out of her heart to her eyes with a keen pain,
and drop about without a moment's notice, en-
dangering the purity of the white satin, who,
watching her from a corner, could have found
fault with a sad seamstress, saying that it was
a wicked thing to shed tears over a bridal
dress? Who need speculate on those tears,
foolishly asking what they meant? When
sorrow was reigning from end to end of the
land, why pry into one simple heart looking for
secret sources of grief? Hester's tears, falling,
kept time with the falling of the tears of a mul-
titude. A few bitter drops more or less need
make no wonder. Let them flow, and be swal-
lowed up in the ocean of a nation's anguish.

He despatched a messenger to reassure the people, and then Sir Archie made a review of his position. Of able-bodied men he had only a few servants. He shuddered to think of the women of his family. Why had he not forced them to leave the country long ago? Regrets were idle now. His mother must be kept as long as possible in ignorance of what was impending. Thank God she was a willing prisoner in her own retired room. The young girls must be guarded. I wonder," thought Sir Archie, "if poor Madge will stand my friend ?" And he sent a message to the Honourable Madge.

The servant forgot her manners in her fright. She burst open Miss Madge's door without even the ceremony of a knock. Miss Madge had spent this day shut up in her chamber alone. Miss Madge! where was Miss Madge? Some gay garments stirred in a dark corner of the room. Miss Madge was on her knees, with her face against the wall. When might one pray if not now? Miss Madge had the soul of a warrior, but she might not wear a sword. Miss Madge had the heart of a lion, but the battles must rage on without her presence or her help. Miss Madge must give assistance, else she would die of this suspense. So she bent her knees on a hard floor, and turned her face to a dark wall, and she battered the gates of heaven with her prayers.

The servants at the castle had taken to novel ways of life, and no one had heart to check them; even had any one had eyes to see that the wheels of the household needed oil. If they were seldom at their posts, there was no one to observe it; if they stood about in groups half the day with pale faces and red-rimmed eyes, there was no one at hand to reprimand them. If the meats came burnt to table and the wrong wine was decanted, was there any one with appetite to discover these mistakes? If the rarest gem of the drawing-room were swept down to the floor in fragments by a nervous twirl of Bridget's tremulous duster, who cared? The drawing-room was a desert. It might be arranged or it might not be arranged. The Miss Madge was on her feet in an instant, flowers in the vases might be dried up and cheerful and alert. Ere long she had got inmouldering there, for nobody thought of look-structions from Sir Archie, and was giving ing whether or not.

About sunset of that seventh glowing evening of June, Sir Archie was walking up and down his study floor. That long burning day had passed like a nightmare over his head. He had been abroad, and had looked upon the ominous desolation of his glens. He knew where his stalwart men were to be found, and he knew what was the work on which their strong hands had fastened.

A messenger came knocking upon the door of Glenluce Castle, and, panting, pushed his way into the presence of Sir Archie. He had news. A battle had been fought at Antrimfought well by the rebels, but lost. Lord O'Neal had been carried to his castle to die. There had been another hard fight at Larne. A rumour was on foot that Sir Archie Munro had been declared to be a rebel; that Colonel Clavering and his soldiers were marching towards the glens to attack Glenluce Castle. The women and children, the old men and the cripples, were flying to Sir Archie for protection. Even now they left their cottages with their babies and their crutches. Even now they came breathless down the hills and up the roads. Would Sir Archie take them in under shelter of the castle roof? Would Sir Archie shield the innocent and weak?

All that the castle will hold," said Sir
Archie. "Let them come. We can house a
good many, thank God! While there is space

for one there cannot be enough; so we have
elbow-room at the window to ply our guns."

orders about the castle as if for a festival. She walked into Hester's room, where she found Hester and Miss Janet sitting trembling side by side; the unfinished bridal dress lying between them.

"We are going to stand siege, my dears," said the Honourable Madge, briskly, quite as if she had been saying, "We are going to give a ball." "The servants are a little frightened, naturally, and Lady Helen is not to know of it at present. There is much to be seen to, many arrangements to be made. Which of you is strong enough to step about and help me ?"

