of the horsemen, when they scattered among the bushes, and began to rain their shot upon the cavalry. The pelting arrows clinked like sleet upon the harness, and told on every joint of the men and horses, wounding several of the riders through the bars of their helmets, and the coursers through the eyes of their chanfreins, but not a man moved out of his place, till suddenly a horn sounded below, and the lances of Leadhouse appeared over the copse-wood upon the south side of the river.

At the instant Lord James couched his lance, cried "St. Bride for Douglass!" and the whole line went down the hill like a course of greyhounds. At the first rush of the horses, the bowmen turned and fled, and for a few moments it was a headlong race down the steep, but the furious troopers went over the hindmost runners before they reached the midway, and, riding down all that was before them, went through the ford with the thick of the rout. In an instant the water was in one foam, and the stream came down red with blood, and floating with bows, bonnets, and broken shafts. At this moment a deep rumbling sound came down the hill, a thick cloud of dust covered the summit, but a hollow rush, like a roll of thunder, told the approach of the English line, and the dust was scarce on the water when it parted in the breeze, and the blazing stream of horsemen poured out in the sun. There was no check on either part, and the two lines went together in a crash and thunder of shouts and breaking spears. As the dust swept off in the wind, the two bodies appeared broken, and intermingled in one confounded mass, only to be distinguished by the pennons which danced above the dark heaps and wavering wood of spears. The black dense press yet shrunk and grew with fluctuating advantage, when suddenly a burst of Slogans broke in the rear, and the Kers and the Johnstones came in through the smoke and dust and disar

ray, like a sweeping torrent, and lances, pennons, and helms went down before them into the midst of the hosts, but immediately the black tide closed over the breach, and for a moment it could not be seen whether the charge was lost or won.

The sun was setting upon the dark cloud of the hattle, and above, a solitary figure stood and watched the conflict, as its sweeping dust and glittering crowd brightened in the declining rays. For a moment it wavered to and fro, but suddenly the pennon of Douglass advanced with a steady flutter through the thick press of helmets towards the banner of Lord Clifford; for a moment it bent and shook, now sunk, now rose again. There was a shout upon the water-the gazer glanced to the stream, and when he looked again the banner was gone, and the low sun brightened only on the white stars of Douglass and a few scattered pencelles which yet danced above the conflict. All at once the black tide of the battle rolled along the field like a loosed flood, and a white slender maiden figure passed amidst the dark press, now lost, now stopped, now flying through the disarray.

The deep crowd gathered, closed, wavered round the flitting shadow, but suddenly a loud roar came up from the rout, and a cry, "Douglass to the rescue!Douglass to the rescue!"-echoed over the field.

*

The day declined upon the woods of Ettrick, and the obscurity of night succeeded to the glimmer of the twilight. Mabel Grey sat by the hearth, her head bent on her hands, her plaid drawn over her face, and at times the stillness of the cottage was broken by a sob. There was no light on the embers, but the little door stood ajar, and gave a blink of the gray still moonlight, and the blue misty waters of the Yarrow. All was silent and quiet, but the red glow of the decayed fires yet glimmered on the hill, and at times the low breeze brought the hum of voices from the smouldering village. As the drowsy noises of the evening subsided, a faint uncertain sound came up the glen. Mabel raised her head suddenly, swept back the thin gray hair from her face; it was not the tinkle of the sheep-bell, nor the hum of the black-lin, but the murmur of the stream took away the sound, till again the fitful breeze came back, and suddenly the trample of horses and the gingle of arms came distinctly up the road. Mabel started from

the chair and tottered to the door. The sound came rapidly up the hollow path, and presently a faint light flashed in the moonshine, and dark shadows came across the glimmer of the water, and in another moment the waving of a banner, and a crowd of lances, and smoking horses, came over the gray bent. They halted on the knoll before the cottage-there was a hasty dismounting, the gingle of mail and spurs a light quick flutter came through the broom, and Alice rushed into the arms of her mother.

