noticed—never coming quite to the end. When he reached the most terrible point—just before the death of his master—he always gave a sob and a low cry as if in pain, and turned back again to the beginning. This peculiarity, however, had not struck her as any thing remarkable, until the second day, when in giving a minute account of the patient, she mentioned it among other items to the physician. "Aye so?" asked Mr. Robesart significantly. "Methinks, Mistress Guenllian, that hath a meaning. I would fain be here the next time that it happeth." "That may you with little trouble, good Father, since I count it happeth every hour at the furthest." Mr. Robesart sat down and waited. He had no need to wait long. Before the hour was over, poor Lawrence was once more pouring out his fervid and dreadful tale, as though he were relating it to a listener, broken constantly by disjointed words, yet ever coming back to the one subject. "Then he rade to the top of the mount—primroses grow there—no, not primroses—what call you them?—he rade up, in his Irish habit—habit—Mistress Wenteline, can you amend this rent in mine habit? The Irish have torn it—he called to them in the Irish tongue—nay, I cannot tell you; I wis not the Irish—they be wild folk. They talk alway; they talked then. And two of them came riding forward at after—Master Byterre, look to your saddle-girth; methinks there is somewhat awry—my Lord bent to his saddle-bow when he answered them. Then one of them laid his spear in rest—rest! Oh for rest! Mine head burneth—’I will give you rest’—aye, only He can give it—but methought the man were not hostile, he seemed as though he held forth his hand—O wala, wala wa! Help, my God!" And with this cry, not sharply and loudly delivered, but in a low voice of intense anguish, poor Lawrence sank back upon his pillow, and a cold perspiration broke out over his face. "Lo’ you, right this doth he alway!" whispered Guenllian. Mr. Robesart shook his head. He laid his soft, cool, quieting hand upon the patient’s brow. "My son Lawrence, dost thou hear me?" A lucid interval seemed to occur, for Lawrence looked up into his old friend’s face, with calm weak eyes. "I see thou dost. What came then to pass? Try to tell me." "When, Father?" answered the faint voice. He had evidently no recollection of what had just happened. "When the Irish leader came up to thy Lord with his spear in rest, and held forth his hand, or seemed as though he should do it." A look of unutterable pain came into the sick man’s eyes, and his tongue appeared to refuse its office. "Tell me, my son," urged Mr. Robesart with gentle firmness. "Was it then the Irish shot him?" Lawrence tried to lift himself, and looked round uneasily. Mr. Robesart helped him into a more elevated position, and with a look to Guenllian sent her behind the curtain. "Under _benedicite_, if I must!" whispered the patient.