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PAUL CLIFFORD.

plainly brought into light by her rays than his companion, here a horseman, clad in a short cloak that barely covered the crupper of the steed, was looking to the priming of a large pistol which he had just taken from his holster. A slouched hat, and a mask of black crape, conspired with the action, to throw a natural suspicion on the intentions of the rider. His horse, a beautiful dark grey, stood quite motionless, with arched neck, and its short ears quickly moving to and fro, demonstrative of that sagacious and anticipative attention which characterizes the noblest of all tamed animals: you would not have perceived the impatience of the steed, but for the white foam that gathered round the bit, and for an occasional and unfrequent toss of the head. Behind this horseman, and partially thrown into the dark shadow of the trees, another man, similarly clad, was busied in tightening the girths of a horse, of great strength and size. As he did so, he hummed, with no unmusical murmur, the air of a popular drinking song.

"'Sdeath, Ned," said his comrade, who had for some time been plunged in a silent reverie,—