"Oh, dear! what have I done? you won't tell--you will get me into such a scrape!" "No fears, Florence," said the Captain, walking off. "Then you won't dance, John?" "Not I; d--n dancing." When he rejoined L'Estrange, he said, "Just as I thought. Florence let the cat out of the bag famously; he has proposed, and been accepted too; confound it--this has come unexpectedly soon!" "Oh! my God! this is agony," said the rejected lover, wringing his hands together. "Cheer up, old fellow, many a slip between cup and lip. She thinks she is jolly safe--we shall see!" "What, in Heaven's name, do you mean?" "Ask me not, you will know by-and-by; I must speak a word in yonder foreigner's ear." So saying he went off, leaving L'Estrange to brood alone over his woes. Dancing was kept up with much spirit till the west began to lose the crimson splendour of sunset;--the evening star, harbinger of many another twinkling fire, shone brighter and brighter as shadow fell o'er hill and dale, and now and then a bat flitted by and twittered over the gay scene, as if surprised at its unwonted gaiety. The dancers then began to flag; one by one they dropped off; at last only Florence and a few other devoted adorers of Terpsichore tripped it on the light fantastic toe. The musician, too, grew weary--ceased, and all began busily to prepare for a homeward drive, wrapping themselves up in plaids, for the air became more than cool. The sated pairs, warmed by the dance, felt the night air, for the dews were falling fast, the more chill. Alone, as if he had no part nor lot in the preparations for home,--as if he had no bower toward which to turn his weary feet,--no fireside to welcome him,--no pillow to rest his tired head on--sat the Italian. The dance was over now; he had seemed amused--pleased--almost happy while it lasted--as he saw the happy pairs glide past to his melody. But it was over now--his spirits sank low, and returning woe seemed to him all the heavier after the light break. The feelings of the convict, as he starts perchance from some delightful dream on the morn of his execution were his--the short-lived relief was broken, and he awoke to the stern realities of life. Alone--an exile from his land--a stranger on a strange shore--he sat. He rested his cheek on his hand--the lute slipped from his grasp on the turf at his feet, and tears fell fast. A figure approached--it was the Captain's. "Cease, silly boy, your peevish weeping." Then, in an altered tone, "Cease crying, Juana--the deed is done--we will mend it yet." "I know it," replied the disguised maiden, "I know it; I heard his lips ask her, I heard her lips accept him! She is a noble girl, she would not take his offered hand till he vowed he loved no other. Let her be happy--Juana die of a broken heart. He loves her, he loves not me, and she loves him--let them be happy!" "'Sdeath--not so--but here comes the Earl, don't go to the Towers."