open boxes, the contents of which were strewn on
every side; rage and disappointment were depicted in his features;
and, as his clenched hand struck the table, his whole expression became
demoniac. Curses and deep blasphemies fell from his half-moving lips as
he stood insensible to everything save the wreck of his long-cherished
hope.

Let us turn from him to another, in whose fortunes we are more
interested. Roland Cashel, after parting with Enrique, hastened on
towards Tubbermore; his thoughts engaged on every topic save that which
might be supposed to occupy the mind of a host at such a time. Pleasure
assuredly held a weaker hold upon him than the thirst for vengeance, and
the ardent longing to throw off the thraldom of that servitude he had
endured too long.

It was only by observing the long string of carriages, whose lamps
flashed and disappeared at intervals among the trees, that he remembered
anything of the _fete_, and bethought him of that character of
entertainer he, at the moment, should have been performing. There seemed
to him a terrible inconsistency between his own thoughts and that
scene of pleasure,--between the object in pursuit of which so many were
hastening with furious speed, and that to which his slower steps were
leading him!

"There can be but one _amende_ for such infamous conduct," muttered he;
"he shall pay it with his life's blood." And as he spoke, he opened the
documents which Enrique had given him, and endeavored to read them; the
dusky shadows of the fast-falling night prevented him, and he stood for
some minutes lost in thought.

One of the papers, he was aware, bore the forged signature of his name;
the other, whose antique form and massive seal bespoke an importance far
greater, he tried again and again to decipher, but in vain. As he was
thus occupied, he chanced to look up, and suddenly perceived that
a stream of light issued from beneath the shutters of his own
dressing-room, the door of which he had himself locked at his departure,
taking the key along with him. Enrique's words flashed across his memory
at once. It was Linton was there! "At his old work again," muttered he,
in deep anger; "but it shall be for the last time." A moment of
coming peril was all that Cashel needed to elicit the resources of his
character. The courage tried in many a danger supplied him with a calm
foresight, which the ordinary occasions of life rarely or never called
forth. He bethought him that