“So, sir—­you tremble now, do you, gallant general:  give me the girl.”  And he levelled at his father one of those double-barrelled pistols, full-cock.

“Julian, my son, I forgive you, Julian; take my hand, boy.”

“What—­coward? now you can cringe, and fawn, eh? back with you!—­the girl, I say.”  For poor Emily, wild with fear, was clinging to that weak old man.

Julian levelled again; indeed, indeed it was only as a threat; but his hand shook with passion—­the weapon was full-cock, hair-triggered—­shotted heavily as always—­hark, hark!—­And his father fell upon the turf, covered with blood!

When a wicked man tampers with unintended crime, even accident falls out against him.  Many a one has richly merited death for many other sins, than that isolated, haply accidental one which he has hanged for.

Julian, horror-stricken, pale and trembling, flew instinctively to help his father:  but Emily has circled him already with her arms; and listen, Julian—­your dying father speaks to you.

“Boy, I forgive—­I forgive:  but—­Emily, no, no, cannot, cannot be—­Julian—­she—­she is your sister!” and the old man swooned away, from loss of blood and the excitement of that awful scene.

Not a word in reply said that poor sinner, maddened with his life-long crimes, the fratricide in will, the parricide in deed, and all for—­a sister.  But growing whiter as he stood, a marble man with bristling hair, he slowly drew the other pistol from his pocket, put the muzzle to his mouth, and, firing as he fell, leapt into the darkly-flowing Mullet!

The current, all too violent to sink in, and uncommissioned now to save, hurried its black burden to the sea; and a crimson streak of gore marked the track of the suicide.

The old man was not dead; but a brace of bullets taking effect upon his feeble frame—­one through the shoulder, and another which had grazed his head—­had been quite enough to make him seem so.  Forgetful of all but that dear sufferer, and totally ignorant of Julian’s fate—­for she neither saw nor heard any thing, nor feared even for her own imminent peril, while her father lay dying on the grass—­Emily had torn off her scarf, and bound up, as well as she could, the ghastly scored head and broken shoulder.  She succeeded in staunching the blood—­for no great vessel had been severed—­and so simple an application as grass dipped in water, proved to be a good specific.  Then, to her exceeding joy, those eyes opened again, and that dear tongue faintly whispered—­“Bless you.”

Oh, that blessing! for it fell upon her heart:  and fervently she knelt down there, and thanked the Great Preserver.

And now, for friendly help; there is no one near:  and it is growing dusk; and she dared not leave him there alone one minute—­for Julian—­dreaded Julian, may return, and kill him.  What shall she do?  How to get him home?  Alas, alas! he may die where he is lying.