made aware that you were about
to be married to that sweet girl whom you have persecuted with such a
mean and unmanly spirit, and designed to start with her for England this
day."

Whitecraft, now that he felt the dreadful consequences of the awful
position in which he was placed, became the very picture of despair and
pusillanimity; his complexion turned haggard, his eyes wild, and his
hands trembled so much that he was not able to bring the tea or bread
and butter to his lips; in fact, such an impersonation of rank and I
unmanly cowardice could not be witnessed. He rose up, exclaiming, in
a faint and hollow voice, that echoed no other sensation than that of
horror:

"I cannot breakfast; I can eat nothing. What a fate is this! on the very
day, too, which I thought would have consummated my happiness! Oh, it is
dreadful!"

His servant then, by Mr. Hastings' orders, packed up changes of linen
and apparel in his trunk, for he saw that he himself had not the
presence of mind to pay attention to any thing. In the course of a few
minutes the carriage was ready, and with tottering steps he went down
the stairs, and was obliged to be assisted into it by two constables,
who took their places beside, him. Mr. Hastings bowed to him coldly,
but said nothing; the coachman smacked his whip, and was about to start,
when he turned round and said:

"Where am I to drive, Sir Robert?"

"To Sligo jail," replied one of the constables, "as quick as you can
too."

The horses got a lash or two, and bounded on, whilst an escort of
cavalry, with swords drawn, attended the coach until it reached its
gloomy destination, where we will leave it for the present.

The next morning, as matters approached to a crisis, the unsteady old
squire began to feel less comfortable in his mind than he could have
expected. To say truth, he had often felt it rather an unnatural process
to marry so lovely a girl to "such an ugly stork of a man as Whitecraft
was, and a knave to boot. I cannot forget how he took me in by the
'Hop-and-go-constant' affair. But then he's a good Protestant--not that
I mean he has a single spark of religion in his nondescript carcass;
but in those times it's not canting and psalm-singing we want, but good
political Protestantism, that will enable us to maintain our ascendancy
by other means than praying. Curse the hound that keeps him? Is this a
day for him to be late on? and it now half past ten o'clock; however,
he must come s