"It matters little what the Duke says, Beau Sire," said the jailer interposing, "for he must come. Several of the great barons have returned to the court sooner than the King expected; and he would not have them find Prince Arthur here, it seems. So, if he come not by fair means, I must e'en have up the guard, and take him to his chamber by force." "Ah!" said Arthur, somewhat loosening his hold of De Coucy's arm, "what barons are returned, sayest thou?" "I know not well," said the jailer carelessly; "Lord Pembroke I saw go by, and I heard of good William with the Longsword; but I marked not the names of the others, though I was told them." Arthur looked to De Coucy as if for advice. "The ague fit has marvellously soon passed," said the Knight, fixing his eyes sternly upon the stranger. "By the holy rood! if I thought that thou playedst us false, I would dash thy brains out against the wall!" "I play you not false, Sir Knight," replied the man in an impatient tone."Come, my Lord," he continued to Arthur, come quickly, for come you must. You will find some fresh apparel in the other chamber. To-morrow they talk 66 of having you to the court; for these proud lords, they say, murmur at your being kept here." There was a vague suspicion of some treachery still resting on the mind of De Coucy. The man's story was probable. It was more than probable, it was very likely; but yet the Knight did not believe it: he knew not why. On Arthur, however, it had its full effect. He was aware that Lord Pembroke, together with several of the greater barons of England, had wrung a promise for his safety from King John, long before the relief of Mirabeau; and he doubted not that to their remonstrance he owed this apparent intention to alleviate his imprisonment. "I must leave you, I am afraid, Beau Sire de Coucy," Isaid the Prince. "I would fain stay here; but, I fear me, it is vain to resist." "I fear me so too," replied the Knight. "Farewell, my noble Prince! We shall often think of each other, though separated. Farewell! " De Coucy took the unhappy boy in his arms, and pressed him for a moment to his heart, as if he had been parting with a brother or a child. He could no way explain his feelings at that moment. They had long been companions in many of those bitter hours which endear people to each other, more perhaps than even hours of mutual happiness; but there was something in his bosom beyond the pain of parting with a person whose fate had even thus been united with his own. He felt that he saw Arthur Plantagenet for the last time; and he gave him, as it were, the embrace of the dying. He would not, however, communicate his own apprehensions to the bosom of the Prince; and, unfolding his arms, he watched him while, with a step still hesitating, he approached the doorway. The jailer followed, and held open the door for him to pass out. Arthur, however, paused for a moment, and turned a timid glance towards De Coucy, as if there was some misdoubting in his bosom, too; then, suddenly passing his hand over his brow, as if to clear away irresolution, he passed the doorway. The instant he entered the passage beyond, he stopped, exclaiming, "It is my uncle!" and turned to rush back into the cell; but before he could accomplish it, or De Coucy could start forward to assist him, the new jailer passed out, pushed the unhappy Prince from the threshold, and shutting the door, fastened it with bolt after bolt. "Now, minion," cried a voice without, which De Coucycould not doubt was that of King John, "wilt thou brave me as thou didst this morning ?-Begone, slave!" he added, apparently speaking to the jailer; "quick! begone!" and then again turning to his nephew, he poured upon him a torrent of vehement and angry vituperation. In that dark age, such proceedings could have but one purpose, and De Coucy, comprehending them at once, glanced round the apartment in search of some weapon wherewith he might force the door; but it was in vain— nothing presented itself. The door was cased with iron, and the strength of Hercules would not have torn it from its hinges. Glaring then like a lion in a cage, the Knight stood before it, listening for what was to follow-doubting not for a moment the fearful object of the bad and bloodthirsty Monarch-his heart swelling with indignation and horror, and yet perfectly impotent to prevent the crime that he knew was about to be perpetrated. "John of Anjou!" he cried, shouting through the door. "Bloodthirsty tyrant! beware what you do! Deeply shall you repent your baseness, if you injure but a hair of his head! I will brand your name with shame throughout Europe! I will publish it before your barons to your teeth! You are overheard, villain, and your crime shall not sleep in secret!" But, in the dreadful scene passing without, neither nephew nor uncle seemed to heed his call. There was evidently a struggle, as if the King endeavoured to free himself from the agonized clasp of Arthur, whose faint voice was heard every now and then, praying in vain for mercy at the hands of the hard-hearted tyrant, in whose power he was. At length the struggle seemed to grow fainter. A loud, horrific cry rang echoing through the passages; and then, a heavy, deadly fall, as if some mass of unelastic clay were cast at once upon the hollow stone of the pavement. Two or three deep groans followed; and then a distinct blow, as if a weapon of steel, stabbed through some softer matter, struck at last against a block of stone. A retreating step was heard; -then whispering voices ;-then, shortly after, the paddling of a boat in the water below the tower ;-a heavy plunge in the stream;-and all was silent.1 1 The French writers of that day almost universally agree in attributing the death of Arthur to John's own hand. The English writers do not positively deny it, and we have indubitable proof that such was the general rumour through all the towns and castles of Europe at the time. See Guill. Guiart. Guill. de Nangis. Guill. le Breton. Mat. Paris, &c. 75 MAIMUNA'S THREAD. ROBERT SOUTHEY. Born, 1774; Died, 1843. Robert Southey was one of the trio known as the Lake Poets, from their having chiefly resided near the Westmoreland lakes. There, indeed, Southey spent nearly his whole life. He was a voluminous writer, several excellent histories and biographies as well as many reviews and minor articles having been composed by him. He was familiar with many languages and had a vast amount of learning, of an unusual kind. A great many poems of varying length and merit were produced by him, some upon very recondite subjects. One of the most beautiful is Thalaba, the Destroyer, the machinery of which is taken from the myths which Arab imagination has implanted on Mohammedanism. In his hands, the story has become a kind of allegory, in which Thalaba, a young Arab, is foredoomed to persecution and temptation from five evil enchanters and sorceresses, but gradually conquers and destroys them by self-sacrifice. His destiny is leading him through a frozen desert. COLD! cold! 'tis a chilly clime And faint for lack of food. Cold! cold! There is no sun in heaven, A heavy and uniform cloud Overspreads the face of the sky, And the snows are beginning to fall. Dost thou wish for thy deserts, O Son of Hodeirah ? Dost thou long for the gales of Arabia? Cold cold! his blood flows languidly, His hands are red, his lips are blue, A little yet bear up. All waste! no sign of life But the track of the wolf and the bear; But behold a fire in a cave of the hill, And thither, with strength renewed, He found a woman in the cave Who by the fire was spinning, And singing as she spun. The pine boughs were cheerfully blazing, She bade him welcome with a smile The song she sang was low and sweet, He laid his bow beside the hearth, For the string was frozen stiff; Revived his languid limbs, The adventurer ask'd for food. The woman answer'd him, And still her speech was song : "The She Bear, she dwells near to me, And she hath cubs, one, two, and three; |