“Be it so, fair one,” answered the King very coldly—“be it so! we permit thy choice—a convent or the victor’s bridal bed shall be thy doom, at thine own option!—Meanwhile your swords, sirs; until the hour of battle ye are both under our arrest. Jarnac be thou Godfather to Charles de La-Hirè!—Nevers, do thou like office for de Laguy.” “By God! not I, sire;” answered the proud duke. “I hold this man’s offence so rank, his guilt so palpable, that, on my conscience! I think your royal hangman were his best Godfather!” “Nevertheless, De Nevers—it shall be, as I say!—this bold protest of thine is all sufficient for thine honor—and it is but a form!—no words, duke! it must be as I have said!—Joyeuse, escort this lady to thy duchess—pray her accept of her as the King’s guest, until this matter be decided. The third day hence at noon, on foot, with sword and dagger—with no arms of defence or vantage—the principals to fight alone, until one die or yield—and so God shield the right!” * * * * * SONNETS. BY PARK BENJAMIN. EVENING. In robes of crimson glory sinks the Day; The Earth in slumber closes her great eye Like to a dying god’s; from hills, that lie Like altars kindled by the sunset ray, The smoke in graceful volumes soars away; From every wood a chorus soundeth nigh; Those veils of day, the shadows, floating high Around the tree-tops, fall upon the gay And gem-like flowers that bloom beneath; the West Its burnished gold throws back in softened lines Upon the East, and, as it sweetly shines On lapsing river and reposing dell, Tinges with rosy light the hovering breast Of the small, tremulous lark—boon Nature’s evening bell. HEREAFTER. Oh, man is higher than his dwelling-place; Upward he looks, and his soul’s wings unfold, And, when like minutes sixty years have rolled, He rises, kindling, into boundless space. Then backward to the Earth, his native place, The ashes of his feathers lightly fall, And his free soul, unveiled, disrobed of all That cumbered it, begins its heavenly race, Pure as a tone and brilliant as a star. Even through the shadows on life’s desert lawn Hills of the future world he sees afar In morning rays that beam not here below. Thus doth the dweller in the realm of snow Through his long night perceive the distant dawn. * * * * * HARRY CAVENDISH. BY THE AUTHOR OF “CRUISING IN THE LAST WAR,” “THE REEFER OF ’76,” ETC. ETC.