ned to the Syren,
and escaped her snares."

She had sprang forward as he spoke, and now threw out her arms to draw
him back. He eluded her clasp, and dropped to the ground on his feet,
but fell backward, and did not at once rise again. She shrieked, and
then called out in a piteous tone: "Speak to me, Colonel L'Isle. For
Heaven's sake, speak. Say you are not injured--not hurt."

"Console yourself, Lady Mabel," said he, rising slowly. "I have not
broken my neck, and shall not break my appointment. And, now, I must
bid you good-night; or shall I say good-morning?"

As L'Isle turned, he spied old Moodie standing in the open gateway of
the court, with a light in his hand, and knitting his shaggy brows. He
looked neither very drunk, nor much afraid of robbers, but trembled
with rage on seeing L'Isle's mode of breaking out of the mansion. With
a strong effort of self-control, L'Isle walked off without limping,
and was soon lost in the gloomy shades of the olive and the orange
grove.

Lady Mabel had played out the comedy, and now came--reflection. What
had she done? How would it tell? Above all, what would L'Isle think of
her? What were his feelings now? And what would they be when the exact
truth-the whole plot--was known to him? Every faculty hitherto
engrossed in the part she was playing, until this moment she had never
looked on this side of the picture? Now, bitter self-reproach, womanly
shame, and tears--vain, useless tears--filled up the remaining hours
of the night. Jenny Aiken's feeble attempts at consolation were worse
than futile, and she was sent off abruptly to her room for
misconstruing the cause of her mistress' grief. Lady Mabel found
little relief in remembering her father's injunction, to play her part
well, and not fail of success. She was hardly soothed even by the
resolution she took to rate that father soundly for the gross
impropriety he had permitted, induced--nay, almost commanded--her to
perpetrate.

CHAPTER XIX.

_Don Pedro_.--By this light he changes more and more. I think he
be angry, indeed.
_Claudio_.--If he be, he knows how to turn his girdle.
_Benedict_.--Shall I speak a word in your ear?
_Claudio_.--God bless me from a challenge.

Much ado about Nothing.

Sir Rowland Hill, with a stout division, had been posted during the
winter at Coria, facing Marshal Soult in the valley of the
Tagus--holding him to bail not to di