That night a solitary traveller might be seen on the high road to London. He had just parted with another, who had pursued him hotly for several miles, and finally overtaken him. The two were Lorraine and De Courtenay. The latter, learning every thing from Isabel for the first time, had set out and overtaken his preserver, with the generous design to relinquish his mistress to the young knight. But Lorraine would not listen to him. “No, no, you tempt me over much,” sadly said Lorraine, “for can you give me the love of Isabel? God bless you both. As for me, glory henceforth is my only mistress. Farewell!” and pressing his friend’s hand, he plunged his rowels into the flanks of his steed, and dashed on. De Courtenay had followed Lorraine to England unexpectedly within twenty-four hours of the young knight’s departure, and, having hastily transacted his business in London, had hurried down to Deraine hall, and met Lorraine as we have described. None of his house ever saw Lorraine again. He appeared in a few days in the camp, but within a week fell in an assault, the only man who had succeeded in mounting the breach. There he fought unsupported for several minutes, but finally sank pierced with a hundred wounds. And long did Isabel and De Courtenay weep for the ill-fated page. And when the war was over, and they were married, often would they sit on that old terrace, and feel a melancholy pleasure in talking of Lorraine. Need we wonder that their eldest boy bore the name of Isabel’s unfortunate cousin? * * * * * * * * THE BRILLIANT NOR-WEST. BY J. K. MITCHELL. Let Araby boast of her soft spicy gale, And Persia her breeze from the rose-scented vale; Let orange-trees scatter in wildness their balm, Where sweet summer islands lie fragrant and calm! Give me the cold blast of my country again, Careering o’er snow-cover’d mountain and plain, And coming, though scentless, yet pure, to my breast, With vigor and health from the cloudless Nor-West. I languish where suns in the tropic sky glow, And gem-studded waters on golden sands flow, Where shrubs blossom-laden, bright birds, and sweet trees, With odors and music encumber the breeze; I languish to catch but a breathing of thee, To hear thy wild winter-notes brilliant and free, To feel thy cool touch on my heart-strings opprest, And gather a tone from the bracing Nor-West. Mists melt at thy coming, clouds flee from thy wrath, The marsh and its vapors are seal’d on thy path, For spotless and pure as the snow-covered North, Their cold icy cradle, thy tempests come forth. Thy blue robe is borrowed from clearest of skies, Thy sandals were made where the driven snow lies, And stars, seldom seen in this low world, are blest To shine in thy coronet—brilliant Nor-West.