not; thou hast no fear of death, Sir Wynston Berkley; yet there is a
heart beating near thee, the mysteries of which, could they glide out and
stand before thy face, would perchance appal thee, cold, easy man of the
world. Aye, couldst thou but see with those cunning eyes of thine, but
twelve brief hours into futurity, each syllable that falls from that good
man's lips unheeded would peal through thy heart and brain like maddening
thunder. Hearken, hearken, Sir Wynston Berkley, perchance these are the
farewell words of thy better angel--the last pleadings of despised mercy!

The party broke up. Doctor Danvers took his leave, and rode homeward,
down the broad avenue, between the gigantic ranks of elm that closed it
in. The full moon was rising above the distant hills; the mists lay
like sleeping lakes in the laps of the hollows; and the broad demesne
looked tranquil and sad under this chastened and silvery glory. The
good old clergyman thought, as he pursued his way, that here at least,
in a spot so beautiful and sequestered, the stormy passions and fell
contentions of the outer world could scarcely penetrate. Yet, in that
calm secluded spot, and under the cold, pure light which fell so
holily, what a hell was weltering and glaring!--what a spectacle was
that moon to go down upon! As Sir Wynston was leaving the parlor for
his own room, Marston accompanied him to the hall, and said--"I shan't
play tonight, Sir Wynston."

"Ah, ha! very particularly engaged?" suggested the baronet, with a
faint, mocking smile. "Well, my dear fellow, we must endeavor to make up
for it tomorrow--eh?"

"I don't know that," said Marston, "and--in a word, there is no use, sir,
in our masquerading with one another. Each knows the other; each
understands the other. I wish to have a word or two with you in your room