The gray woman fell upon the neck of her child, and clasped her to her bosom ; and they could but weep without a word. At last Mabel looked up and held the hands of her daughter, and gazed upon her face as the moon shone on her pale, lovely features. "Blessed be his name," she exclaimed, "and blessed the hand that has let me see you once again! Alas! I never thought to look on thy bright face before I died."

Alice stepped aside: a tall dark man stood beyond, his aventail was half closed, and the shadow was on his face; but the moon shone upon the white stars of his surcoat, and the old woman gazed for a moment, and fell at his feet, and kissed his mail glove in silence.

The Douglass gently raised her, and looked upon her white hair, and the tear on her withered cheek, and bent his head, and spoke to her as if she had been Lady Margaret in Bothwell. The old woman smiled, and crossed her breast, and drew her gray plaid over her eyes, and spoke of her sons" the flowers of the forest that were "a' wede awa'," and he who lay under the green thorn in Selkirk, and could no more bend a bow for his lonely daughter. The Douglass closed his helmet :one moment held her hand-one moment looked round upon the still lodge, the quiet green, the glistening flowers, and the bright moonshine that looked down and smiled upon the fairy queen who had made all the blossom and sweetness of that lone green dell. The tear fell through the aventail of the knight, and he stooped down and kissed the maiden through the steel bars, and said a hasty Benedicite, and hurried through the broom. In another moment the quick clatter of the horses, and the thick waver of the lances went through the moonlight, and the dusk shadows and ringing sound receded into the wood, and passed away like the elfland court in a midsummer-night's tale.

Σ

C. S.

dreadful rock was he who, under a sacred form deceived me-'twas he who granted my presumptuous entreaty, when I dared to murmur at the decrees of Brahma-it was that fearful spirit, who claimed his reward, when, in our joy we bore our son to the banks of the Nerbudda. That reward-oh! it was claimed indeed that fatal hour-the words of the evil one have rung for ever in my ears. 'Holkar is mine from his birth. When eighteen summers have rolled over his head he must take the leap of death from the rock of Onkar Mundattah!' I have lived to see the moment-but I lingered only to perish with him-here, in this solitude, I nursed his infancy-I tended his youth, and deemed no tie should bind him to earth, but that which death itself would not sever. Oh! doubly bitter is our fate for now he will quit with sorrow the world, which holds his Abla-he will mourn that one heart is left to weep for his untimely fate."

"No, no!" cried Abla, clinging to her lover-"we can die at least toge ther-the evil spirit will not, cannot, reject another victim; we will be united in eternity, and may Onkar Mundattah be appeased for ever!"

The sound of melancholy music echoed through the Vale of Nerbudda, and the crowds assembled on its banks wore no looks of gladness, such as usually dwelt in their meetings. There was a deathlike stillness around, interrupted only by the songs of lament which accompanied a car drawn by white oxen, in which two females were seated on either side of a young chief, clad in splendid garments, but on whose brow sat a deep sadness, which showed him to be an object of commiseration rather than, as his situation would denote, a bridegroom beloved and happy. Yet Holkar was a bridegroom, and none so well beloved, so truly, fondly cherished. Abla, his new-made bride, and Alia, his mother, were attending him from the marriage ceremony, which had just taken place, to his destined and inevitable fate.

As the car approached the fatal rock the lamentations became loud, and cries

and shrieks were heard; the women cast themselves on the ground, tearing their hair and rending their garments.

Already the mournful cavalcade had reached the foot of the mountain, the ascent was begun, and the song of grief which had accompanied them throughout their progress was loudly renewed. The vulture has chosen the ringdove's nest

Mourn for the bridal where Death is a guest!

No strains of joy shall ring thro' the air,
But the yells and wailings of despair ;-
See where dimly the Dhakeens hover
Over the bride and her hapless lover-
They come in storm on the wings of the
blast,

And their tiger steeds thro' the clouds speed

fast

O'er Onkar's rock in triumph they ride,Mourn for the bridegroom-mourn for the bride!

