mently. "You would set aside all judicial privilege, all propter dignitatem, of the bench."

"Sir," said the judge, “these ebullitions of a mind, fraught by self-interest with arbitrary notions, are not worthy of reply. The dignity of the judicial station can only be degraded by him who holds it. I beg your pardon, Sir," he added hastily, and turning to the stranger, "I fear I have detained but I would impress • upon your mind, that the judges of the land are the natural guardians of the oppressed; and I would suggest to you, that by giving bail, you will be spared the annoyance and inconvenience of a temporary imprisonment."

you;

My lord," said the prisoner, "I thank you for this mark of consideration. But I have already said that I am an utter stranger here; where then

should I seek for bail? Who is there that would hold himself responsible for a stranger ?"

"I will," exclaimed a voice from a distance; and the next moment the hand of a young and very noble looking person was clasped in that of the stranger.

"And pray, who are you, Sir?" demanded young Crawley, stepping forward with a tone and demeanour of the pertest effrontery.

"I am," said the party interrogated, throwing his eyes haughtily over his questionist, "I am Lord Adelm Fitzadelm: pray who are you?"

The elder stranger started back with astonishment, while among the general bursts of exclamation, which rang through the hall, the shrieks of Lady Dunore were predominantly audible. She threw herself into her son's arms,

as much transported by the theatrical scene of his unexpected appearance, as if she had not, for months, intrigued his absence. She wept and laughed with hysterical alternation; presenting him to those he already knew, and to those he had never seen before. Then turning to the stranger, she addressed him as Don Yo Mateo, Archbishop of Dublin, asked a thousand pardons, welcomed him to Dunore, and went on repeating, was there ever any thing so charming! any thing so delightful! This is Ireland par exemple! Delightful Ireland, where one is never safe and never ennuyée for a single moment!"

Meantime the hall was cleared: the company at the castle, Lord Adelm, his friend, the officers of justice, and O'Leary, were nearly all that remained. The latter stood in the back-ground transfixed and pale, a monument of con

sternation, and motionless as death, save that his quick glancing eyes turned alternately from Lord Adelm to his guest, and from his guest to Lord Adelm.

"But who is your friend?" asked Lady Dunore eagerly, and interrupting Lord Adelm's details of his journey, and pointing to the stranger, who stood talking to Judge Aubrey. "Is he a real Spanish monk? Sure you are not implicated in this rebellion, which is found out to be no rebellion at all."

These questions were repeated by every eye, if not by every tongue.

"Allow me to present my mother to you," said Lord Adelm, taking the stranger's hand, "the Marchioness of Dunore. General Fitzwalter, of South America, that brave Guerilla chief, whose life and fortune have been deyoted to South American independence.

He is doubtless already known to you by fame, as he is in the Terra Firma, by the glorious sobriquet of the Librador."

Something like amazement was depicted in the countenance of the stranger, while he went through the forms of presentation, and listened to this detail of himself.

Lord Adelm continued uninterrupted: "I do not believe, however, that my friend aspires to the double influence of the crosier and the sword. If, at least, he ambitions the Archbishoprick of Dublin, in the course of our travelling companionship (for we came to this country together), he has not made me his confidant.”

"Travelling companionship!" muttered old Crawley, with a look of alarm, while Lady Dunore reiterated welcomes and exclamations of delight, surprise, and wonder.