by Dame Sherbourne.  With what passed during her interview with the extortioner the reader is already acquainted.  She had anticipated something dreadful; but the reality almost exceeded her anticipations.  So overpowered was she by the painful intelligence, that it was with difficulty she reached home, and the rest of the day was occupied with anxious reflection.  Evening as usual brought her lover.  She met him at the door, where he tied his horse, and they entered the little dwelling together.  The shades of night were coming on apace, and in consequence of the gloom he did not remark the traces of distress on her countenance, but went on with the theme uppermost in his mind.

“I know you have ever avoided shows and triumphs,” he said; “but I wish I could induce you to make an exception in favour of this tilting-match, and consent to be present at it.  The thought that you were looking on would nerve my arm, and make me certain of success.”

“Even if I would, I cannot comply with your request,” she replied, in an agitated tone.  “Prepare yourself, Jocelyn.  I have bad news for you.”

He started; and the vision of delight, in which he had been indulging, vanished at once.

“The worst news you could have to tell me, would be that the claim had been made,” he observed.  “I trust it is not that?”

“It is better to know the worst at once.  I have received undoubted information that the claim will be made.”

A cry of anguish escaped Sir Jocelyn, as if a severe blow had been dealt him—­and he could scarcely articulate the inquiry, “By whom?”

“That I know not,” she rejoined.  “But the ill tidings have been communicated to me by Sir Giles Mompesson.”

“Sir Giles Mompesson!” exclaimed Sir Jocelyn, scarcely able to credit what he heard.  “Your father would never have surrendered you to him.  It is impossible he could have made any compact with such a villain.”

“I do not say that he did; and if he had done so, I would die a thousand deaths, and incur all the penalties attached to the sin of disobedience, rather than fulfil it.  Sir Giles is merely the mouth-piece of another, who will not disclose himself till he appears to exact fulfilment of the fatal pledge.”

“But, be it whomsoever it may, the claim never can be granted,” cried Sir Jocelyn, in a voice of agony.  “You will not consent to be bound by such a contract.  You will not thus sacrifice yourself.  It is out of all reason.  Your father’s promise cannot bind you.  He had no right to destroy his child.  Will you listen to my council, Aveline?” he continued, vehemently.  “You have received this warning, and though it is not likely to have been given with any very friendly design, still you may take advantage of it, and avoid by flight the danger to which you are exposed.”

“Impossible,” she answered.  “I could not reconcile such a course to my conscience, or to my reverence for my father’s memory.”