"I am ill, Miss Madge," said Janet; "I am really ill." And she looked it. "I could not go about with you. I believe I shall die of the fright. I hope it may happen before they come up here to kill me. At all events I shall wait here. I could not go down and ask them to do it."

"I thought you were not a coward," said Miss Madge, with some scorn.

"That was a boast-only a boast!" wailed Miss Golden. "I did not think that war was going to walk up to the castle gates. I am a coward now I tell you. I am afraid. Oh, I am afraid!"

And she curled herself upon a sofa, and buried her blanched face in the cushions.

Miss Madge put her shoulder against the couch and wheeled it into a corner, out of reach of the window.

"What is this for ?" asked Janet, pettishly.

Only to be out of the way of bullets," answered the Honourable Madge, shortly.

A scream came from the sofa, followed by murmurings and mournings. "Oh, England! Oh, Pierce! Oh, wretched, wretched Janet!" "I will send some one to sit with you," said Miss Madge, over her shoulder. Then, "Come," she said to Hester, "I see you are willing for work!" And grasping Hester's hand she led her off out of the room.

66

"We shall have to sort the people you know, my dear," said Miss Madge. See how they begin to pour in! We shall have to set up a nursery, and dormitories for the sickly old men. Not that I expect there will be much sleep to be had here to-night, but it is better to be in order. Sir Archie is busy getting the guns fixed at the windows. I don't know that we can help him much at that. But there may be wounds to be dressed during the night. Do you happen to know anything of dressing a wound ?"

shouting of fierce orders, oaths and triumphant menaces, and hideous mirth, and, finally, the opening roar of the guns.

Sir Archie replied gallantly to the salute. A hurried glance below smote his heart with the forlornness of his hope. Yet his courage did not fail. How were the soldiery to know that but a crowd of helpless people and a handful of strong men were all the force that opposed them from those windows? If but the fire could be kept up! Every morsel of metal about the castle was seized upon as treasure, and Hester and Miss Madge got a lesson in making bullets. A crippled old soldier, who had fought bravely for England in his youth, taught them and helped them. And so the night wore on. A piteous crowd half dead with fear, and so, happily, dumb; half a dozen grim desperate men feeding their guns; two screaming women, mad with terror, shut up in their several rooms with their attendants; two other women, pallid faces soiled with smoke, low steady voices, hearts braced up with courage for the emergency, swift steps and blackened hands, toiling over a fire in a kitchen making They went out to a kitchen garden to pluck bullets; nimble-footed boys, who were the the herbs, on a high ground away at the back making of brave men, running swiftly up and of the castle. A solemn moon had risen, and down, carrying fragments of new-found lead, the world was calm and cool. The soft velvet bearing the newly-fashioned slugs up to the outline of the hills rose darkly against the gunners; barricaded windows, darkness, deadly mellow sky. All the perfume was streaming silence, smothered shrieks, muttered prayers, out of the flowers with the dew. The ham-groans, and again silence, with over all the mering at the windows where the guns were getting fixed was the only sound heard, except now and then at intervals the lowing of the cattle, coming down with its homely echo from the mountains.

"I have seen them dressed at the hospital," said Hester.

"My dear, that is most fortunate. We shall prepare some linen bands, and I will boil some healing herbs."

Hester mounted on a bench, and looked around her. "What are those lights, Miss Madge," she said, fearfully-" those lights that are smouldering on the hills? How they spring up! And another, and another! Good God! the flames are everywhere!"

"Those are the cottages-fired," said Miss Madge. "Don't faint, child-don't faint, I tell you. You can be brave if you wish. Will you be brave? Are you brave?"

"Yes," gasped Hester. "It is only the first

shock."

"Good girl!" said Miss Madge, approvingly, brandishing her bunch of fresh herbs in Hester's face to revive her. "My dear, we are living in history-in the history of our time."

CHAPTER XXVI. FIRE AND SWORD.

