make themselves; they next drive into banishment their more legitimate rulers; and the consequence, in the third place, is, that they make enemies of those whom they exile.  Such is the case with me, and such—­but hark!  That surely is the tread of a horse.  Do you hear it? there is no mistake now—­” and as he spoke, the measured trampings were heard resounding at some distance, seemingly in advance of them.

“We must now use the spur, Munro; your horses have had indulgence enough for the last hour, and we may tax them a little now.”

“Well, push on as you please; but do you know anything of this route, and what course will you pursue in doing him up?”

“Leave all that to me.  As for the route, it is an old acquaintance; and the blaze on this tree reminds me that we can here have a short cut which will carry us at a good sweep round this hill, bringing us upon the main trace about two miles farther down.  We must take this course, and spur on, that we may get ahead of him, and be quietly stationed when he comes.  We shall gain it, I am confident, before our man, who seems to be taking it easily.  He will have three miles at the least to go, and over a road that will keep him in a walk half the way.  We shall be there in time.”

They reached the point proposed in due season.  Their victim had not yet made his appearance, and they had sufficient time for all their arrangements.  The place was one well calculated for the successful accomplishment of a deed of darkness.  The road at the foot of the hill narrowed into a path scarcely wide enough for the passage of a single horseman.  The shrubbery and copse on either side overhung it, and in many places were so thickly interwoven, that when, as at intervals of the night, the moon shone out among the thick and broken clouds which hung upon and mostly obscured her course, her scattered rays scarcely penetrated the dense enclosure.

At length the horseman approached, and in silence.  Descending the hill, his motion was slow and tedious.  He entered the fatal avenue; and, when in the midst of it, Rivers started from the side of his comrade, and, advancing under the shelter of a tree, awaited his progress.  He came—­no word was spoken—­a single stroke was given, and the horseman, throwing up his hands, grasped the limb which projected over, while his horse passed from under him.  He held on for a moment to the branch, while a groan of deepest agony broke from his lips, when he fell supine to the ground.  At that moment, the moon shone forth unimpeded and unobscured by a single cloud.  The person of the wounded man was fully apparent to the sight.  He struggled, but spoke not; and the hand of Rivers was again uplifted, when Munro rushed forward.

“Stay—­away, Guy!—­we are mistaken—­this is not our man!”

The victim heard the words, and, with something like an effort at a laugh, though seemingly in great agony, exclaimed—­

“Ah, Munro, is that you?—­I am so glad! but I’m afraid you come too late.  This is a cruel blow; and—­for what?  What have I done to you, that—­oh!—­”