ammered, and the advocate resumed, growing impatient:

"Of my ward what can you tell me that is untoward? Of myself say
anything: foretell disaster, prophecy my death;--but what of
her?--you say she lives?"

"She does."

"Is well?"

Claude shook his head, and remained silent.

"Sir, let your lips pronounce my doom at once," said the advocate,
striving to be calm, yet alarmed and irritated; "Proceed:--I am
ashamed to say it, but I tremble. What has befallen my ward, what
trouble has alighted on my child?--for so I call her. Claude
Montigny, what is it brings you here betwixt night and day, with
tidings that you falter to deliver?"

"Calm yourself;" counselled Claude in a warning tone.

"I will;" answered the advocate; "I do;--resolve me quickly."

"I fear to do so," Montigny uttered pathetically, as if his resolution
had suddenly given way.

"Let me hear it, torture me no longer:" cried the advocate
imperatively: "Perfect knowledge, perhaps, may stun me; but far
worse to bear than were a shower of vitriol poured on a green wound,
are these distilled, dire drops of apprehension. Sir, are you guilty
that you thus stand dumb? What have you done injurious towards my
ward, that you so linger upon the street, and to my queries but
gaze like one demented? Sir, I charge you, tell me without more
reserve or hesitation, lest at last I listen to you with less of
fear than of anger. You have been--"

"The innocent accessory, I fear, to others' villany," Claude
interrupted; "still, hear me," he continued, "and forgive me if I
bring you tidings that shall hang as heavy on your soul as lead;
yet have given me the leaden bullet's swiftness, or that of the
blast, to waft them hither, blasting, to yourself.--Sir, you have
been robbed, bereaved; the star of Stillyside is set,--or, worse,
plucked from its firmament; my life, my lady, oh, my new-made love,
your peerless ward is stolen."

"Stolen!" the advocate echoed.

"Stolen; even from my very arms is plucked," continued Claude.

"Ill-freighted messenger," groaned the old lawyer; "stolen! oh,
Montigny, you have stolen half the strength from these old limbs,
and strained the sinews that have never bent before, neither to
man nor to misfortune. Stolen! How stolen? It is false; you jest,
you mean that you yourself have stolen her,--have stolen her heart;
you know I lately caught you in the act;--but, for her person, she
would not, could not, give it you without my leave. Mon