seest he sleepeth soundly. I will collect my senses. I was dreaming of noble purposes and mighty hopes. 'Tis over now. I am myself again. What would'st thou, my sweet treasure ?"

"They come, the fierce retainers of this fallen man: they come to seize thee. Fly, David." "And leave thee?"

"I and my maidens, we have yet time to escape by the private way we entered, our uncle's garden. When in his house we are for a moment safe-as safe as our poor race can ever be. Bostenay is so rich, so wise, so prudent, so learned in man's ways, and knows so well the character and spirit of these men, all will go right: I fear nothing, nothing, nothing. But thou, if thou art here, or to be found, thy blood alone will satiate them. If they be persuaded that thou hast escaped, as I yet pray thou mayest, their late master here, whom they could scarcely love, why-give me thy arm an instant, sweet Beruna, I am rather faint. So, that's well. I was saying, if well bribed, and they may have all my jewels, why very soon, he will be as little in their memories, as he is now in life. I can scarcely speak -I feel my words wander, or seem to wander; I could swoon, but will not-nay! do not fear, my love, I will reach home. These maidens are my charge. 'Tis in these crises we should show the worth of royal blood. with them."

I'll see them safe or die

"Oh! my sister, methinks I never knew I was a brother until this hour. My precious Miriam, what is life? what is revenge, or even fame and freedom, without thee? I'll stay."

"Sweet is the voice of a sister
in the season of sorrow, and wise is
the counsel of those who love us."
"Fly, David, fly."

"Fly! whither, and how?"

The neigh of a horse sounded from the thicket. "Ah! they come, they come !" exclaimed the distracted Miriam.

"All this has come upon us, O Lord, yet have we not forgotten thee, neither have we dealt falsely in thy covenant."

"Hark! again it neighs! It is a horse that calleth to its rider.

I see it, I see it.

He

Courage, Miriam ! it is no enemy, but a very present friend in time of trouble. It is Alschiroch's courser. passed me on it by the tomb ere sunset. I marked it well-a very princely steed."

"Behold, behold, a ram is caught

in the thicket by his horns." "Our God hath not forgotten us! maidens, bring forth the goodly steed. do you tremble? I'll be his

groom.

Quick,

What!

Nay! Miriam, beware, beware. It is an untamed beast, wild as the whirlwind. Let me deal with him."

He ran after her, kissed her as he passed, dashed into the thicket, and brought forth the horse.

Short time I ween that stately steed had parted from his desert home; his haughty crest, his eye of fire, the glory of his snorting nostril, betokened well his conscious pride and pure nobility of race. His colour was like the sable night shining with a thousand stars, and he pawed the ground with his delicate hoof, like an eagle flapping its wing.

Alroy vaulted on his back, and reined him with a master's hand.

"Hah!" he exclaimed, "I feel more like a hero than a fugitive. Farewell, my sister; farewell, ye gentle maidens; fare ye well, and cherish my precious Miriam. One kiss, sweet sister," and

D

he bent down and whispered, "Tell the good Bostenay not to spare his gold, love, for I have a deep persuasion, that ere a year shall roll its heavy course, I shall return, and make our masters here pay for this hurried ride and bitter parting. Now for the desert!"

PART II.

I.

SPEED, fleetly speed, thou courser bold, and track the desert's trackless way. Beneath thee is the boundless earth, above thee is the boundless heaven, an iron soil and brazen sky. Speed, swiftly speed, thou courser bold, and track the desert's trackless way!

Ah! dost thou deem these salty plains(6) lead to thy Yemen's happy groves, and dost thou scent, on the hot breeze, the spicy breath of Araby? A sweet delusion, noble steed, for this briny wilderness leads not to the happy groves of Yemen, and the breath thou scentest on the coming breeze is not the spicy breath of Araby.

The day has died, the stars have risen, with all the splendour of a desert sky, and now the night descending brings solace on her dewy wings, to the fainting form and pallid cheek of the youthful Hebrew prince.

Still the courser onward rushes, still his mighty heart supports him. Season and space, the glowing soil, the burning ray, yield to the tempest of his frame; the thunder of his nerves and lightning of his veins.

Food or water they have none. No genial fount, no grateful tree, rise with their pleasant

company. Never a beast or bird is there, in that hoary desert bare. Nothing breaks the almighty stillness. Even the jackal's felon cry, might seem a soothing melody. A grey wild rat, with snowy whiskers, out of a withered bramble stealing, with a youthful snake in its ivory teeth, in the moonlight grins with glee. This is their sole society.

Morn comes, the fresh and fragrant morn, for which even the guilty sigh. Morn comes, and all is visible. And light falls like a signet on the earth, and its face is turned like wax with a seal. Before them, and also on their right, was the sandy desert; but in the night they had approached much nearer to the mountainous chain, which bounded the desert on the left, and whither Alroy had at first guided the steed.

The mountains were a chain of the mighty Elburz; and as the sun rose from behind a lofty peak, the horse suddenly stopped, and neighed as if asking for water. But Alroy, himself exhausted, could only soothe him with caresses. And the horse, full of courage, understood his master, and neighed again more cheerfully.

For an hour or two the prince and his faithful companion proceeded slowly, but as the day grew on, the heat became so oppressive, and the desire to drink so overwhelming, that Alroy again urged on the steed towards the mountains, where he knew that he should find a well. The courser dashed willingly forward, and seemed to share his master's desire to quit the arid and exhausting wilderness.

More than once the unhappy fugitive debated whether he should not allow himself to drop from his seat and die; no torture that awaited him at Hamadan, that did not seem preferable to the prolonged and inexpressible anguish that he now en