n--of few words and fewer sympathies; he never made a companion of
Mabel, his daughter, though his love for her was the feeling next his
heart, after his almost insane pride; but he trusted her
implicitly--less because he had faith in her truth and goodness, than
because he held it as impossible for a Tresilyan to disgrace herself or
otherwise derogate, as for the moon to fall from heaven. He was no
classic, you see, and had never read of Endymion.

In her solitary rides Mabel met the son of a neighboring squire, and
they soon began to love each other after the good old fashion. Neither
had one thought that was not honest and pure; but they were so afraid of
her father that they dared not ask his consent to their marriage as yet.
They were prudent, but not prudent or patient enough. So there came
about meetings--first at noon in the woods, then at twilight in the
park, then at midnight in the garden; and at last Sir Ewes Tresilyan
heard of it all; and heard, too, that his daughter's name was abroad in
the country-side, and more than lightly spoken of. That day, as the sun
was setting, two men stood foot to foot, with their doublets off, on the
very spot of smooth turf where the lovers parted last; and Arthur
Bampfylde had to hold his own as best he might with the deadliest rapier
in the western shires. Poor boy! he would scarcely have had the heart to
do his uttermost against Mabel's father; but better will and skill would
have availed little against the thirsty point that came creeping along
his blade and leaping over his guard like a viper's tongue. At the sixth
pass his enemy shook him heavily off his sword, wounded to the death. He
had tried explanation before, utterly in vain; but the true heart would
make one effort more to get justice done, before it ceased to beat. He
gasped out these words through the rush of blood that was choking him,
"Mabel--I swear, she is as pure as the Mother of God; and I--what had I
done?"

Sir Ewes knelt down and lifted Arthur's head upon his knee--not in pity,
but that he might hear the more distinctly--"I will tell you," he said;
"you have wooed a Tresilyan like a yeoman's daughter." The homicide
wrote in his confession of all this that, as he laid the head gently
down, a smile came upon the lips before they set. Was it that the
parting spirit--standing on the threshold of Eternity, and almost within
the light of the grand secret--fathomed the earth-worm's miserable
vanity, and coul