It was a dilemma for our escaping hero; but glancing a last look at Emily, he departed, and walked on some way as quietly as might be with Julian by his side:  thinking, perhaps, he would soon be tired; and suffering him to fancy, if he would, that Charles was bound either on some amorous pilgrimage, or some charitable mission.  But they left Burleigh behind them—­and got upon the common—­and passed it by, far out of sight and out of hearing—­and were skirting the high banks of the darkly-flowing Mullet—­and still there was Julian sullenly beside him.  In vain Charles had tried, by many gentle words, to draw him into common conversation:  Julian would not speak, or only gave utterance to some hinted phrase of insult:  his brow was even darker than usual, and night was coming on apace, and he still tramped steadily along beside his brother, digging his sturdy stick into the clay, for very spite’s sake.  At length, as they yet walked along the river’s side in that unfrequented place, Julian said, on a sudden, in a low strange tone, as if keeping down some rising rage within him,

“Mr. Charles, you love Emily Warren.”

“Well, Julian, and who can help loving her?”

It was innocently said; but still a maddening answer, for he loved her too.

“And, sirrah,” the brother hoarsely added, “she—­she does not—­does not—­hate you, sir, as I do.”

“My good Julian, pray do not be so violent; I cannot help it if the dear girl loves me.”

“But I can, though!” roared Julian, with an oath, and lifted up his stick—­it was nearer like a club—­to strike his brother.

“Julian, Julian, what are you about?  Good Heavens! you would not—­you dare not—­give over—­unhand me, brother; what have I done, that you should strike me?  Oh! leave me—­leave me—­pray.”

“Leave you?  I will leave you!” the villain almost shouted, and smote him to the ground with his lead-loaded stick.  It was a blow that must have killed him, but for the interposing hat, now battered down upon his bleeding head.  Charles, at length thoroughly aroused, though his foe must be a brother, struggled with unusual strength in self-preserving instinct, wrested the club from Julian’s hand, and stood on the defensive.

Julian was staggered:  and, after a moment’s irresolution, drawing a pistol from his pocket, said, in a terribly calm voice,

“Now, sir!  I have looked for such a meeting many days—­alone, by night, with you!  I would not willingly draw trigger, for the noise might bring down other folks upon us, out of Oxton yonder:  but, drop that stick, or I fire.”

Charles was noble enough, without another word, to fling the club into the river:  it was not fear of harm, but fear of sin, that made him trust himself defenceless to a brother, a twin-brother, in the dark:  he could not be so base, a murderer, a fratricide!  Oh! most unhallowed thought!  Save him from this crime, good God!  Then, instantaneously reflecting, and believing he decided for the best, when he saw the ruffian glaring on him with exulting looks, as upon an unarmed rival at his mercy, with no man near to stay the deed, and none but God to see it, Charles resolved to seek safety from so terrible a death in flight.