the
fury of the god.

She sprung forward as she uttered the last words, extricating herself
from the slight hold of the astonished officers, and rushed toward her
cowed and craven husband.

"But in all things, mean wretch," she continued, in tones of fiery
scorn, "in all things thou art frustrate--thy vengeance is naught, thy
vile ambition naught, thyself and thy king, fools, knaves, and
frustrate equally. And now," she added, snatching the dagger which
Raoul had given her from the scabbard, "now die, infamous, accursed
pandar!" and with the word she buried the keen weapon at one quick
and steady stroke to the very hilt in his base and brutal heart.

Then, ere the corpse had fallen to the earth, or one hand of all those
that were stretched out to seize her had touched her person, she smote
herself mortally with the same reeking weapon, and only crying out in
a clear, high voice, "Bear witness, Rose, bear witness to my honor!
Bear witness all that I die spotless!" fell down beside the body of
her husband, and expired without a struggle or a groan.

Awfully was she tried, and awfully she died. Rest to her soul if it be
possible.

The caitiff Marquis de Ploermel perished, as she had said, in all
things frustrated; for though his vengeance was in very deed complete,
he believed that it had failed, and in his very agony that failure was
his latest and his worst regret.

On the morrow, when St. Renan returned not to his home, the page gave
the alarm, and the fatal wall was torn down, but too late.

The gallant victim of love's honor was no more. Doomed to a lingering
death he had died speedily, though by no act of his own. A
blood-vessel had burst within, through the violence of his own
emotions. Ignorant of the fate of his sweet Melanie, he had died, as
he had lived, the very soul of honor; and when they buried him, in the
old chapel of his Breton castle, beside his famous ancestors, none
nobler lay around him; and the brief epitaph they carved upon his
stone was true, at least, if it were short and simple, for it ran only
thus--

=Raoul de St. Renan.

Fiel a la Muerte.=

THE POET'S HEART.--TO MISS O. B.

BY CHARLES E. TRAIL.

Like rays of light, divinely bright,
Thy sunny smiles o'er all disperse;
And let the music of thy voice,
More softly flow than Lesbian verse.
By all the witchery of love,
By every fascinating art--
The worldly spirit st