.

Mr. Mowbray of St. Ronan's stepped forward. "Come, sir," said he, "this
will not do--you have come here, a stranger among us, to assume airs and
dignities, which, by G--d, would become a duke, or a prince! We must
know who or what you are, before we permit you to carry your high tone
any farther."

This address seemed at once to arrest Tyrrel's anger, and his impatience
to leave the company. He turned to Mowbray, collected his thoughts for
an instant, and then answered him thus:--"Mr. Mowbray, I seek no quarrel
with any one here--with you, in particular, I am most unwilling to have
any disagreement. I came here by invitation, not certainly expecting
much pleasure, but, at the same time, supposing myself secure from
incivility. In the last point, I find myself mistaken, and therefore
wish the company good-night. I must also make my adieus to the ladies."

So saying, he walked several steps, yet, as it seemed, rather
irresolutely, towards the door of the card-room--and then, to the
increased surprise of the company, stopped suddenly, and muttering
something about the "unfitness of the time," turned on his heel, and
bowing haughtily, as there was way made for him, walked in the opposite
direction towards the door which led to the outer hall.

"D----me, Sir Bingo, will you let him off?" said Mowbray, who seemed to
delight in pushing his friend into new scrapes--"To him, man--to him--he
shows the white feather."

Sir Bingo, thus encouraged, planted himself with a look of defiance
exactly between Tyrrel and the door; upon which the retreating guest,
bestowing on him most emphatically the epithet Fool, seized him by the
collar, and flung him out of his way with some violence.

"I am to be found at the Old Town of St. Ronan's by whomsoever has any
concern with me."--Without waiting the issue of this aggression farther
than to utter these words, Tyrrel left the hotel. He stopped in the
court-yard, however, with the air of one uncertain whither he intended
to go, and who was desirous to ask some question, which seemed to die
upon his tongue. At length his eye fell upon a groom, who stood not far
from the door of the inn, holding in his hand a handsome pony, with a
side-saddle.

"Whose"----said Tyrrel--but the rest of the question he seemed unable to
utter.

The man, however, replied, as if he had heard the whole
interrogation.--"Miss Mowbray's, sir, of St. Ronan's--she leaves
directly--and so I am walking the pony--a