around. Then placing herself near her harp, she struck for the last time its chords. Niel Carter and Tyrone had followed her. Buchanan, and de Ruthven, Glenarvon's cousin, stood by her side. "Play again on thy harp the sweet sounds that are dear to me. Sing the songs of other days," he said. "Oh, look not sad, St. Clare: I never will abandon thee." "My name is branded with infamy," she cried: "dishonour and reproach assail me on every side. Black are the portals of hell—black are the fiends that await to seize my soul—but more black is the heart of iron that has betrayed me. Yet I will sing the song of the wild harper. I will sing for you the song of my own native land, of peace and joy, which never more must be mine."
"Hark! what shriek of agony is that?"—"I hear nothing." "It was his dying groan.What means your altered brow, that hurried look?" It was the
