the fearful impetuous youth to succeed if she could have slept through the storm he was rousing.

Roland appealed to her. "You! my sister, it is you that consent to this wild freak, enough to break your father's heart?” He had really forgotten his knowledge of her characterwhat much he knew—in the dust of the desperation flung about her by Nevil Beauchamp.

She shook her head; she had not consented.

"The man she loves is her voice and her will," said Beauchamp. "She gives me her hand and I lead her."

Roland questioned her. It could not be denied that she had given her hand, and her bewildered senses made her think that it had been with an entire abandonment; and in the heat of her conflict of feelings, the deliciousness of yielding to him curled round and enclosed her, as in a cool humming sea-shell. "Renée !" said Roland.

"Brother!" she cried.

"You see that I cannot suffer you to be borne away.” "No; do not!"

But the boat was flying fast from Venice, and she could have fallen at his feet and kissed them for not countermanding it. "You are in my charge, my sister."

"Yes."

"And now, Nevil, between us two," said Roland.

The arro

Beauchamp required no challenge. He seemed, to Rosamund Culling, twice older than he was, strangely adept, yet more strangely wise of worldly matters, and eloquent too. But it was the eloquence of frenzy, madness, in Roland's ear. gation of a terrible foresight that harped on present and future to persuade him of the righteousness of this headlong proceeding advocated by his friend, vexed his natural equanimity. The argument was out of the domain of logic. He could hardly sit to listen, and tore at his moustache at each end. Nevertheless his sister listened. The mad Englishman accomplished the miracle of making her listen, and appear to consent. "Why Trieste? I ask you, why Catholic priest at your bidding,

Roland laughed scornfully. Trieste? You can't have a without her father's sanction."

"We leave Renée at Trieste, under the care of madame," said Beauchamp, "and we return to Venice, and I go to your father. This method protects Renée from annoyance."

"It strikes me that if she arrives at any determination she must take the consequences.'

"She does. She is brave enough for that. But she is a girl; she has to fight the battle of her life in a day, and I am her lover, and she leaves it to me."

"Is my sister such a coward?" said Roland.

Renée could only call out his name.

"It will never do, my dear Nevil; " Roland tried to deal with his unreasonable friend affectionately. "I am responsible for her. It's your own fault — if you had not saved my life I should not have been in your way. Here I am, and your proposition can't be heard of. Do as you will, both of you, when you step ashore in Venice."

"If she goes back she is lost," said Beauchamp, and he attacked Roland on the side of his love for Renée, and for him.

Roland was inflexible. Seeing which, Renée said, "To Venice, quickly, my brother!" and now she almost sighed with relief to think that she was escaping from this hurricane of a youth, who swept her off her feet and wrapt her whole being in a delirium.

"We were in sight of the city just now!" cried Roland, staring and frowning. "What's this?"

Beauchamp answered him calmly, "The boat's under my orders."

"Talk madness, but don't act it," said Roland. "Round with the boat at once. Hundred devils! you haven't your wits." To his amazement, Beauchamp refused to alter the boat's present course.

"You heard my sister?" said Roland.

"You frighten her," said Beauchamp.

"You heard her wish to return to Venice, I say."

"She has no wish that is not mine."

It came to Roland's shouting his command to the men, while Beauchamp pointed the course on for them.

"You will make this a ghastly pleasantry," said Roland.

"I do what I know to be right," said Beauchamp. "You want an altercation before these fellows?" "There won't be one; they obey me.”

Roland blinked rapidly in wrath and doubt of mind.

"Madame," he stooped to Rosamund Culling, with a happy inspiration, "convince him; you have known him longer than I, and I desire not to lose my friend. And tell me, madame — I can trust you to be truth itself, and you can see it is actually the time for truth to be spoken-is he justified in taking my sister's hand? You perceive that I am obliged to appeal to you. Is he not dependent on his uncle? And is he not, therefore, in your opinion, bound in reason as well as in honour to wait for his uncle's approbation before he undertakes to speak for my sister? And, since the occasion is urgent, let me ask you one thing more: whether, by your knowledge of his position, you think him entitled to presume to decide upon my sister's des-· tiny? She, you are aware, is not so young but that she can speak for herself. . . .”

