our of his brother, the general. There were pavilions to build
around the arena in which gaily attired knights, mounted on richly
caparisoned steeds, were to contend, knights in white and knights in
black, and their reward the favours to be bestowed by the fair damsels
of the "Blended Rose" or "The Burning Mountain." And there were men
and women no doubt--usually there are--who would have sold their
immortal souls rather than have missed an invitation to attend.

Never before had America witnessed such a brave display, the parade of
floats upon the river, the fireworks, the tournaments, the dazzling
costumes, the sumptuous banquet and the brilliant ball to conclude it
all; and then that beautiful Italian name, "Mischianza," the title by
which it should be known to future generations.

The sun was winking at the closed curtains of Lisbeth's room the next
morning as she stood before her mirror for a farewell glance at her
splendid attire, and that towering head-dress flashing with jewels
over which the hair-dresser had worked long and marvellously. The face
was fresh, the beautiful eyes undimmed, the eyes of a conqueror,
flashing as she recalled Lord Howe bending low over her fair hand with
unmistakable admiration in his face.

While she thus admired herself, the drums were beating and the
soldiers were marching out of the city to capture Lafayette, who, it
was thought, would make a suitable decoration for the glory of the
Howes. Really they should take away with them something in the way of
glory other than memories of an idle winter amid Philadelphia's
hospitality, and of the pomp and beauty of the "Mischianza." But the
poor soldiers came marching back without their prize, while the ladies
were yet talking of the fete, their costumes and their conquests. Yet,
as we have learned, the soldiers, missing their prize, did bring back
a meagre harvest for the maw of the Provost Prison, and of that Rodney
Allison was a part.

What of the poor fellow we left moaning in delirium, and Lawrence
Enderwood, doing his best to quiet his friend, while he inwardly raged
at their jailer's brutality? He was a very sick lad, as Lawrence could
see by the morning light filtering through the dirt of the windows.

"He'll not last long in this den; they die like flies. I know, for
I've seen 'em," said a haggard prisoner, who had entered the prison a
hale, lusty man and was now a tottering skeleton.

Helpless to aid his friend, and forced t