ive but impotent clasp; the other fellow had
already his gripe upon Talbot's neck, and his right hand grasped a long
case-knife.

With a fierce and flashing eye, and a cheek deadly pale with internal
and resolute excitement, Clarence confronted the robbers.

"Thank Heaven," cried he, "I am not too late!" And advancing yet another
step towards the shorter ruffian, who struck mute with the suddenness
of the apparition, still retained his grasp of the old man, he fired his
pistol, with a steady and close aim; the ball penetrated the wretch's
brain, and without sound or sigh, he fell down dead, at the very feet
of his just destroyer. The remaining robber had already meditated, and
a second more sufficed to accomplish, his escape. He sprang towards the
door: the ball whizzed beside him, but touched him not. With a safe
and swift step, long inured to darkness, he fled along the passage; and
Linden, satisfied with the vengeance he had taken upon his comrade, did
not harass him with an unavailing pursuit.

Clarence turned to assist Talbot. The old man was stretched upon the
floor insensible, but his hand grasped the miniature which the plunderer
had dropped in his flight and terror, and his white and ashen lip was
pressed convulsively upon the recovered treasure.

Linden raised and placed him on his bed, and while employed in
attempting to revive him, the ancient domestic, alarmed by the report of
the pistol, came, poker in hand, to his assistance. By little and little
they recovered the object of their attention. His eyes rolled wildly
round the room, and he muttered,--"Off, off! ye shall not rob me of my
only relic of her,--where is it?--have you got it?--the picture, the
picture!"

"It is here, sir, it is here," said the old servant; "it is in your own
hand."

Talbot's eye fell upon it; he gazed at it for some moments, pressed it
to his lips, and then, sitting erect and looking wildly round, he seemed
to awaken to the sense of his late danger and his present deliverance.

CHAPTER XIX.

Ah, fleeter far than fleetest storm or steed,
Or the death they bear,
The heart which tender thought clothes like a dove
With the wings of care!
In the battle, in the darkness, in the need,
Shall mine cling to thee!
Nor claim one smile for all the comfort, love,
It may bring to thee!--SHELLEY.

LETTER FROM ALGERNON MORDAUNT TO ISABEL ST. LEGER.

You told me not to write to you. You know how long, bu