interest upon the killed on a field of battle. On the present occasion, as I looked upon the stalwart and stiffening limbs of the rude mountaineers of Biscaza, it was impossible to be otherwise than struck by the fierce expression of the faces of such as had died from bayonet thrusts; and which contrasted strongly with the sleepy appearance of the features of those who had expired from shot wounds. While looking on the dead, my gaze, with that of one or two officers, similarly employed, soon became drawn to a sight which at once served to show the deep and relentless feelings of hate which marks the "ruling passion strong in death.”

It was the almost colossal body of a Chapel Churry, whose brawny limbs had cofled themselves up in the death agony upon the person of an English soldier -a fair haired lad, whose throat the teeth of the Carlist had horribly lacerated, and upon which, vampire like, they semed to have become immovably fixed in the death agony. The body of the Carlist displayed many wounds from shot,— the bayonet of his victim still sticking in his side, and it was evident to the beholder that the poor lad who seemed to have fallen from a wound in the knee, had expired horribly under the fangs of the nearly disabled Carlist; but what struck me as most revolting, was the expression of the Spaniard's face: the eyes glaring horribly with a look that was absolutely demoniac. Although much stained with blood and dirt, there was something in the lineaments that was familiar to my sight, and after a short effort of memory, it scarcely needed the production of a muster-roll taken out of the Spaniard's pocket by one of my men, to assure me that the Carlist was no other than that redoubted miscreant, Marco Guitala, whose last act of atrocity seemed in keeping with his life.

It now remains for me to say a few words of Lucella, the ferry-boat woman, whose friendly warning I had so little heeded. Since my escape in the neighbourhood of Alsa, which had created some stir within San Sebastian and Passages, she had disappeared, to the great disappointment of many of her admirers, who had, doubtless, hoped to make some impression on the heart of the fair Spaniard. Rumour had stated that she had been seen within the Carlist lines, whither, indeed, it was charitably said, she was gone to communicate her knowledge of our forces and numbers in and about San Sebastian. In the month of December that same year, I bid farewell to Spain and the legion, for the peace and quiet of old England. For the sake of seeing the country, I travelled through France, en route to Paris. At Bordeaux, struck by the beauty of the city, I was induced to make a rest there some days. I visited St. Michaels; the famous vault of the skeletons; the burial grounds; the interior of the beautiful bridge that crosses the Geronne, and other objects worthy of the traveller's observation.

Going to the Opera one night, I was delighted beyond measure at the ballet of Robert le Diable, which had, only a few nights before, been brought out at Paris.

While gazing round the house at the different groupes of figures that presented

themselves, I was comparing them in my own mind with an audience in England, when my glass suddenly displayed a face which I instantly recognized ;—it was thinner, paler than when I had last seen it; but I could not be mistaken. The features, the expression, proclaimed it that of Lucilla the boat-woman. But, oh! how changed from her former humble garb. She was elegantly attired, while by her side sat a fine, hale, elderly looking gentleman, whose mustachios and the ribbons of some military orders that decorated his button-hole, seemed scarcely necessary to proclaim him as a soldier by profession. On making enquiry of a Frenchman in the same box with me, I learned that the gentleman was the Baron D'E-, a French officer, who had retired from the service of Don Carlos, upon whose staff he had served.

Still determined to be confirmed as to her identity, at the end of the performance I placed myself in the lobby, where she soon passed so close to me, leaning or the baron's arm, I felt assured it was her. I endeavoured, indeed, to catch her eye, but the crowd prevented me succeeding, and I saw her with her protector step into a carriage waiting for them, which was driven rapidly away, leaving me to saunter home to my hotel in a deep fit of reverie on the changing events of life. Strange to say, for the first time, though Lucella's character had fallen in my estimation, I found myself thinking a great deal about her, and, in fact, almost persuaded myself that I entertained a tender feeling for the fair Spaniard. I certainly, at least, felt a strong feeling of gratitude for the service she had endeavoured to render me, and was desirous to see her once again, as well to return my thanks, as from certain feelings of curiosity. After many inquiries, I learned the Baron was residing with her at a picturesque little villa in the suburbs of the city. Thither I repaired, and was not a little vexed at finding that she had about two hours previously accompadied her protector on a journey to Pau, whither he had been summoned by urgent business. I had my ride for my pains therefore, and was still doomed to have my curiosity ungratified as to the circumstances which led to the WARNING OR THE MIDNIGHT VISIT.

GERTRUDE AND LILIAS;

A LEAF FROM THE JOURNAL OF AN ANTIQUARIAN.

THE old manor house of Folkstone has little to attract the notice of the passing wayfarer, for its fine park is now converted into a sheep pasture, its flower garden is planted with turnips, and its noble woods have long since been felled to enable its owner to enrich and embellish some fair domain. The house has suffered comparatively little from time, but a fiercer enemy has been at work within its

walls, and in its finest apartments are still visible the traces of that devouring fire which has reduced it almost to ruin. Strange rumours are abroad concerning the origin of that fire. The present owner, a wild and dissolute youth, came down to visit it, with a party of gay revellers, soon after it fell into his possession. Five more stately and better appointed mansions were already his, for he was one of the wealthiest of England's Peers, and when he beheld the worm-eaten tapestries and mouldering furniture, he was heard to exclaim, with a loud oath

"I would that my mad cousin of Folkstone had set fire to the old nest; it will cost more in taxes than the lands will yield in revenue."

His steward, a keen-eyed, iron-faced man, heard his master's words, and on the very night after the young lord's departure, the building was discovered to be in flames. Some said it was a judgment from Heaven-others shook their heads, and whispered that the agency of man was visible in a fire which had broken out from four different points at the same moment, and certain it is, that no money was ever spent upon the repair of the once noble structure. I had been told that the staircase was still decorated with some remains of the magnificent oaken carvings which had once adorned many of the rooms, and I was therefore induced to visit the almost roofless mansion, which certainly promised little to reward my search. I had wandered for some time through the empty apartments, which were nearly stripped of every vestige of furniture, when, upon opening the door of a small chamber, that seemed originally designed for an oratory, I found myself suddenly in thepresence of two pictures, whose tints were so unfaded and life-like, that, for a moment, I started as if the actual beings had suddenly risen before me. The pictures represented two ladies, apparently about twenty years of age. Perhaps, had I seen the pictures elsewhere, they might not have offered such powerful attraction, although they were as exquisite in their execution as in design. But the faces of those beautiful girls, gleaming out from the dark oaken panel in which the picture was deeply inserted-this painted semblance of life-active and joyous life in the midst of utter desolation-this solitary vestige of a race now passed for ever from the earth-this single record of the past, which had escaped the destruction to which its stranger lord had doomed the home of an ancient family, awakened a feeling of awe for which I could scarcely account, even to myself. I gazed upon those bright faces until imagination began to weave many a dream of the fortunes of those lovely maidens. I pictured them the idol of their stately parents, the pride of their family, the darlings of their dependents. I had been struck with their wonderful similarity of feature, and I fancied the fair sisters had been as much assimilated in character, while I endeavored to sketch some probable view of their course through life. The setting sun, which beaming through the single window, suddenly lighted up the lonely pictures with a bright halo of departing glory, recalled me to myself and as I turned my back upon the little chamber, I felt the folly of my own imaginings. Why