e ball struck the parapet an inch below the spot where
Morton knelt. An indistinct, wild, gurgling sound-half-laugh, half-yell
of scorn and glee, broke from Gawtrey's lips. He swung himself
on--near--near--nearer--a yard from the parapet.

"You are saved!" cried Morton; when at the moment a volley burst from
the fatal casement--the smoke rolled over both the fugitives--a groan,
or rather howl, of rage, and despair, and agony, appalled even the
hardest on whose ear it came. Morton sprang to his feet and looked
below. He saw on the rugged stones far down, a dark, formless,
motionless mass--the strong man of passion and levity--the giant who had
played with life and soul, as an infant with the baubles that it prizes
and breaks--was what the Caesar and the leper alike are, when the clay
is without God's breath--what glory, genius, power, and beauty, would be
for ever and for ever, if there were no God!

"There is another!" cried the voice of one of the pursuers. "Fire!"

"Poor Gawtrey!" muttered Philip. "I will fulfil your last wish;" and
scarcely conscious of the bullet that whistled by him, he disappeared
behind the parapet.

CHAPTER XI.

"Gently moved
By the soft wind of whispering silks."--DECKER.

The reader may remember that while Monsieur Favart and Mr. Birnie were
holding commune in the lane, the sounds of festivity were heard from a
house in the adjoining street. To that house we are now summoned.

At Paris, the gaieties of balls, or soirees, are, I believe, very rare
in that period of the year in which they are most frequent in London.
The entertainment now given was in honour of a christening; the lady who
gave it, a relation of the new-born.

Madame de Merville was a young widow; even before her marriage she had
been distinguished in literature; she had written poems of more than
common excellence; and being handsome, of good family, and large
fortune, her talents made her an object of more interest than they might
otherwise have done. Her poetry showed great sensibility and tenderness.
If poetry be any index to the heart, you would have thought her one
to love truly and deeply. Nevertheless, since she married--as girls in
France do--not to please herself, but her parents, she made a mariage de
convenance. Monsieur de Merville was a sober, sensible man, past middle
age. Not being fond of poetry, and by no means coveting a professional
author for his wife, he had during their unio