and sprung up at the horse's side. The palfrey was startled, and dashed off at full gallop.
"How gallantly he sits!" exclaimed Lord Avonleigh, as the agile figure of his son cut through the air, till the eye was dazzled with the rapidity of the motion. A moment after, a cry broke from the lips of both. The horse rushes under the drooping boughs of an old oak—the young rider reels in his seat—the bridle falls from his grasp—his arms extend helplessly—and the next bound flings him to the earth. Neither Francesca nor Lord Avonleigh dared to exchange glances, but both sprang forwards and ran to the place, where the palfrey, panting and trembling as if with some mysterious instinct of evil, stood beside the prostrate corse—for corse it was! In one short instant the hope of youth had been laid low—and the beautiful temple, where a parent had garnered up all that made life previous, was dust and ashes. There he lay, his face turned towards them, pale as a statue, but sweet as sleep. The sudden summons had assuredly been unfelt—the only sign was a slight wound on the fair forehead, whence trickled a small stream of blood, which had already reddened the bright ringlets and the green grass. Lord Avonleigh stood as if the same blow had struck him also—conscious
