In the bosom of the forest, the tall oaks girdling it, like a band of mailed warriors, changed by the spell of beauty from assailants to a guard, lay a little glade, free from brush or sapling; its tender green carpet freshening in the March sun. The trees loved the dance of the shadows over that sylvan ball-room, and they revelled there all the day, and at evening, slept upon the turf in the moonlight. The clouds of the night had rolled away before a westerly breeze, and the forest was full of sweet and pleasant sounds. The oriole had come in advance of the season to look for his last year's nest; the woodpecker thrummed upon a hollow trunk; and the robins, too busy for more than an occasional note, flew about with sticks and mud in their bills. The teeming earth was quick with vitality; you could hear the unfurling of the grass-blades, the rustle of the leaf-buds as they broke ground. An inharmonious sound interrupted the concert--the rattle of a carriage. It stopped; then another drove up; and six gentlemen, three from either side, entered the glade, saluting each other as they advanced. Lynn's friends were Mr. Thornton and Mr. Villet; Pemberton's Talbot and another of "the set," by the name of Watson. Without wasting time in irrelevant chat, the seconds walked apart for consultation. Pemberton, with a braggadocio air, offered his cigar-case to his companion; and nothing abashed by his dignified gesture of refusal, planted himself against a tree, and began to smoke. Lynn paced the little area in silence. He was haggard to ghastliness; the effect of a night of sleeplessness and racking thought. He was brave; his nerves did not tremble in the hour of peril; but the soul, forced, before its time, upon the verge of an unknown sea, shook with a nameless dread of the punishment of its temerity. Early teachings, and the convictions of later years weighed upon him. A tiny wild flower blossomed by his foot--he plucked it, and pressed its petals open with his finger. Whose hand had fashioned it? Whose sun kissed it into bloom? Whose goodness granted it this lovely home? It owed its little life to the Father, from whom he had derived his poet-soul; it had fulfilled the end of its creation;--he was about to hurl his gifts, a million times more precious, into the face of the Giver. He would gladly have courted other thoughts, but these would come; and long-forgotten texts floated before him; apparently without a cause to call them forth. One met him, wherever he looked--"Despisest thou the riches of his forbearance, and love and long-suffering?" And as he repeated, "despisest thou"--another--"Behold, ye despisers, and wonder and perish!" These words were upon his tongue, as Mr. Villet put the pistol into his hand, and motioned him into his place.