“He has never left the stable, sir,” said Billy, as he held the stirrup himself--“he has never left the stable for ten days, but he has wind enough to carry you two and twenty miles within the hour, if you were put to it.” “And if I were, Billy,” said Mark, for a sudden thought just flashed across him--“if I were, and if I should not bring him back to you, his price is---- “I wouldn't take a hundred guineas for him from any man living save Mr. Talbot himself; but if it were a question of saving him from danger, or any man he deems his friend, then, then, sir, I tell you fairly, Billy Crossley isn't so poor a man, but he can afford to do a generous thing. Take him. I see you know how to sit on him; use him well and tenderly, keep him until you find the time to give him back, and now a good journey to you wherever you go; and go quickly, whispered Billy, for I see two fellows at the gate who appear listening attentively to our conversation. “Take that in any case as a pledge,” said Mark, as he pitched a purse, containing above a hundred pounds in gold, towards Crossley, and before the other could interpose to restore it, Mark had dashed his spurs into the beast's flanks, and in another minute was hastening down Thomas-street. Mark had not proceeded far when he slackened his pace to a walk--he remembered that it was yet two hours before the time, and with the old spirit of a horseman, he husbanded the qualities of the noble animal he bestrode. Whether it was, that as the moment approached which should solve some of the many difficulties that beset him, or that the free air of the morning, and the pleasure he felt on being once more in the saddle, had rallied his mind and raised his courage, I know not, but so it was; Mark's spirits grew each instant lighter, and he rode along revolving other ones, if not happier thoughts, such as were at least in a frame more befitting his youth and the bold heart that beat within his bosom. The streets were deserted, the great city was sleeping, the thoroughfares he had seen crowded with brilliant equipages and hurrying masses of foot passengers, were still and vacant; and as Mark turned from side to side to gaze on the stately public edifices now sleeping in their own shadows, he thought of the dreadful conflict which, perchance, it might be his own lot to lead in that same city--he thought of the wild shout of the insurgent masses, as with long-pent-up, but now loosened fury they poured into the devoted streets--he fancied the swelling clangour which denoted the approach of troops, ringing through the various approaches, and the clattering sounds of distant musketry as post after post in different parts of the town was assailed. He halted before the Castle gate, where a single dragoon sat motionless in his saddle, his carbine at rest beneath his long cloak, the very emblem of peaceful security, and as Mark gazed on him, his lip curled with an