THE enemy was approaching. The people kept pouring in, frantic with terror, crouching into the corners which Miss Madge assigned to them. Wailing children, fainting mothers, mourning old men, and weeping girls. The windows were barricaded, except just where. the guns protruded. Sir Archie, with his few assistants, stood ready at their posts. After a horrible spell of suspense the soldiers could be heard mustering without, more and more arriving, trampling of hundreds of feet, prancing and floundering and terrible jingling of cavalry,

sickening, maddening roar of the assault, with the pressing, and the trampling, and the threatening of the assailants. These things were known within the castle. A glimpse of the scene without was like the opening up of hell: the glare of fire everywhere upon hosts of devilish faces, upturned, thirsting for blood.

"Miss, miss!" said a voice at Hester's elbow. It was Pat, the good-natured butler.

"I'm makin' bould to spake up sharp to you, miss," said Pat. "There's not a blessed minute to be lost. I tell ye this is a more sarious business than we tuk it for at the startin'. There's swarms and swarms o' them out bye, an' there's new ones comin' on, hivir' over the lawns, an' the roads. I tell ye, miss, it's Sir Archie they want, an' ye must coax him to make off. I ax yer pardon, miss, but there's nobody could coax him but yerself. There's a smart trusty boy, with a stout bit of a boat, lyin' waitin' at the shouldher of the bay. He can get off out o' the back, an' creep along the ould moat. The divil a sight they'll see o' him, an' we'll keep the guns blazin'. The sea's like Lough Neagh, an' there's not a breath o' wind. A stout couple o' oars will take him across to the Mull o'Cantire afore he's missed!"

"I'll tell him," said Hester.

"An' miss, I ax yer pardon. I mane ye well; feth I do! But it 'd be as good if ye'd go with him. They're havin' it goin' that it was stories ye wrote to England that has brought down the murther on the masther. Au' if the boys comes to believe it, they'll want to tear ye!"

"That is nonsense," said Hester. "A wild

"There is a boat and a boatman at the curve of the bay," she said. "If you are gone, they will not hurt us. Fly!"

"That is a mistake," he said. They would not know I had gone, and they would hurt you all the same. It will make no difference to them my being here. It would make all the difference to you. I will not fly."

The stars had long hidden themselves in terror. The moon had grown whiter and whiter, and turned her face away; the bullets from the castle failed at last; even the buttons from the men's coats were getting rammed into the guns. There was the silence of despair within the castle, till a shriek suddenly arose that the building was in flames. Steady curling jets of fire began to arise towards the sky. At the same time a fresh band of cavalry came dashing up the road. The captain of this troop pressed frantically near the walls, and flung himself from his horse under the eyes of Colonel Clavering.

"This is a mistake!" cried Pierce Humphrey; "a devilish, detestable mistake! This is a loyal household. I tell you it is a hideous mistake. All I hold dear; the woman I love; an Englishwoman-English, I tell you-is shut up in these burning walls. Call off your men!" stamping at the colonel-"call off your wolves, your hellhounds!"

"They are hell-hounds," said Clavering, "and they will not be called off. These mistakes are common. Save whom you can."

furthest wall of the chamber. It was an oldfashioned, long, low bedroom, and the walls were hung with silk. Hester's hand came against the loose hangings, and by instinct or inspiration she crept in behind their folds.

There was a terrible confusion in her head for some moments, but she knew pretty well that Sir Archie had been seized. She heard the soldiers cursing at the darkness, and one of them pulled away the barricading from the window. He fell as he did so by a shot from without. Now the flames, which seemed to have been licking round the roof, curled inward through the open window and caught the woodwork of the room. The shock of the sudden light restored Hester to her senses. She heard the soldiers jeering and exulting over Sir Archie.

"We'll not cut him off in his sins," said one. "He'll have time to say his prayers. "A fine easy death," said another; "not a scrape on his skin."

And by-and-by she knew they had taken themselves off-out of the burning room. She stepped out from her hiding-place into the glare. Sir Archie was tied with strong cords, bound hand and foot, on the floor. The fire was creeping near him. They had left him so to its will. A few fierce vain struggles, a few bitter groans, and then Hester feared he had swooned. Not so; for he felt her soft hand moving about him, passing over his shoulders, and under his arms, and round his neck, as with swift sharp snaps she cut the cords away from his limbs. In a few more moments he was on his feet, safe by her side. He had taken her into his arms close to his heart-there, in the glow of the burning room. But that was only folly when there was

not a moment to be lost.

