At that moment we were just descending into the court-yard. Warburton was
but one step behind Tyrrell: the latter made no answer; but as he passed
from the dark staircase into the clear moonlight of the court, I caught a
glimpse of the big tears which rolled heavily and silently down his
cheeks. Warburton laid his hand upon him.

"Turn," he cried, suddenly, "your cup is not yet full--look upon me--and
remember!"

I pressed forward--the light shone full upon the countenance of the
speaker--the dark hair was gone--my suspicions were true--I discovered at
one glance the bright locks and lofty brow of Reginald Glanville. Slowly
Tyrrell gazed, as if he were endeavouring to repel some terrible
remembrance, which gathered, with every instant, more fearfully upon him;
until, as the stern countenance of Glanville grew darker and darker in
its mingled scorn and defiance, he uttered one low cry, and sank
senseless upon the earth.




CHAPTER XXXI.

Well, he is gone, and with him go these thoughts.
--Shakspeare.

What ho! for England!
--Shakspeare.

I have always had an insuperable horror of being placed in what the