Richard's countenance, in the meantime, exhibited a variety of changes. At one time a frown seemed gathering on his brow. At another, the repulsive expression that sparkled in his commanding eye, denoted but too forcibly how unwelcome was the knight's request; but his royal word had been given, and the bond was glittering at his feet.

"Sir Knight, Sir Knight," at length he said, "thy boon is hard to grant. Thou hast, 'tis true, my royal word in guerdon of thy claim; but, warrior, when I gave it to thy trust, I little deemed an honourable knight would crave such boon of me. Then spare thy monarch for thy loyalty's sake, and extort not from his unwilling grace thy unmeet demand. Be, if thou wilt forego, in this, thy claim, an earldom thine in lieu.

Sir Osmond rose proudly from his knee.

"My liege," he said, "I restore your sword, since it has proved too weak to ensure the fulfiment of your royal word. Upon that word I have preferred my claim, and have been denied my just demand. Your kingly honour's pledge is thus cancelled; for never will I retract the boon for which I sued in right, nor bear a part in dishonouring my sovereign, by consenting to a forfeiture unworthy of my king." Then, turning away, with an air of insulted dignity, he was preparing to retire from the royal presence, when the monarch's voice detained him. (To be Concluded in our next.)

THE LAST TRIAL OF FIDELITY.

THE reign of Napoleon, worried and ransacked as it has been by the writers of memoirs, recollections and histories, is a mine that has still a multitude of rich, and as yet, but partially explored veins. The secret associations that sprang up in the latest days of the empire, would form a very curious volume, nor would there be a lack of materials to swell it to a good size. The society of the United Brothers alone, would furnish pages of uncommon interest, for nothing hardly could appeal more forcibly to the imagination, than the dramatic episodes connected with the mysterious initiations. Perhaps scores of incidents-hundreds of passages, might be collected, which are as shocking as the following:

An officer of the French army, having incurred the suspicion or resentment of the Emperor, thought safest to abandon his country, and take refuge in one of the Austrian provinces; and here he became advised of, and initiated into a society, the object of whose formation was to hurl to the ground the Colossus

whose arm smote and governed the whole continent of Europe with a sceptre of iron. One day a letter was brought to him containing the usual signs and passwords of the society, and requiring him to repair on the following night to a secluded spot in a forest, where he would meet some of the fraternity. He went, but he found nobody. The orders were repeated four times, and the officer regularly sought the appointed place, but with no better success than at first. On the the fifth night of his appearance at the rendezvous, after waiting some time, he was on the point of returning, when loud cries suddenly arrested his attention.

Drawing his sword, he hastened to the spot whence the cries seemed to proceed and was fired upon by three men, who, on seeing that he remained unwounded, instantly took to flight; but at his feet lay a bleeding corse, in which, by the feeble light of the moon, he in vain sought for tokens of returning animation. He was yet bending over the dead man, when a detachment of chasseurs, summoned apparently by the report of fire arms that had been discharged against himself, came up suddenly and arrested him as an assassin. He was loaded with chains, tried the next day, and condenined to die for his supposed crime. His execution was ordered to take place at midnight. Sur. rounded by the ministers of justice, he was led, at a slow pace, by the light of torches, and the funeral tolling of bells, to a vast square, in the centre of which was a scaffold, environed by horsemen; beyond these were a numerous group of spectators, who muttered impatiently, and at intervals sent forth a cry of abhorrence.

The victim mounted the scaffold, and his sentence was read and the last act of the tragedy was on the point of fulfilment, when an officer let fall a word of hope. An edict had just been promulgated by the government, offering pardon and life to any condemned criminal who should disclose the members and secret tokens of a particular association, the existence of which the Frenchman to whom these words were addressed had lately become aware of, and of which he had become a member. He was questioned-but he denied all knowledge of the society. They urged him to confess, with promises of additional reward: but his only reply was a demand for immediate death, and-HIS INITIATION WAS

COMPLETED.

All that had passed was a terrible last trial of his fidelity; those who surrounded him were members of the society, and every incident that has been mentioned from the first summons to the last moment of expected death, was only a step in the progress of the fearful experiment by which they sought to determine the trustworthiness of the neophyte.

WHEN I BECAME A BRIDE.

They spake sweet words of gladness

When I became a bride,

They whispered that the lov'd one

Would never leave my side;

The heart was torn at parting

From love that had been kind,
While joy and grief were blending,
When I became a bride.

I dreamt not of the future,

But the storms of life defied

To sever by its gloom the love
That thrilled me when a bride.
The frown of friends I feared not,
Who might my love deride,

I felt it not a bitterness,
When I became a bride.

Thought led me to my father,

For him I could have died,
So yearningly I loved him-
Yet I became a bride;

And there before the altar

While heart and hand relied,

The thrilling words I uttered-
And then became a bride.

