it certainly not later than the first of May; that it was known to the English Court that the French King was aware of their intentions, and that precautions had been taken for the protection of Brest. Yet Lord Macaulay persists, year after year, and edition after edition, in reiterating this monstrous accusation designates this as "the foulest of treasons," "the basest of the hundred villanies of Marlborough," and showers down upon him such appellations as "traitor," "criminal," and "murderer"!

We have been amongst those who have shared most deeply in the universal admiration due to the genius and eloquence of Lord Macaulay. In his own department we still regard him as unrivalled. He is beyond comparison the greatest master of brilliant and unscrupulous fiction that has ever adorned the language or disgraced the literature of England. It is impossible for any Englishman-it is impossible for any honest man, to rise from a perusal of this attack upon Marlborough, and an examination of the evidence upon which it rests, without feelings of the deepest indignation.

Here, for the present, we pause. We have done enough to put the reader upon his guard as to how he accepts even the most confident and positive assertions of Lord Macaulay, and to show the kind of services to history which have been deemed worthy of being rewarded by a peerage.

The mischief done is incalculable. Probably no book that has issued from the press since the Waverley Novels, has had so universal a circulation as Lord Macaulay's History.

The poison has spread far and wide. It has entered into and corrupted the life-blood of modern literature. Lord Macaulay has proclaimed to the

whole civilised world, in tones which reach its remotest corners, that the first of England's military commanders, one of the greatest of her statesmen and diplomatists, the man who, at a period of peril to our religious and political freedom, wielded more than sovereign power, and to whom we owe more perhaps than to any one other man the blessings we most prize, was a "prodigy of turpitude; that he was stained with every vice that most degrades humanity; that he was a profligate, a cheat, a traitor, and a murderer. Lord Macaulay-we say it deliberately-has stated this, having before him and referring to the very documents which prove the falsehood of these charges. The antidote to this poison may work slowly, but it will work surely. Many years may elapse before the still small voice of truth can be distinctly heard above the torrent of eloquent declamation and the din of popular applause. Lord Macaulay, probably for his life, may enjoy the triumph of having successfully held up the greatest of English generals to the contempt and execration of the world. The hour of retribution may be distant, but it is certain. Reputations such as that of Marlborough cannot die, and the avenging spirit lives and breathes in thousands of manly and honest hearts. Even now we hear on all sides murmurs which grow deeper and louder each succeeding year, which shape and syllable themselves into the expression of a growing belief, gradually finding utterance from the lips of men who read and think, that wherever party interests or personal predilections or aversions interfere, Lord Macaulay is not to be trusted either to narrate facts accurately, to state evidence truly, or to award the judgment of History with impartiality.

SCARCELY an hour after the struggle between Cuthwin and the Crusader in the basket-maker's hut, Father Giacomo might have been seen to enter it. He knew nothing of what had passed there; but he had paused in his walk from the Manor more than once, as he observed figures moving rapidly in the meadows beyond, which were those of some of the party engaged in the search for the deer-stealer; and it was not until he had reconnoitred the position carefully, that he at last presented himself at the door; for it would by no means have suited him to have his own communications with the occupants of the hut made public. He knocked hastily, and without waiting for any reply, pulled the leathern thong which moved the latch, and admitted himself. It need hardly be said that neither the basket-maker nor his wife were within. Cuthwin himself was at that moment lying in one of the broad shallow meres near Lowcote, like some amphibious animal, with nothing above the water except his head, and that cunningly hidden by a small patch of reeds; perfectly secure in his hiding-place, as long as he could maintain his position; and his daily habits had made him almost insensible to the bodily discomfort, while he feared the wrath of his liege lord Sir Godfrey (and with good reason) even more than his old enemy the ague. So effectual was his plan of concealment, that his pursuers-amongst whom Picot, it must be confessed, was not especially ardent, though they continued their search until dusk, returned at last unsuccessful. Swytha was still cowering in the wood, exhausted more from terror than fatigue, and afraid to return to the hut, or even to move, though in her case all danger was over. It did not surprise the Italian to find the outer room unoccupied; for even in their more legitimate occupations, the basket-maker and his wife were as much abroad as within; nor did the remains of

