Glendower did not for a moment reply, for a world of thoughts was in his bosom—but over them all reigned the consciousness that Isabel appeared to be less repellent than she had been for days. Why then should he not avail himself of this accidental _tête à tête_, and learn all? Why should he be longer tortured with doubt? He did not, therefore, directly reply to the remark of Isabel, but his eyes followed the form of the page for a while, and then he suddenly turned them full on the maiden’s face. Her glance fell beneath his own, and a blush tinged her cheeks with a deep roseate hue. This emotion added courage to Glendower. “Isabel,” said he, speaking at first with a trembling voice, which however became firmer and more impassioned as he proceeded, “perhaps what I am about to say may offend you—but I cannot restrain the words. I love you, deeply, ardently, with my whole soul, and whatever may be your reply, my love will only cease with my life. Ever since we played together in childhood I have cherished your image in my breast—peril, absence, silence, the tumult of war, nothing has been able to drive you from my mind—my passion has grown with my growth, and strengthened with my strength. Since I returned, my love has only increased. I know how far above me you are, and I have thought a dozen times you saw, and would by coldness check, my presumption. But be my punishment even banishment from your presence, I can no longer keep silence. My love will find words. You turn away from me—you despise me—you sob.—Can it?—am I?—Oh! God, is this blessing really mine?” And as the maiden, overcome by emotion, buried her face in her hands, her lover, at length conscious that he was beloved, knelt on the sward at her feet, and with a sacred feeling approaching almost to reverence—for such was the love of those days—kissed Isabel’s white hand. A month later, and there was high revelry and feasting in the castle of Torbay; and many were the gallant knights and ladies fair who assembled to do honor to the nuptials of Glendower and his fair young bride. “Ah, did I not tell you to take heart of grace?” whispered Isabel’s mercurial cousin, unobserved in the ear of the bridegroom, “did I not say that Isabel had not forgotten you? By the shrine of Becket you should thank me for my advice.” “What treason are you plotting?” asked the smiling bride, approaching. “I am only asking Glendower if you have paid the wager he won from me at the hawking party—your hand,” was the reply. * * * * * SHAKSPEARE.—No. IV. BY THEODORE S. FAY, AUTHOR OF “NORMAN LESLIE,” “THE COUNTESS IDA,” ETC. LADY MACBETH. The imagination of the reader is powerfully aroused by these dark inuendoes, and the mind, prepared by a secret undefinable state of suspense and emotion, is doubly startled by the woman’s sudden, hushed Lo you, _here she comes_!