a time for fooling, when we are caught within the trapbaited by our own folly? Sir Edward de Buron, thou art in our power. 'Tis true the king's forces, backed by the knights of St. John, surround the house, bent on effecting thy deliverance; we are aware that, if injured, for every hair of thy head one of us will grace a gallows in Aldgate; yet an thou pledgest not thy honour as a soldier that we, one and all, shall escape scatheless for our share in this day's work, we will hurl thy lifeless trunk even under the hoofs of Lord Surrey's horse, let the consequence be what it may."

"My honour were little worth an I pawned it to such a dastardly varlet as thyself," said the knight furiously, aiming, as he spoke, with such good-will at the gallant skinner, that had not the latter stepped aside, his exploits would have terminated in a manner little to his liking. As it was, the descending weapon inflicted a slight flesh-wound on Master John Lincoln's arm, who, uninured to aught of war save its honours, uttered a tremendous yell of pain, which, notwithstanding his imminent peril, aroused the risible faculties of the young Aubrey, whilst it maddened the already excited rabble. These pressed eagerly forward, determined to carry into effect Mark Studley's menace, which they never imagined was only an attempt to intimidate his antagonist.

Standing between his assailants and son, Sir Edward laid about him right and left; whilst Mark, almost beside himself, implored, threatened, and commanded his followers to desist, but all to no purpose. The report of the cannon discharged from the Tower added to the confusion; and the crash of the great gate apprised the insurgents that a few moments more of life or liberty was all they could expect. Already had Lord Surrey's yeomen ascended the first steps of the turret-stair, already did the building resound with the name of Sir Edward de Buron, when one of the gigantic smiths before alluded to dealt the unfortunate nobleman a blow on the head which struck him to the ground. At that moment Sir George Neville, followed by about twenty men-at-arms, entered the apartment; and whilst the rioters, horror-stricken by the rash act of their

comrade, surrendered without a struggle, Aubrey, sobbing as if his heart would break, threw himself upon his father's bosom.

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Aubrey," exclaimed the knight faintly, "I am dying -tell your cousin Florence I forgive her share in this day's work-but oh! in this hour, when the world and its follies fade before me, how doth my heart yearn to embrace my" He paused, and his dulled eyes rested wistfully on the cross-handle of his sword; the boy saw and understood the glance; with trembling hand he held it up before him, and as the expiring noble pressed it to his lips, he murmured, "Aubrey, do thou make restitution" Another silence, and Sir George Neville, too, kneels by the side of his friend; he speaks again 'tis to breathe the names of his Redeemer and of His Virgin Mother. The head drops heavily from the weak arms in which it was supported, and all was over.

Burying his face in his hands, Neville groaned aloud; and after a short but earnest prayer for the soul of Edward de Buron, prepared to address a few words of consolation to the distracted Aubrey, when, to his great astonishment,, the boy was no where to be found.

It was some hours later, and a profound stillness reigned throughout the Green Gate, when a man, with his finger on his lips and a stealthy shuffling pace, entered the apartment. His person was enveloped in a livery cloak of fine scarlet cloth and his head, breast, and shoulders, entirely concealed by a fool's hood or cowl of rich materials, terminating in a lively representation of the head and neck. of a cock. Fidgetting about the room, with that peculiar restlessness by which persons of his class are generally characterised, the witless at length espied the glittering casket, which had remained undisturbed in the nook where it had been placed by the unfortunate De Buron; with the grin of an ape he pounced upon it, and hastily concealing it within the folds of his mantle, hurried off with his prize at a speed which would have distanced the most nimble-footed pursuer.

When Aubrey de Buron recovered his senses, which

had deserted him at the moment of his father's death, he found himself muffled in a large cloak, and borne in the arms of a man who was rapidly traversing the Teasel Close (a field behind "Fisher's Folly," so called from the number of teasles planted there by the weavers, to whom it belonged). In one of the sheds erected for the accommodation of the cloth-workers, Charles Sherwin (for he it was), after hastily preparing for his charge a rude couch of some rushes, with which the floor was strewed, whispered him to rest quietly until he should return. Too much exhausted by fatigue and grief to disobey, the boy passively remained for what appeared to him a considerable lapse of time; nor was it until twilight that his guide, with whose person he was familiar, re-appeared, and taking him by the hand, conducted him across the meadows in the direction of Hog Lane.

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"This Cardinal,

CHAPTER V.

Though from an humble stock, undoubtedly
Was fashioned to much honour."

King Henry VIII.

WHEN Alice followed her father into the ordinary sittingroom, which was situated on the ground-floor, Sibil had covered the board with a plentiful repast, though a gloom deeper than Gertrude's death alone would have occasioned seemed to overspread the whole party. Sherwin himself was ghastly pale, his lips firmly compressed, as was his custom when under the influence of any mental agitation; at every sound he started, and glanced uneasily at the door, whilst his hand mechanically sought the hilt of his sword. Dame Agnes was in a high state of excitement, now pacing the apartment, now wringing her hands and giving way to a fit of hysterical weeping, then muttering a long string of invectives which no one cared to interrupt, and at intervals striving by the most affectionate endearments to lure from himself one who not only received her advances with coldness, but seemed scarcely conscious of her presence. Even little Margaret cowered in the corner, not daring to claim her ordinary seat on her father's knee; and Alice, silent as was her wont, riveted her deep blue eyes on the stranger, to whom she felt attracted by some irresistible impulse. It was not his courtly bearing, or the richness of his attire, which thus won the child's attention; for he was not half so gay as the page who bore her sister Florence's train when the latter deigned to visit Hog Lane; but there was something in the young Aubrey de Buron altogether different from her father's ordinary visitors, as, with his white hand pressed on his still whiter brow, his large hazel eyes shaded by their long lashes, and his dark tangled curls hanging in careless masses, he reclined listless and motion

less on the heavy oaken settle, where on first entering he had cast himself down. His was a grief-a deeper grief than she could understand. She knew it by his attitude, and by the pallid cheek, down which the big drops slowly and noiselessly coursed. Then he was a child, little older than herself; and Alice gazed, and gazed, and yearned to comfort, only she knew not how. Suddenly she remembered the voice she had heard when kneeling by Gertrude's cot, and she longed to hear it again, until that longing flushed her cheek and sent the blood throbbing to her heart. Oh! how she wished for Margaret's courage, that she might approach the stranger, or at least say some→ thing.

At this moment Sibil, aware she had tasted nothing since morning, gave her some fruit and a large slice of cake. She broke a piece off the latter, and put it in her mouth, but it seemed to choke her. Hastily selecting an apple from the plate before her, she glanced timidly around; her mother, exhausted by the violence of her emotions, had lapsed into a state bordering on stupor; Sherwin, his eyes fixed on vacancy, was too pre-occupied by his own thoughts to heed her movements; so rising from her seat, she softly approached the boy, and touched his hand with the fruit she held. The cold contact made him start, and a momentary flash of impatience at the interruption to his sorrow caused her to recoil involuntarily from the fierce expression of his eye; it, however, speedily subsided; there was something so winning, so gentle, in the deprecating look which met his, such true sympathy in that subdued meditative countenance, such affectionate solicitude in the action, that the icy barrier which had gathered around his heart, and was freezing his very soul, thawed at once beneath the influence of that loving child. Catching her in his arms, he buried his face in her fair silken locks, sobbing with such violence as to startle her father and arouse Dame Agnes. As the latter sprang to her feet and approached the children with the evident intention of withdrawing Alice from Aubrey's embrace, there was an expression of such intense affection, mingled with so much jealous displeasure in her countenance, as, notwithstand