“Recollect yourself,” said I, sternly. “I found that token of your presence upon the spot where Tyrrell was murdered.” “True, true,” said Glanville, slowly, and in an absent and abstracted tone. He ceased abruptly, and covered his face with his hands; from this attitude he started with some sudden impulse. “And tell me,” he said, in a low, inward, exulting tone, “was it--was it red with the blood of the murdered man?” “Wretch!” I exclaimed, “do you glory in your guilt?” “Hold!” said Glanville, rising, with an altered and haughty air; “it is not to your accusations that I am now to listen: if you are yet desirous of weighing their justice before you decide upon them, you will have the opportunity: I shall be at home at ten this night; come to me, and you shall know all. At present, the sight of this picture has unnerved me. Shall I see you?” I made no other rejoinder than the brief expression of my assent, and Glanville instantly left the room. During the whole of that day, my mind was wrought up into a state of feverish and preternatural excitation. I could not remain in the same spot for an instant; my pulse beat with the irregularity of delirium. For the last hour I placed my watch before me, and kept my eyes constantly fixed upon it. Should any one think this exaggerated, let him remember, that it was not only Glanville’s confession that I was to hear; my own fate, my future connection with Ellen, rested upon the story of that night. For myself, when I called to mind Glanville’s acknowledgment of the picture, and his slow and involuntary remembrance of the spot where it was found, I scarcely allowed my temper, sanguine as it was, to hope. Some minutes before the hour of ten I repaired to Glanville’s house. He was alone--the picture was before him. I drew my chair towards him in silence, and accidentally lifting up my eyes, encountered the opposite mirror. I started at my own face; the intensity and fearfulness of my interest had rendered it even more hueless than that of my companion. There was a pause for some moments, at the end of which Glanville thus began. CHAPTER LXXIV. I do but hide Under these words, like embers, every spark Of that which has consumed me. Quick and dark The grave is yawning;--as its roof shall cover My limbs with dust and worms, under and over, So let oblivion hide this grief. Julian and Maddalo. With thee, the very future fled, I stand amid the past alone; A tomb which still shall guard the dead Tho’ every earthlier trace be flown, A tomb o’er which the weeds that love Decay--their wild luxuriance wreathe! The cold and callous stone above--And only thou and death beneath. From Unpublished Poems by ------. THE HISTORY OF SIR REGINALD GLANVILLE.