On a sudden the car paused and Hol kar rose-he waved his hand and the sound died away in sorrowful murmurs. "My countrymen," he said, "lament not for me I but fulfil the destiny, which cannot be changed. To you I leave my wife-my mother-let them find friends in all to whom the memory of heroes is dear."

As he uttered these words, with the swiftness of light he had leaped from the car-his fleet step had scaled the steep, and ere the astonished crowd could divine his intention, ere Abla or his mother could follow him even with a look, he had reached the verge of the fatal rock. He threw his arms wildly upwards towards Heaven, and rushing forward with determined energy, plunged into the abyss of space.

A wild shout proclaimed the sacrifice accomplished. Abla and the distracted mother rent the air with their cries, as they struggled vainly with those who forcibly detained them from executing the purpose they had conceived, of dying with him they loved. Suddenly in sight of all, there arose, as if from a great distance beneath, strains of the softest music, and bright clouds of golden hue gathered fast round the peak of the dreadful rock. All hurried to the summit, and eager to discover the

meaning of the singular appearance which presented itself, those in whose grasp Abla was struggling loosed their hold, and making a violent effort, she darted away like a sunbeam, till her foot was on the edge of the precipice.

What voice arrested her step? what sound ravished her senses? what music from another world came to restore her to life and love? It was the voice of Holkar. "Abla-my beloved," he cried, "forbear, forbear-look down the deep abyss, and behold me uninjuredbless the decrees of fate and the ordinances of Brahma-I am saved for thee and for my country!"

Abla looked, and scarcely could her eyes reach the depth, where she beheld him like a speck below, though his voice had sounded as if close to her ear. "He lives! he lives!" she loudly exclaimed ; "Brahmins, behold your chief-proclaim your Rajah!"

Instantly from every tongue burst forth the shout of exultation-awed and bewildered with amazement, the people

crowded to the spot; every eye was strained to look upon the rescued victim. And the vault of heaven rung with the cry of "Long live Holkar! he whom Brahma has preserved from the evil one-Long live our destined Rajah!"

Such was the established law, that he who having taken the perilous leap, was yet preserved, should become sovereign of the country: though none of the numerous victims who had been sacrificed to appease the wrath of Onkar Mundattah, had ever, during the course of many years, been known to escape.

Holkar, by means as miraculous as his preservation, was borne to the upper air, and the loud acclamations of his people assured to the trembling mother the return in safety of her son, the Rajah of the Valley of Nerbudda.

L. S. C.

[See for the account on which this tale is founded, Sir John Malcolm's Central India.]

ALL was gloomy magnificence in the chamber of death: the bed-curtains of sable velvet were fastened back with cords and tassels of burnished silver; the sheet which covered the cold remains of mortality stretched beneath it, was of white cambric of the finest texture, richly embroidered, and the wax candles which gleamed cold and ghastly on the uncovered face of the corse, were shedding their faint light from candlesticks of ebony, lipped with pearls. Six maidens in robes of white muslin knelt before a temporary altar blazing with jewels at the further extremity of the apartment; while nearer the bed of death the same number of youths, clad in mourning habits, chanted the "De Profundis," almost beneath their breath. But there was yet another in that place of sorrow: a young and lovely woman, with a blanched cheek and a dimmed

eye, whose grief seemed deeper and less susceptible of consolation than that of the maiden train, whose glances travelled at intervals from the death-couch to the jewelled altar, and thence to the band of mourning youths beside them. Her eye strayed not for a moment: she was kneeling close beside the dead, and at times the deep breathing of her anguish caused an undulation in the light cambric which covered the body. She was very beautiful! and as she bent towards the cold clay of the departed, with her long hair scattered over her shoulders, and her large dark eyes raised in prayer, while her loose white raiment floated round her like a cloud, she seemed some exquisite master-piece, marble-hewn, and moveless. After a time the "De Profundis" died away on the lips of the mourners, and there was a strange stillness in the death-room: the curtains of