"True, I can lose little, but I have other reasons; and, however it may surprise you, those reasons spring from a desire for your good rather than my own." "For my good?" replied the other, with an inquiring sneer. "Yes, for your good, or rather for Lucy's. You wish to marry her. She is a sweet child, and an orphan. She merits a far better man than you; and, bound as I am to give her to you, I am deeply bound to myself and to her, to make you as worthy of her as possible, and to give her as many chances for happiness as I can." An incredulous smile played for a second upon the lips of the outlaw, succeeded quickly, however, by the savage expression, which, from being that most congenial to his feelings, had become that most habitual to his face. "I can not be deceived by words like these," was his reply, as he stepped quickly from under the boughs which had sheltered them and made toward the house. "Think not to pursue this matter, Guy, on your life. I will not permit it; not now, at least, if I have to strike for the youth myself." Thus spoke the landlord, as he advanced in the same direction. Both were deeply roused, and, though not reckless alike, Munro was a man quite as decisive in character as his companion was ferocious and vindictive. What might have been the result of their present position, had it not undergone a new interruption, might not well be foreseen. The sash of one of the apartments of the building devoted to the family was suddenly thrown up, and a soft and plaintive voice, accompanying the wandering and broken strains of a guitar, rose sweetly into song upon the ear. "'Tis Lucy--the poor girl! Stay, Guy, and hear her music. She does not often sing now-a-days. She is quite melancholy, and it's a long time since I've heard her guitar. She sings and plays sweetly; her poor father had her taught everything before he failed, for he was very proud of her, as well he might be." They sunk again into the covert, the outlaw muttering sullenly at the interruption which had come between him and his purposes. The music touched him not, for he betrayed no consciousness; when, after a few brief preliminary notes on the instrument, the musician breathed forth the little ballad which follows:-- LUCY'S SONG. I. "I met thy glance of scorn, And then my anguish slept, But, when the crowd was gone, I turned away and wept. II. "I could not bear the frown Of one who thus could move, And feel that all my fault, Was only too much love. III. "I ask not if thy heart Hath aught for mine in store, Yet, let me love thee still, If thou canst yield no more. IV. "Let me unchidden gaze, Still, on the heaven I see, Though all its happy rays Be still denied to me."