and rolled away and passed out of sight.

The ceremony ended, and the ring was sought for; but could not be found
then: and, I may as well tell you now, it has not been found yet.

Seeing at length that their search was quite fruitless, the gentlemen of
the bridal train reluctantly gave up the ring for lost, and the whole
party filed into the chancel to enter their names in the register, that
lay for this purpose on the communion table.

The bridegroom first approached and wrote his. It was a prolonged and
sonorous roll of names, such as frequently compose the tail of a
nobleman's title:

Malcolm--Victor--Stuart--Douglass--Gordon--Dugald, Viscount Vincent.

Then the bride signed hers, and the witnesses theirs.

When Mr. Brudenell came to sign his own name as one of the witnesses, he
happened to glance at the bridegroom's long train of names. He read them
over with a smile at their length, but his eye fastened upon the last
one--"Dugald," "Dugald"? Herman Brudenell, like the immortal Burton,
thought he had "heard that name before," in fact, was sure he had "heard
that name before!" Yes, verily; he had heard it in connection with his
sister's fatal flight, in which a certain Captain Dugald had been her
companion! And he resolved to make cautious inquiries of the viscount.
He had known Lord Vincent on the Continent, but he had either never
happened to hear what his family name was, or if he had chanced to do
so, he had forgotten the circumstances. At all events, it was not until
the instant in which he read the viscount's signature in the register
that he discovered the family name of Lord Vincent and the disreputable
name of Eleanor Brudenell's unprincipled lover to be the same.

But this was no time for brooding over the subject. He affixed his own
signature, which was the last one on the list, and then joined the
bridal party, who were now leaving the church.

At the door a signal change took place in the order of the procession.

Lord Vincent, with a courtesy as earnest and a smile as beaming as
gallantry and the occasion required, handed his bride into his own
carriage.

Judge Merlin, Ishmael, and Beatrice rode together.

And others returned in the order in which they had come.

Ishmael was coming out of that strange, benumbed state that had deadened
for a while all his sense of suffering--coming back to a consciousness
of utter bereavement and insupportable anguish--anguish written in such
awful characte