"Come quickly!" said Hester. "That boat may be waiting yet!"

Breaches had now been made in the castle. Terror-stricken creatures came flying out upon LEAVES FROM THE MAHOGANY TREE. the bayonets that were waiting for them. Pierce Humphrey and a band of his men pressed in upon an errand of mercy. Other soldiers pressed in whose errand was not mercy. The triumph of the night were not complete unless the marked man, whose death had been the stake for which this noble game was played, were handsomely treated to torture, and most certainly given to death. So the soldiers braved the flames, and pressed in.

Sir Archie was still at his forlorn post. It seemed that he did not know yet that the castle was burning. Nor did Hester, who stood by his side, rending iron buttons from a pile of garments that lay at her feet, and handing them over to Sir Archie as sorry food for the guns. They two were alone in the room. All their companions were either killed or had fled. The door was burst open, and a group of soldiers dashed in. The wind that came with them blew out the light in the room. Hester shrank back in horror, and retreated, with her hands spread before her, till she reached the

MAKING GAME OF A VERY SERIOUS SUBJECT. THERE is a club tradition that the lordlieutenant of one of the western counties, in the reign of the good and great (corporeally great) George the Fourth, used to devour a whole covey of partridges for breakfast every day during the season. It positively took the entire time of an able-bodied Somersetshire gamekeeper and two well-bred pointers to supply the honourable gentleman's morning meal alone. Metaphorically speaking, the honourable gentleman was pelted constantly with roast partridges, which he caught in his ravening jaws just as a French poodle would macaroons. There never was so hearty an eater, except Brillat - Savarin's friend, who, for the first time in his life being treated to his satiety of green oysters, ate eighteen dozen as a whet, and then, finding his appetite not a bit the better, began his dinner in disgust-like Mr. Hayward's Scotchman, of the rigorous viscera, after a tough old Solan goose.

If

Now, though from an economical, moral goes further, and is far better fare than meat restraint, self-denying point of view, the honour- mangled, chopped, and mashed. Bad carving is able gentleman, whom an American would have an insult to your guests (as Ude said, far more justly called "a whale at partridges," was a forcibly than Dr. Johnson, who, worthy old glutton, still, as a gourmet, we venerate his me- gentleman, to tell the real truth, did not quite mory; he must have been a great, if not alto- know what he was talking about); "it is also gether a good, man, for if there is a plump, inconsistent with good manners and economy, delicious, appetising dish in the world, it is a well and evinces in those who neglect it not only roasted, little, young hen partridge. The month a culpable disrespect to the opinion of the is now September, and walking all day over world, but carelessness, inaptitude, and indif hair-brushes-viz. wheat stubble--has sharp- ference to an object of real utility." ened your naturally keen appetite to an almost Now let us return to covert, and pick up the dangerous edge. Then with your gun in the covey again as quickly as possible. In the first corner, your shooting-boots warming themselves place, as to choosing partridges in shops. The against the fender for another day's work, and following rules are from the mouth of one a pleasant friend opposite, you could eat a live of our most eminent French cooks. Young horse, you would not stick at hashed hippo- birds are known by their yellowish claws; grey, potamus; but you have a dish of smoking or even bluish, legs and claws may be of partridges before you, a small sea of delicious a tender age, but lamentably seldom. bread-sauce, and a little Greek hand-lamp full of gravy clear as Madeira; you are a man whose cornucopia of happiness a kind fate has for the moment brimmed almost to overflowing. It is in the very essence of real sporting that Nimrod, as well as Ramrod, should make his meal of the game he has spent the day in chasing. The ruffling walks among the long wet green and sallow turnip-leaves, and the bristling hair-brushes aforesaid, the peering over brows of hills, the keen watching of your favourite liver-coloured pointer, require, as a fitting consummation, the solemn sacrifice of the kitchen. The swift bright-eyed bird that this morning broke screeching over the stubbles with all his flurried ladies of the harem (as frightened as the Arabs in Vernet's picture of the Smala), lies now before you featherless, his bright eyes are shrivelled cinders, with a drop of gravy distilling sweetly from each, his neck is a corkscrew, his legs are crossed in mute and changeless gesture of humility and supplication. He is now an abstract article of food; motion, volition, gone; no fear, no love, no hatred. He lies there on his back, a mere delicious offering to the sense of taste. Carve him fair, that's all, and don't meanly hide away a wing under the débris as our friend Gorbly does when he carves, in order to discover it with triumphant wonder just after he has helped us to the forlorn wreck of the back, which has been lying on the dish for some time in front of the ambuscaded wing.

