road to the old Castle, _Eoghainn_ followed close in their wake, and, when they had proceeded about a mile from the barn, they came upon the old hill road when Mary made a dead halt, as if quite at a loss how to act. 'Proceed, girl,' thundered the officer, 'I care not one farthing for my own life, and if you do not instantly conduct me to the spot where the bloody rebels are concealed, this weapon,' drawing his sword 'shall, within two minutes, penetrate your cunning heart.' The poor girl trembled and staggered as the officer pointed his sword to her bosom, when the voice of _Eoghainn_ fell on his ear like the knell of death, 'Turn your weapon this way, brave sir,' said the _Brocair_, 'Turn it this way,' and in a moment the officer and his shivered sword lay at his feet. 'Oh, for heaven's sake,' screamed the fainting girl, 'meddle not with his life.' 'No, no, Mary; I shall not dirty my hands in his blood. I have only given him the weight of my oak sapling, so that he may sleep soundly till we are safe from the fangs of his bloodhounds.' That very night the fugitives left Urquhart Castle and got safe to the forests of Badenoch, where they skulked about with Lochiel and his few followers until the gentleman escaped to France, when _Eoghainn Brocair_ and his companion ventured once more, as they themselves expressed it, 'to the communion of Christians.' The offspring of the _Brocair_ and Mary Maclauchlan are still in Lochaber." ALASTAIR OG. (_To be Continued._) THE LAST OF THE CLAN. "_After many years he returned to die._" The last of the clansmen, grey-bearded and hoary, Sat lone by the old castle's ruin-wrapt shade, Where proudly his chief in the bloom of his glory Oft mustered his heroes for battle arrayed: He wept as he gazed on its beauties departed, He sighed in despair for its gloom of decay, Cold-shrouded his soul, and he sung broken-hearted, With grief-shaking voice a wild woe-sounding lay.-- "Weary, weary, sad returning, Exiled long in other climes, Hope's last flame, slow, feebly burning Seeks the home of olden times: In my joy why am I weeping? Where my kindred? Where my clan? Whispers from the mountains creeping, Tell me 'I'm the only man.' "Yon tempest-starred mountains still loom in their grandeur, The loud rushing torrents still sweep thro' the glen, Thro' low-moaning forests dim spirits still wander, But where are the songs and the voices of men? Tell me, storied ruins! where, where are their slumbers? Where now are the mighty no foe could withstand? The voice of the silence in echoing numbers, Breathes sadly the tale of fate's merciless hand.