"Yet I do not despair, Cora," said the old man, in his bewilderment, caressing her, and not knowing what to say, while remembering the keen bitterness that the gazette of Goojerat brought to his heart, when there he read the name of his eldest son and hope—his dark and handsome Nigel. "Oh, do not speak of hope to me, papa. Poor Newton, I did so love him! I cannot dare to hope!" "Dearest Cora, we have no details. He may be missing. I have heard of many returned so in the old Peninsular times. My old friend, Jack Oswald, of Dunnik, among others; but he was always found under a heap of dead men, or so forth." "But the telegram says distinctly, among the killed—his body, his poor, mangled body, must have been seen——" "Colonel Beverley will write to me. In a few days we shall know all the particulars." "Even were he only wounded, I should be miserable; but to know that he is dead—dead—Newton dead—buried far, far away by strangers, and among strangers, and that I shall never, never see him more! Oh, papa—my dear papa!" she exclaimed, as she flung herself upon his breast, "I loved Newton dearly—far more dearly than life!" And so the great secret escaped her in her grief. *CHAPTER XXXVIII.* The fight’s begun;—in momentary blaze Bright o’er the hills the volleying lightning plays, Bursts the loud shell, the death shots hiss around, And the hoarse cannon adds its heavier sound, Till wide the gathering clouds that rise between Clothe in a thicker gloom the maddening scene; And as the billow’s wild and angry crest, That swells in foam on Ocean’s lurid breast, Through each long line the curling volumes spread, And hang their white wreaths o’er the column’s head.