The dead knight was thrown from his horse, as it dashed on. As soon as the deed of vengeance was over, Sir William’s enthusiasm began to leave him. While in the act of striking, the happiness which should now be his of once more being the lord of Haigh, the husband of his Mabel, and the father of his gallant boys, passed vividly before his mind, and forbade him to spare. But when the blow was given, so strange is man’s nature, all these prospects faded. He seemed to feel that now he had agreed to a miserable compact. He almost wished that he had never returned to claim the little which was left. Death as the arm of vengeance, could not bring him back the past, although it had taken away the cause of change. Sir Osmund Neville lay lifeless before him, never more to claim ought;--but polluting traces were upon all he held dear. As long as Mabel lived, there lived also the evidences. Nay, when she must die, and repose along with him in the tomb, calumny might say, “it was not always thus, for, side by side, when alive, she lay with another.” As long as Haigh Hall stood, the family disgrace would survive. He writhed in agony at the thought. “Mabel,” he exclaimed, as if she were present, “I cannot forgive thee! Thou hast been faithless. I must touch thy hand, and know that it was another’s, long after it had been pledged in love, and given in marriage. Thy couch a ruffian’s kennel! This Welsh bullock’s blood cannot wash out the stains which rest upon my name. Oh! can it even purify my Mabel’s lips? Whenever they touch mine, I feel that they have been polluted. My children alone survive for me. Ha! merciful God, thanks unto thee, thanks most sincere, that Mabel has no children, who cannot call me father. But when I call her wife, methinks this Welshman’s spirit comes between us, and breathes the same word;--and to whom will she then cling?” The air was balmy, and the moonshine rested gently upon the green meadows where he stood, and lambs, aroused from their slumbers by the prancing of the horses, bounded past him. But they bleated not to disturb the silence, and Sir William heard the violent beating of his heart. Gradually, however, he relapsed into a state of tranquility,--not the tranquility of joy, but of deep grief. And as before, when under the excitement of intense revenge, he spurred his steed to keep pace with his fiery spirit, so now, when his feelings were different, he curbed the animal to a slow walk, as he began to return. But he soon discovered that it was jaded and weary, from the speed of the furious pursuit. He dismounted, and led it for a mile or two. In the distance, so flat was the surrounding district, then unbroken, save by towers and halls, rising aginst the pure silvery vault of the moonlight sky, he beheld lights in his own mansion at Haigh. He thought that he heard sounds of mirth borne thence on the airy breezes.