"There you are wrong, Roland," said Beauchamp; “she can neither speak nor think for herself: you lead her blindfolded.” "And you, my friend, suppose that you are wiser than any of us. It is understood. I venture to appeal to madame on the point in question."

The poor lady's heart beat dismally. She was constrained to answer, and said, "His uncle is one who must be consulted." "You hear that, Nevil," said Roland.

Beauchamp looked at her sharply; angrily, Rosamund feared. She had struck his hot brain with the vision of Everard Romfrey as with a bar of iron. If Rosamund had inclined to the view that he was sure of his uncle's support, it would have seemed to him a simple confirmation of his sentiments, but he was not of the same temper now as when he exclaimed, “Let him see her!" and could imagine, give him only Renée's love, the world of men subservient to his wishes.

Then he was dreaming; he was now in fiery earnest, for that reason accessible to facts presented to him; and Rosamund's reluctantly spoken words brought his stubborn uncle before his eyes, inflicting a sense of helplessness of the bitterest kind.

They were all silent. Beauchamp stared at the lines of the deck-planks.

His scheme to rescue Renée was right and good; but was he the man that should do it? And was she, moreover, he thought, speculating on her bent head, the woman to be forced to brave the world with him, and poverty? She gave him no sign. He was assuredly not the man to pretend to powers he did not feel himself to possess, and though from a personal, and still more from a lover's, inability to see all round him at one time and accurately to weigh the forces at his disposal, he had gone far, he was not a wilful dreamer nor so very selfish a lover. The instant his consciousness of a superior strength failed him he acknowledged it.

Renée did not look up. She had none of those lightnings of primitive energy, nor the noble rashness and reliance on her lover, which his imagination had filled her with; none. That was plain. She could not even venture to second him. Had she done so he would have held out. He walked to the head of the boat without replying.

Soon after this the boat was set for Venice again.

THE CIVIL WAR

THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY

[From chapter I of The History of England from the Accession of James the Second, 1848.]

IN August 1642 the sword was at length drawn; and soon, in almost every shire of the kingdom, two hostile factions appeared in arms against each other. It is not easy to say which of the contending parties was at first the more formidable. The Houses commanded London and the counties round London, the fleet, the navigation of the Thames, and most of the large towns and seaports. They had at their disposal almost all the military stores of the kingdom, and were able to raise duties, both on goods imported from foreign countries, and on some important products of domestic industry. The King was ill provided with artillery

and ammunition. The taxes which he laid on the rural districts occupied by his troops produced, it is probable, a sum far less than that which the Parliament drew from the city of London alone. He relied, indeed, chiefly, for pecuniary aid, on the munificence of his opulent adherents. Many of these mortgaged their land, pawned their jewels, and broke up their silver chargers and christening bowls, in order to assist him. But experience has fully proved that the voluntary liberality of individuals, even in times of the greatest excitement, is a poor financial resource when compared with severe and methodical taxation, which presses on the willing and unwilling alike.

Charles, however, had one advantage, which, if he had used it well, would have more than compensated for the want of stores and money, and which, notwithstanding his mismanagement, gave him, during some months, a superiority in the war. His troops at first fought much better than those of the Parliament. Both armies, it is true, were almost entirely composed of men who had never seen a field of battle. Nevertheless, the difference was great. The parliamentary ranks were filled with hirelings whom want and idleness had induced to enlist. Hampden's regiment was regarded as one of the best; and even Hampden's regiment was described by Cromwell as a mere rabble of tapsters and serving men out of place. The royal army, on the other hand, consisted in great part of gentlemen, high spirited, ardent, accustomed to consider dishonour as more terrible than death, accustomed to fencing, to the use of fire arms, to bold riding, and to manly and perilous sport, which has been well called the image of war. Such gentlemen, mounted on their favourite horses, and commanding little bands, composed of their younger brothers, grooms, gamekeepers and huntsmen, were, from the very first day on which they took the field, qualified to play their part with credit in a skirmish. The steadiness, the prompt obedience, the mechanical precision of movement, which are characteristic of the regular soldier, these gallant volunteers never attained. But they were at first opposed to enemies as undisciplined as themselves, and far less active, athletic, and daring. For a time, therefore, the Cavaliers were successful in almost every encounter.

The Houses had also been unfortunate in the choice of a gen