the bird is tender, the beak should be black, and the extreme tip point of the wing bone sharp pointed and whitish. Old partridges are only fit for hiding away in consommés, in cabbages, purées of lentils, sauces, or cold patties. The best partridges in France are those of Cahors in Languedoc, and the Cévennes. In the north of France those of Carhaix carry away the palm. The red-legged partridges, so common in the south of France, are abominated by our sportsmen, because they run for ever without rising. The white partridges, found only in the Alps and in the Pyrenees, are the most esteemed; the grey are of far less value. French cooks applaud the red-legged bird (the bartavelle) as having whiter and more delicate flesh than its grey and snowy cousins.

Perhaps a partridge cannot be cooked too simply. He is beautiful in his integrity. Still he is dainty larded (piqué or bardé); and they do wisely, who advise us to wrap the savoury and juicy bird in vine-leaf winding-sheets, which concentrate the flavour and retain the volatile essences. He is good, too, à la Polonaise, à l'Orange, à la prévalie, with parmesan, with truffles, en biberot, and in curling-papers. He makes a soup, a hot pie, and a famous volau-vent, with tomatoes. The partridge pies of Cahors and Perigord are as admirable as the terrines of Nérac, in which the happy partridges repose on beds of truffles and truffles on layers of partridges, alternately. The heads emerge from the centre of the pies like And here allow us to bait for a moment at weathercocks, and are at once an ornament the roadside inn of an episodical remark-one and an invitation. The ways of cooking partaffectionate word to young and inexperienced ridge are innumerable; the complaisant bird persons beginning life, on carving. Remember lends itself to many pleasant disguises. Partthe wise dictum of Dr. Johnson (who, by-the-ridges are charming à la braise and à la daube, by, was purblind, and could not help himself), exquisite with carp sauce, not bad à maître Pray consider, sir, the great utility of the Lucas, and delicious à la Czarine and à decorums of life; cease to disparage them, l'étouffade. The partridges à la Montmorenci sir, and let me no longer hear your sneers are larded, then stewed, and served with a against the art of carving; you should praise ragoût à la financière. The true French cook not ridicule your friend, who carves with as often tries to minister to the sense of sight much earnestness of purpose as though he were at the same time that he titillates the palate, legislating. Whatever is to be done at all just as the clumsier Elizabethan cooks deshould always be well done." Good carving is lighted in perfuming their dishes, so as at the father of economy; a well carved joint once to gratify the nose and charm the mouth.

On this principle the inventor of "Per- in scollops. The good old English rule for a draux à la Barberie" stuck his birds over pheasant is forty minutes before a smart but with small pieces of truffles in the shape of not a fierce fire. And here a wrinkle, if you are nails. They should be stuffed with chopped not an artful man or woman. We can assure truffles and rasped bacon, and served with you, from experience, that such is the deceptive Italian sauce. The perdraux à la crapaudine are power of the imagination, that if you have only dipped in bread crumbs and then broiled. In one pheasant for a dinner party, and want two, the perdreaux à la Givry (another dish for the eye a fine young fowl kept for five days, and with as well as the mouth) the birds are mosaicked his head twisted exactly like the real Simon with rings of white onions, and black medallions Pure, will never be discovered under a friendly of truffles. In the compote des perdreaux you snow-drift of fragrant bread sauce. As a rule, stew the dear creatures with bacon, mushrooms, all entrées that are made with partridges can and small white onions. Old partridges boil be made also of pheasants, and the petit deuil well with cabbage. The sauté of partridges, (half mourning), Monglas, Givry, &c., are too (fillets stewed with veal and ham), is by no equally good, of whichever bird they are made. means despicable, nor would Lucullus himself have despised partridge cutlets fried in crumbs and treated " en epigramme" with truffles and mushrooms. The soufflé of partridges is excellent; the flesh requires to be chopped and pounded, mixed with the yolks of five beat-up eggs, and lightly baked for twenty minutes. The purée and salmi of partridge are also savoury, but we prefer partridge puddings, and Ude highly recommends "the quenelles de perdreaux à la Sefton." These are made with the flesh of tender young partridges pounded and passed through a sieve; you mix with it eggs, pepper, salt, and allspice, and fill small puddings with the paste. For the sauce, use the world-famous Béchamel, cream, salt, and a little cayenne. The Jew Apella himself would not disbelieve in this dish.