I left for him my early home,
With strangers to reside,

To feel the world's cold kindness,

When I became a bride;

Ah! tenderly I lov'd him,

Nor aught on earth beside
Could equal my felicity,

When I became a bride.

Like as the ivy, so shall cling

My love on him relied;

His heart to mine responsive beat,

When I became a bride;

O! if there is in fantasy

A heaven to earth allied,

I foretaste of its happiness,

Since I became a bride.

E. B. D.

[There is almost too much of happiness for real life pictured in the above composition; the editress will scarce require to be informed that the writer is not yet a "bride."]

AUNT MARTHA.

"MOTHER," said Isabella Sutherland as they sat at work one morning, "do you not think Mrs. Martin is very amiable to put up with old Aunt Martha's whims and caprices as she does? Elizabeth told me the other day, her mother never allowed herself to show any impatience towards her aunt, and that all the children are taught to honour and respect ber."

"Mrs. Martin is indeed very amiable," said Isabella's mother; "but the whole family owe Aunt Martha a debt that well deserves their gratitude and affection."

"I have heard that Mr. Martin felt under obligations to her, for some kindness shown him in early youth; but I did not know the whole family was indebted."

"Yes, my dear girl, the whole family ought to repay the kindness and uncomplaining devotion of Aunt Martha to their parents."

"It is said, mother, that Mr. Martin settled a handsome income on her, and you know he always pays her as much respect and attention, as if she was the greatest lady in the land."

"Yes, my child, Mr. Martin shows by his conduct how deeply he feels his obligation to her, and, doubtless, by his affectionate manners and respectful solicitude, she thinks herself repaid for her care and anxiety for him when young."

"You seem to know all about it, mother; will you not tell me the whole story?" and as she spoke Isabella drew close to her parent, in hopes of hearing something interesting, and, perhaps, romantic; for Mrs Sutherland had a taste and a tact for conveying wholesome lessons by means of little stories, and never was more successful than when she fixed upon humble life for materials.

"You must not anticipate anything very romantic from me, Isabella ; and in narrating the leading incidents of Aunt Martha's life. therefore your imagination must supply some of my deficiencies."

"Oh yes, mother, only tell the story," said the girl, eagerly. "Many years since there resided in the village of -, a very happy family, named Warren. Mary and Martha Warren were cousins. The former was an orphan, and resided with Martha's widowed mother. The family was obliged to observe economy to keep within their limited income; but their wants were few, and it is to be doubted if they felt as poor in their humble cottage, as many ladies who spend fortunes on dress and other vain show, and never have anything to give to the hundreds starving round them. Martha was a little

girl when her father died, and it may be supposed that she was a good deal humoured and spoiled by her indulgent mother; for it is not necessary to be wealthy and proud to bring up children unwisely. But Mrs. Warren loved her daughter too well to make her an object of dislike to others, and of unhappiness to herself. She at an early age trained Martha in habits of thrift and usefulness, and strove to habituate her to cheerfulness and good temper, as principles of conduct, not merely the result of constitution, but as duties incumbent on all."

"Now, mother, you are getting romantic, I am sure," cried Isabella, laughing." You surely do not mean seriously that old Aunt Martha was ever handsome!"

"I am perfectly serious, my dear. Age alone often changes the youthful beauty into a haggard old woman; but other causes have contributed to wrinkle and contract the face of Martha Warren. Aunt Martha at sixty-five, is very different, I can tell you, from the same person at twenty or twenty-five. All that time she possessed an ease and grace seldom met with in girls who have spent their lives in one spot, secluded from society, and passing their time in the ordinary occupations of a country life. Mary Warren was reared by her aunt with the same tender care bestowed on her own daughter. From the time she entered her aunt's house, she had never known the want of a mother's care. The warmest affection existed between the cousins, which lasted until the hand of death was laid on one; and continued for her child through every vicissitude of life, and still flourishes in pristine vigour, unchilled by the frosts of time, untouched by the hand of age. The cousins were unlike in appearance and manners. Both were gentle and affectionate, but Martha had more energy of character than Mary, and while she commanded admiration and respect by her beauty and dignity, the other won by her unassumed simplicity. Mary was not handsome, not even pretty, excepting to those who best knew her, for to know her was to love her. The mild blue eyes and amiable expression appearing positively winning. Both were pious, and in after life, Martha, in particular, found religion her ground stay and support in the severe trials through which her pathway lay. And though from the infirmity of human nature, she has been unable to combat with the weakness of temper to which we are all subject, even you, my child, must have observed, that although sometimes capricious, she is always charitable to the faults and failings of others."

"When Mary was about nineteen, and Martha two years younger, the former married. Edward Martin was a young man of respectable family, and steady habits. He lived in York, and was doing a good mercantile business in that city. The prospects of the young couple were flattering; their notions of industry and frugality promised the continuance of their past success, and