from the dead hedges,
and the murmur of the swollen dykes, as the waters pent within them
rolled hurriedly on. By and by, an owl came suddenly from behind me, and
screamed as it flapped across my path; that, too, went rapidly away:
and with a smile, at what I deemed my own fancy, I renewed my journey.
I soon came to the precipitous descent I have before mentioned; I
dismounted, for safety, from my drooping and jaded horse, and led him
down the hill. At a distance beyond I saw something dark moving on the
grass which bordered the road; as I advanced, it started forth from the
shadow, and fled rapidly before me, in the moonshine--it was a riderless
horse. A chilling foreboding seized me: I looked round for some weapon,
such as the hedge might afford; and finding a strong stick of tolerable
weight and thickness, I proceeded more cautiously, but more fearlessly
than before. As I wound down the hill, the moonlight fell full upon the
remarkable and lonely tree I had observed in the morning. Bare, wan, and
giant-like, as it rose amidst the surrounding waste, it borrowed even
a more startling and ghostly appearance from the cold and lifeless
moonbeams which fell around and upon it like a shroud. The retreating
animal I had driven before me, paused by this tree. I hastened my steps,
as if by an involuntary impulse, as well as the enfeebled animal I was
leading would allow me, and discovered a horseman galloping across the
waste at full speed. The ground over which he passed was steeped in
the moonshine, and I saw the long and disguising cloak, in which he was
developed, as clearly as by the light of day. I paused: and as I was
following him with my looks, my eye fell upon some obscure object by
the left side of the pool. I threw my horse's rein over the hedge, and
firmly grasping my stick, hastened to the spot. As I approached the
object, I perceived that it was a human figure; it was lying still and
motionless; the limbs were half immersed in the water--the face was
turned upwards--the side and throat were wet with a deep red stain--it
was of blood; the thin, dark hairs of the head, were clotted together
over a frightful and disfiguring contusion. I bent over the face in
a shuddering and freezing silence. It was the countenance of Sir John
Tyrrell!

CHAPTER LXV.

Marry, he was dead--And the right valiant Barlquo walked too late,
Whom, you may say, if it please you, Fleance killed, For Fleance fled!
--Macbeth.

It is a