“And yet, if he could survey the ripened loveliness of the flower he saved when in its budding helplessness,” urged the gallant Marmonti, bending his lips to the hand of his companion, “and feel no wish to claim it for his trans-Atlantic bower, he must be indeed a Stoic; and I take it, that his is a warmer spirit than voluntarily to purge his memory of the recollection of an action that must come coupled with the charms of the rescued floweret. By the bones of the immortal Henri! but the little I have heard of thy deliverance, and the heroism that achieved it, have taught me a brother's love for this same—how call you the youth?” “Harley—No—Harwood; ay, that is his name—but, methinks, a glimpse of him would tend marvellously to lessen thy brotherly feelings. He had but little of knightly bearing, and his speech and actions savored somewhat of his nautical training. I would that he were here?” There was a rustling in the adjacent shrubbery—a hasty step was heard upon the gravelled avenue, and as the intruder dashed swiftly by, there came words upon the ear of the late speaker, breathed in tones she remembered but too well. “And this is Mary Destraix, and it is thus she speaks of Henry Harwood! Great God, how I have been duped!” The footsteps died away in the distance, and before she could rally from the shock, the speaker was gone. The sword of Marmonti was drawn from its sheath, but the convulsive grasp of the conscience-stricken girl withheld him from pursuit; and when he inquiringly bent his gaze upon her countenance, its expression was so death-like and cold, that fearing she was ill, (for he understood not the purport of the stranger's exclamation,) he hastily returned to the saloon.