he being who once loved my mother with a
purity and tenderness of affection that angels themselves might hallow
with approval; or is all that I have heard but a bewildering dream?"

"No, Clara," calmly and even solemnly returned the warrior; "it is no
dream, but a reality--a sad, dreadful, heart-rending reality; yet, if I
am that altered being, to whom is the change to be ascribed? Who turned
the generous current of my blood into a river of overflowing gall? Who,
when my cup was mantling with the only bliss I coveted upon earth,
traitorously emptied it, and substituted a heart-corroding poison in
its stead? Who blighted my fair name, and cast me forth an alien in the
land of my forefathers? Who, in a word, cut me off from every joy that
existence can impart to man? Who did all this? Your father! But these
are idle words. What I have been, you know; what I now am, and through
what agency I have been rendered what I now am, you know also. Not more
fixed is fate than my purpose. Your brother dies even on the spot on
which my nephew died; and you, Clara, shall be my bride; and the first
thing your children shall be taught to lisp shall be curses on the vile
name of De Haldimar!"

"Once more, in the name of my sainted mother, I implore you to have
mercy," shrieked the unhappy Clara. "Oh!" she continued, with vehement
supplication, "let the days of your early love be brought back to' your
memory, that your heart may be softened; and cut yourself not wholly
off from your God, by the commission of such dreadful outrages. Again I
conjure you, restore us to my father."

"Never!" savagely repeated Wacousta. "I have passed years of torture in
the hope of such an hour as this; and now that fruition is within my
grasp, may I perish if I forego it! Ha, sir!" turning from the almost
fainting Clara to Sir Everard, who had listened with deep attention to
the history of this extraordinary man;--"for this," and he thrust aside
the breast of his hunting coat, exhibiting the scar of a long but
superficial wound,--"for this do you owe me a severe reckoning. I would
recommend you, however,"--and he spoke in mockery,--"when next you
drive a weapon into the chest of an unresisting enemy, to be more
certain of your aim. Had that been as true as the blow from the butt of
your rifle, I should not have lived to triumph in this hour. I little
deemed," he pursued, still addressing the nearly heart-broken officer
in the same insolent strain, "that my