"My God--unhappy Walter!" said Lilian in a voice that pierced the heart of him she abhorred to deem her husband. "Then she who saved and nursed thee on the field of Steinkirke was thy mother--_thy mother_, and she knew it not? Oh, this was the secret sentiment, the heaven-born thought that spoke within her and made her heart so mysteriously yearn towards thee. Unfortunate Walter! how deeply have we been wronged--how bitterly must we suffer!" "And till now, thou accursed fiend, this terrible secret has been concealed from me!" said Clermistonlee furiously, as he half drew his sword. Beatrix laughed and tossed her arms wildly. "Oh, horror upon horror! woe upon woe!" said Lilian in a voice of the deepest anguish as she rung her hands, and, taking up her little infant from the cradle, kissed it tenderly on the forehead, and retired slowly from the room. "Lilian--Lilian," cried her husband, "whither go ye, lady?" "To solitude--to solitude," she murmured. "Any where to save me from my own terrible thoughts--anywhere to hide me from the deep disgrace you have brought upon me; to any place where never again the light of day shall find me." Clermistonlee heard her light steps on the staircase, and they fell like a knell on his heart: impelled by some secret and mysterious impulse, he followed her to her own apartment, the door of which he had heard close behind her. There was no sound within it. He entered softly; but she was not there; and from that moment she was never beheld again! Every ultimate search proved fruitless and unavailing. A veil of impenetrable mystery hung over her fate....... A sudden thought flashed on the mind of Clermistonlee. The day dawn was breaking as he descended the staircase, after fruitlessly calling on Lilian through various apartments. "I may, I must save him yet--unfortunate youth, a father's arms shall yet embrace him. Oh, my hapless and deeply wronged Alison! fortune may yet enable me in some sort to repair the atrocities of which I have been guilty. My horse! my horse!" and, rushing to the stable, he saddled and bridled a fleet steed, and in five minutes was galloping furiously back to the city, the walls and towers of which arose before him, red and sombre in the rays of the morning sun. CHAPTER XXIII. THE IRON ROOM--THE DEATH SHOT. Ay, I had planned full many a sanguine scheme Of earthly happiness--romantic schemes, And fraught with loveliness:--and it is hard To feel the hand of death arrest one's steps, Throw a chill blight o'er all one's budding prospects, And hurl one's soul untimely to the shades, Lost in the gaping gulph of blank oblivion. HENRY KIRKE WHITE.