To-morrow, to-morrow, when day-light departs,
And twilight is spread over broken hearts,—
When the fight is fought, when the race is run,
When the strife and the anguish are over and done;
When the bride-bed is decked with a winding-sheet,
And the innocent dove has died at thy feet;
—Then conies a bride-groom for me, I trow,
That shall live with me in my house of woe.
Here’s to him that shoots the dove!
Come for the prize to me, my love!”
Now came all at once a rattling as of wheels and the cracking of postillions’ whips. A carriage and six drove up with outriders. “What the devil’s this that stops the way?” cried the man who rode the leaders, “Make way there, I say, clear the road.” William looked up, and saw sparks of fire darting from the horses’ hoofs, and a circle of flame about the carriage-wheels. By this he knew it to be a work of the fiend, and never stirred. “Push on, my lads, drive over him, helter skelter,” cried the same postillion, looking back to the others; and in a moment the whole equipage moved rapidly upon the circle. William cowered down to the ground, beneath the dash of the leaders fore-
