The struggles of the wounded man were desperate—so desperate, that in his agony he overset the table, and, in the confusion, tore off the cloth, and disclosed a face horribly mutilated, and streaming with blood. “When did you start?” She said between puffs. “Did you—did you really think that they would take you for a Frenchman?” she exclaimed. . Her slender throat was encircled by a black riband, with a small locket attached to it; and upon the top of her head rested a diminutive lace cap. The real ‘Alcide’,” she wound up with a faint smile across the table at him, “is here. He took into his soul some of the father's misery, some of the daughter's, to mingle with his own. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn.
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