hand, he thought, had perhaps destroyed her. He approached,—it was Lady Margaret! That proud spirit, which had so long supported itself, had burst its fetters. He gazed on her in surprise.—He stood a few moments in silence, as if it were some tragic representation he were called to look upon, in which he himself bore no part—some scene of horror, to which he had not been previously worked up, and which consequently had not power to affect him. Her face was scarce paler than usual; but there was a look of horror in her countenance, which disturbed its natural expression. In one hand, she had grasped the turf, as if the agony she had endured had caused a convulsive motion; the other was stained with blood, which had flowed with much violence. It was strange that the wound was between her right shoulder and her throat, and not immediately perceivable, as she had fallen back upon it:—it was more than strange, for it admitted little
