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PAUL CLIFFORD.
269
CHAPTER XIV.
"Uprouse ye then
My merry, merry men!"
Joanna Baillie.
When the Moon rose that night, there was one spot upon which she palely broke, about ten miles distant from Warlock, which the forewarned traveller would not have been eager to pass, but which might not have afforded a bad study to such artists as have caught from the savage painter of the Apennines a love for the wild and the adventurous. Dark trees scattered far and wide over a broken, but verdant sward made the back ground; the moon shimmered through the boughs as she came slowly forth from her pavilion of cloud, and poured a broader beam on two figures just advanced beyond the trees. More
