The young lord, indeed, had arrived at Shaws-Castle, so few minutes after Mowbray's departure, that it was wonderful they had not met in the avenue. The servant to whom he applied, conceiving that his master must return instantly, as he had gone out without his hat, ushered the Earl, without farther ceremony, into the breakfast-room, where Clara was seated upon one of the window-seats, so busily employed with a book, or perhaps with her own thoughts while she held a book in her hands, that she scarce raised her head, until Lord Etherington, advancing, pronounced the words, "Miss Mowbray." A start, and a loud scream, announced her deadly alarm, and these were repeated as he made one pace nearer, and in a firmer accent said, "Clara." "No nearer--no nearer," she exclaimed, "if you would have me look upon you and live!" Lord Etherington remained standing, as if uncertain whether to advance or retreat, while with incredible rapidity she poured out her hurried entreaties that he would begone, sometimes addressing him as a real personage, sometimes, and more frequently, as a delusive phantom, the offspring of her own excited imagination. "I knew it," she muttered, "I knew what would happen, if my thoughts were forced into that fearful channel.--Speak to me, brother! speak to me while I have reason left, and tell me that what stands before me is but an empty shadow! But it is no shadow--it remains before me in all the lineaments of mortal substance!" "Clara," said the Earl, with a firm, yet softened voice, "collect and compose yourself. I am, indeed, no shadow--I am a much-injured man, come to demand rights which have been unjustly withheld from me. I am now armed with power as well as justice, and my claims shall be heard." "Never--never!" replied Clara Mowbray; "since extremity is my portion, let extremity give me courage.--You have no rights--none--I know you not, and I defy you." "Defy me not, Clara Mowbray," answered the Earl, in a tone, and with a manner how different from those which delighted society! for now he was solemn, tragic, and almost stern, like the judge when he passes sentence upon a criminal. "Defy me not," he repeated. "I am your Fate, and it rests with you to make me a kind or severe one." "Dare you speak thus?" said Clara, her eyes flashing with anger, while her lips grew white, and quivered for fear--"Dare you speak thus, and remember that the same heaven is above our heads, to which you so solemnly vowed you would never see me more without my own consent?" "That vow was conditional--Francis Tyrrel, as he calls himself, swore the same--hath _he_ not seen you?" He fixed a piercing look on her; "He has--you dare not disown it!--And shall an oath, which to him is but a cobweb, be to me a shackle of iron?" "Alas! it was but for a moment," said Miss Mowbray, sinking in courage, and drooping her head as she spoke.