partment, the surgeon
following, anxious to give such sad consolation as the case admitted of.

"As you are so deeply concerned for the untimely fate of this young
lady," he said, "it may be some satisfaction to you, though a melancholy
one, to know, that it has been occasioned by a pressure on the brain,
probably accompanied by a suffusion; and I feel authorized in stating,
from the symptoms, that if life had been spared, reason would, in all
probability, never have returned. In such a case, sir, the most
affectionate relation must own, that death, in comparison to life, is a
mercy."

"Mercy?" answered Tyrrel; "but why, then, is it denied to me?--I know--I
know!--My life is spared till I revenge her."

He started from his seat, and hurried eagerly down stairs. But, as he
was about to rush from the door of the inn, he was stopped by Touchwood,
who had just alighted from a carriage, with an air of stern anxiety
imprinted on his features, very different from their usual expression.
"Whither would ye? Whither would ye?" he said, laying hold of Tyrrel,
and stopping him by force.

"For revenge--for revenge!" said Tyrrel. "Give way, I charge you, on
your peril!"

"Vengeance belongs to God," replied the old man, "and his bolt has
fallen.--This way--this way," he continued, dragging Tyrrel into the
house. "Know," he said, so soon as he had led or forced him into a
chamber, "that Mowbray of St. Ronan's has met Bulmer within this half
hour, and has killed him on the spot."

"Killed?--whom?" answered the bewildered Tyrrel.

"Valentine Bulmer, the titular Earl of Etherington."

"You bring tidings of death to the house of death," answered Tyrrel;
"and there is nothing in this world left that I should live for!"

CHAPTER XX.

CONCLUSION.

Here come we to our close--for that which follows
Is but the tale of dull, unvaried misery.
Steep crags and headlong linns may court the pencil,
Like sudden haps, dark plots, and strange adventures;
But who would paint the dull and fog-wrapt moor,
In its long track of sterile desolation?

_Old Play._

When Mowbray crossed the brook, as we have already detailed, his mind
was in that wayward and uncertain state, which seeks something whereon
to vent the self-engendered rage with which it labours, like a volcano
before eruption. On a sudden, a shot or two, followed by loud voices and
laughter reminded him he had promised, at that hour, and in that
sequ