A pheasant is a divine fowl-Colchis, or wherever he first rocketted from.

If the partridge had but the woodcock's thigh, He'd be the best bird as ever did fly, might be said with more justice of the partridge if he had only made up his little mind to be as big as a turkey, and yet preserved that inimitable flavour, gleaned from the healthy wheat-stubbles. A pheasant resembles a medlar in this, that he is insipid till he begins to decompose. A sure test of knowing when your bird is ripe (generally about six days) is to hold him by the leg. If blood drops from the beak he is ready; to the spit with him incontinently-for the hour and the bird have come. Another good test is to hang your pheasant up in the larder by his long, auburn-coloured, tail feathers; cook him the moment the feathers drop out and let their master fall. Be sure he falls soft. The best proof of a young bird is the shortness and obtuseness of the claw. Always choose a hen, if you can, for the feminine among pheasants, contrary to the ungallant Latin grammar rule, is more worthy than the masculine. It is difficult, French cooks say, in our damp climate to keep the pheasant long enough to develop the full game flavour.

The Parisians wrap their roasting pheasants in sheets of buttered paper, and their favourite sauces for the royal bird are verjuice or orange juice, and sauce de carpe. The pheasant is inimitable à la braise in filets, in pies, in salmi, in croquettes, hashed, in soufflés, in cutlets, or

The French cooks rejoice sometimes over the vast carcase of that European ostrich, the brainless Bustard-a bird of vast body, but diminutive mind. The last one known in England was killed, we believe, on the windy surface of Salisbury Plain, in the middle of last century, rather after the time the last wolf died in Scotland, and half a dozen centuries after the last beaver in Wales had expired, universally lamented. It is only after very rigorous winters that the bustard is ever found in the South of France; but, in 1804, they were not uncommon at Beziers, where competing gourmands used to offer as much as thirty-six livres for each. Bustards also came to Paris from Champagne, and frequently from the great plain of Chalons, which suited their habits and their extreme dulness. The camp has, no doubt, long ago made the once lonely plain undesirable. Young and well hung, the bustard is tasty; the flesh, it is asserted, combines the flavours of several sorts of game. It is generally roasted like wild goose, but sometimes eaten cold in pies, which, however, require a great generosity in lard, as bustard meat is by nature dry, and rather indigestible.

The French call the woodcock, who is all nose (as everybody knows), and is not remarkable for very regular features, the king of the marsh and the woodside-"le premier des oiseaux noirs." It is the choicest morsel of the gourmet, who loves it for its perfect flavour, the volatility of its principles, and the succulence of its flesh. It is the highest mark of esteem we can offer to a guest who may be useful to us. We devour even the humblest portions of his body-we honour him with far more reason than the Thibet people do their taciturn grand Llama. It is admirable en salmi, stuffed with truffles (this is, however, adding perfume to the violet); and fine with olives, à la Provençale, or à l'Espagnole. Finally, pounded, it becomes a purée, which even French cooks consider as the consummation of all luxury. Woodcocks should be eaten in solemn silence, and with all the honours, as the plat des plats. They hash well; they are superb en croustades. They are good in every way. One great authority particularly praises "the salmi de becasses, à la Lucullus;" in this dish the fillets are sauced with pounded mushrooms, shallots, and parsley.

A hare that has run himself tender has, no