In her solitary rides Mabel met the son of a neighboring squire, and they soon began to love each other after the good old fashion. Neither had one thought that was not honest and pure; but they were so afraid of her father that they dared not ask his consent to their marriage as yet. They were prudent, but not prudent or patient enough. So there came about meetings--first at noon in the woods, then at twilight in the park, then at midnight in the garden; and at last Sir Ewes Tresilyan heard of it all; and heard, too, that his daughter's name was abroad in the country-side, and more than lightly spoken of. That day, as the sun was setting, two men stood foot to foot, with their doublets off, on the very spot of smooth turf where the lovers parted last; and Arthur Bampfylde had to hold his own as best he might with the deadliest rapier in the western shires. Poor boy! he would scarcely have had the heart to do his uttermost against Mabel's father; but better will and skill would have availed little against the thirsty point that came creeping along his blade and leaping over his guard like a viper's tongue. At the sixth pass his enemy shook him heavily off his sword, wounded to the death. He had tried explanation before, utterly in vain; but the true heart would make one effort more to get justice done, before it ceased to beat. He gasped out these words through the rush of blood that was choking him, "Mabel--I swear, she is as pure as the Mother of God; and I--what had I done?" Sir Ewes knelt down and lifted Arthur's head upon his knee--not in pity, but that he might hear the more distinctly--"I will tell you," he said; "you have wooed a Tresilyan like a yeoman's daughter." The homicide wrote in his confession of all this that, as he laid the head gently down, a smile came upon the lips before they set. Was it that the parting spirit--standing on the threshold of Eternity, and almost within the light of the grand secret--fathomed the earth-worm's miserable vanity, and could not refrain its scorn? Mabel was sitting alone when her father returned. She had no idea that any thing had been discovered; but the instant she saw his face, she cast herself on her knees, crying--"I am innocent; indeed I have done no wrong!" He griped her arm and raised her up, gazing straight and steadfastly at her for some moments: then he gave his verdict--"Guilty of having brought shame on your house; not guilty of sin, I know, or _this_ should only half atone," and he drew out the blade that had never been wiped since it drank her lover's blood.