eyes. And then sweet, as the tinkling of fairy bells, came that strange warning, echoing back from long ago. Of what use was it to me to upbraid myself for not heeding it now? Of what good was it to me now to remember how often the recollection of it might have turned me from my perilous course? None. Yet why had I for one moment forgotten that loving heart that trusted so truly in me? . . . . . One thing, however, I knew,—forgetful I might have been—mad—foolish—but unfaithful to my love, never. As these thoughts passed through my tortured mind, I dashed my hands from my face and clenched them till my nails nearly entered the flesh. Heavenly powers! Was it possible my strength had returned? Could it be so, that as I had been rendered powerless by the thought of this old man and his hateful offspring, so now my strength was regained by the remembrance of Cousin Polly’s pure and tender love? It must be so! I sprang from the couch, and as I did so a passing breeze swept through the room, and seemed to bear away with it the last traces of the poisonous perfume. I felt assured that the baneful vapours had left my breath, but to make doubly sure, I plucked a spray of jasmine and carried it hurriedly to my lips. My heart beat wildly with joy—the little white stars gleamed as brightly and healthfully as before. Ah, Cousin Polly, why did I ever forget you for a second?—but you had not forgotten me, for the precious jewel of your love, hid in my heart, proved my talisman against powerful and deadly enemies.
But I had no time to throw away, and I determined to make my escape before the return of the doctor, his daughter, or his servant. Through bye lanes and over slimy marshes and wild moorlands I wandered all day, and late at night I arrived at the town of , worn out with fatigue and excitement, and before morning I was delirious with fever.
*****
It was some weeks before I recovered sufficiently to recognise Fred Holdsworth, who was waiting upon me, and through whose exertions my life was saved. From him I learned the history of events. He had noticed my change of manner, and when I disappeared from London he immediately conjectured that I had gone to visit Doctor Walstein. He still laboured under the delusion that the doctor’s daughter was my attraction. Several letters came for me, and as he grew uneasy he resolved to set out and find Pwlldu House himself. When he arrived at he put up at the same hotel where I was then prostrated with fever. He stayed with me, and nursed me as tenderly as any woman could have done, and he was there in daily expectation of the arrival of my uncle.
He did arrive in a few days, bringing with him Cousin Polly. I will not describe our meeting. Uncle Mark never heard this narrative,—he is long since dead; and Cousin Polly had been for years my loving little wife before I told it to her.
All that I ever heard again of Doctor Walstein was from Holdsworth, who told me that two nights after I escaped from the old man’s clutches the scattered inhabitants of that part of Gower were startled at seeing a great conflagration at Pwlldu House. When discovered, the building was burning in every part. There was little water in the neighbourhood, and every now and then during the fire there were terrific explosions, which drove back those who tried to extinguish the flames or save any of the property. It was also said that dense fumes of a nauseous and poisonous character came from the flames, causing faintness and giddiness to those who inhaled them. The house was burned to the ground, and everything was destroyed. Nothing was ever seen of the inmates; but there was a report, never properly confirmed, that traces of human bones had been found amongst the charred and calcined débris.
(Concluded.)
NOMADS OF THE CAMPAGNA.
“We are toiling to civilise the barbarians of the far-off islands,—let us not forget the barbarians outside the Porta Pia.” Thus spoke a Roman Cardinal, one day in my hearing, to some persons whom he desired to encourage in a work undertaken by them for the benefit of the rural population of the Campagna. “The barbarians outside the Porta Pia!” thought I, in surprise. Has time retreated some cycles, and are Attila’s hordes once more at the gates of Rome? The whole world was once either Roman or barbarian; has the Roman world so shrunk up that it can fit within the compass of the seven-hilled city? When did the pomœrium become the limit of civilisation? Rome once held the sovereignty “Urbis et Orbis;” has the “Orbis” lapsed into savagery, leaving the walls of the “Urbs” to do battle with its wild men?
My occupation soon afterwards placed me in a condition to see these barbarians and to know them. What my personal contact with them has taught me concerning them, their manners and their customs, I will now lay before the reader.
Every one who is acquainted with the environs of Rome, and especially if he enters the Eternal City from Viterbo, necessarily preserves for some time an unpleasant recollection of the pastures of the Campagna. Spreading around in a circuit of many miles, they encircle the old walls with a zone of green. This zone bursts here and there into irregular mounds, which in places almost rise up into the dignity of hills. It looks like an angry sea, tossed and beaten by a storm into shapeless waves, and then suddenly, with all its fantastic heavings, turned into earth and carpeted with green sward. It was in a little valley opening out between two of these hills that, for the first time, I met with one of the barbarians to whom I have alluded. I had left the road, with its stones and dust, and found reason to congratulate myself on the change. The hard blocks of basalt that formed its pavement were far less agreeable than the springing grass; and the delicious perfume of the wild mint which I crushed as I walked, made me soon forget the blinding dust from which I had suffered so much. Turning short round the spur of the mount, I suddenly found myself transfixed by a pair of sharp, keen, glittering eyes. I knew, of course, that I was face to face with their owner, but the eyes searched