Every day thereafter went she, as a nun within her cell, To the little crystal cloister there imbedded in the dell: And as every time she looked within, she saw an angel-face— Upon each reflected feature read the words of truth and grace. * * * * * PEDRO DE PADILH. BY J. M. LEGARE. (_Continued from page 236._) SPAIN, AND TERCERA. } AD. 1583. } After the battle in which De Haye, the maître-de-camp was killed, and the Portuguese ran away to a man, leaving the French to maintain the honor of the day and their ultimate position on a hill near at hand, the Spanish army unbuckled their armor and sat down to stretch their limbs beside the fires at which their suppers were cooking; and if any one in camp lost appetite that evening, it was not because of the numberless gaping wounds witnessing to Heaven against him from the field behind. A mile or so above, a few scattered lights showed where the remnant of De Chaste’s army held ground, and awaited the morrow with little fear but much hunger, sending to perdition the viceroy and entire Portuguese nation the last thing before dropping to sleep: midway between these two rows of fires, was neither life nor light save such as a crescent moon gave, and as much as lingered in some poor wretch with more vitality than was best for him. In which middle space the Damon and Pythias of this story, Hilo and Carlo, prowled about, turning over the stiff carcasses in search of valuables, for nothing of convertible worth came amiss to the pair, whose personal property was staked nightly at dice. Occasionally an apparent corpse tossed about his arms and legs convulsively, or prayed in a husky whisper for a little water, for life and mercy’s sake a single draught; but in either case the Walloon, like a rough angel of mercy as he was, put an end to their anguish promptly, saying with a grin to Hilo—“You know it’s for his good I do it: if he drank any thing it might keep him alive till somebody who aint his friend comes round. It would be a heap harder to die after making up his mind he was to live again, wouldn’t it?” To which Hilo replied with some contempt: the boy was ferocious, as has been elsewhere said, only on provocation— “You’re fitter for a hangman than a soldier, serjeant.” A truth Wolfang took for a compliment. “Hey?” cried that cidevant free-captain suddenly, “here’s one of our officers, let’s turn him over. A hole in the back of his casque by Lucifer; it served him right for turning his back on the enemy.” Hilo may have recognized the whereabouts sufficiently to make a tolerably fair guess before the other added: “Oh—oh—the maître-de-camp, De Haye!” But if he did he held his peace, and assisted in ridding the dead cavalier of a few personals.