ittered amid the ruins and trees that surrounded the chapel,
and his progress was again stayed by no other than Colonel John Jones.

"Sir Willmott Burrell," said the Puritan soldier, in a slow and
deliberate tone, "his Highness commands your immediate presence at the
house of Hampton, profanely denominated Hampton Court; and I have his
Highness's commands also to prevent the taking place of any union
between you and Mistress Constantia Cecil."

"It has taken place," interrupted Burrell, turning pale, and trembling.

"It has _not_ taken place," interrupted in her turn Lady Frances, whose
habitual and active kindness had prompted her to seek assistance for
Barbara, so that she encountered the troop under the command of her
step-uncle--"I say it has not taken place--half a ceremony is no
marriage. But have you any with you skilled in surgery? for here has
been a most foul murder: come with me into the chapel, and behold!" Lady
Frances returned, followed by Colonel Jones, Sir Willmott as a prisoner,
and the greater number of the soldiery.

Constantia Cecil, still kneeling, supported Barbara, whose life was
ebbing fast, as the blood trickled from a small wound, where the ball
had entered a little above her right shoulder. Her eyes, gentle and
expressive as ever, were fixed upon her father, who stood speechless and
powerless by her side. The women gathered, weeping, around. The good
clergyman approached to offer spiritual consolation to the departing
girl. Hugh Dalton had heard the story of the fatal act repeated by at
least a dozen persons, who were ignorant that they spoke in the presence
of the poor maiden's parent; but he heeded not their words; he did not
even ask how or by whom the dreadful deed was done. Enough to him was
the certainty that his daughter was dying, dying before him--that she,
to whom his heart had clung through evil report and good report, in
sorrow and in sin, but always with confidence and hope, as the star that
would at length guide him into a haven of peace and joy, which had been
rapidly growing out of repentance; that she, his only, his beloved, his
most excellent, and most unspotted child, would, within an hour, become
as the clay on which he trod--that her mild, cheerful, and patient
spirit, was passing to the God who gave it--unrepiningly passing; for
no groan, no murmur came from her lips--lips that had never been stained
by deceit or falsehood. Still her eyes rested on her parent, and once