the stolen buck, over which he stumbled in the dim light within the hut, betraying the fact that Cuthwin was employed at times in other business than his baskets, seem to strike his present visitor as a very novel or startling discovery: either it had not been the chaplain's business to inquire how their sick guest had been supplied with the delicate food which she needed, or he had inquired, and been perfectly satisfied with the explanation; it would have been better in his eyes for Sir Godfrey's table to have lacked fat venison all the season, than that it should not have been forthcoming, at that particular juncture, in the peasant's hut. The body of the poor hound lay unseen in the shadow behind him as he threw open the door; and merely uttering an impatient ejaculation at Cuthwin's carelessness, in thus leav ing exposed the palpable evidence of his unlawful deeds, he passed to the door of the inner chamber, and knocked again. Still receiving no reply to his summons, he opened it, and softly entered.

She whom he sought was there. She sat on the low couch, her hands clasped together, and her eyes fixed upon the opposite wall. So absorbed had she been, as it seemed, in her own thoughts, that she had either not heard, or heard as in a dream, the knock which had announced him. And she started to her feet, and looked as one suddenly awakened, when he entered and stood before her. The priest slightly started too, as he met the wild and excited gaze, and saw the flush upon the thin cheek.

"Has the fever returned, Isola ?” he asked, in the low gentle tone which he had used in addressing Giulio, so different from his usual manner, that many who had held ordinary converse with him might have failed to recognise the voice of the speaker-"How is it with you to-day, cara mia? your looks alarm me."

"I am well," she replied quickly,"quite well-better, I would say."

Giacomo drew near, took her hand in silence, and counted the beats of the pulse. She forced a smile, as she remarked his grave and anxious face.

"I am much better," she said, more quietly; "stronger even than yesterday." But her colour went and came.

"It

The priest shook his head. is always thus," he said; "you overrate your own strength. Nor have you kept yourself as quiet, mind and body, as I bid you," he continued, taking up a rosary of large black beads which lay on the bed by her side, and fixing his eyes upon her with a reproachful smile.

"But I am better and stronger," she replied, taking the rosary from him,-"only that I felt some little faintness a while ago; and then your sudden coming startled me."

He looked at her still anxiously. "I had surely thought," he said, "you might have left this place tomorrow, or the next day at farthest but now I much doubt whether I dare risk the journey; we must wait yet a few days longer."

"I think," said his companion, hesitatingly, "I think I might go to morrow-I am surely strong enough; I am willing to go, if you see fit." She cast her eyes upon the ground, and trembled visibly.

The priest looked at her with some surprise. 'Strange!" he exclaimed, speaking to himself apparently, rather than to her, and falling into something of his old habitual tone-"Strange! then the mood is changed, it would seem? It was but yesterday, Isola, that you would scarcely listen to me when I showed you how absolutely needful it was, for every reason, that you should quit this place at once-that is, as soon as might be with reasonable care for your health; and now-I could almost fancy you were impatient to be gone! It was madness, as I plainly told you, nothing short of madness, to have come here at all; but it would be little less for you to dream of venturing on a night-journey, such as ours must be, while your whole frame throbs as it does now, with what I much fear is a fresh access of fever.

It is idle, I know, to find fault with the past; but would to heaven this last rash step of yours had never been taken! it has well-nigh cost you your life already, and it may yet cost you what you will say you value more."

"Oh! Giacomo mio!" said Isola, clasping both her hands on his, and speaking with an agonised and entreating vehemence in her native Italian-" forgive me, but do not speak-do not try to reason with me! You cannot feel, you cannot know-how should you? the strong compulsion that has dragged me hither! You think I have no pride, Giacomo, no woman's shame; I have I loathe and curse myself, a hundred times in the day; you could never say to me one half the bitter words I heap upon myself! You!forgive me, what did I say? you are never bitter to me-you never reproach me, though I know what you must think; but I know it all, and feel it all, and do not spare myself

but I have no will, Giacomo, I have no will! I can do no other than

I have done; but I will go, if it please you, I will go!" She flung herself from him on the rude couch, and hid her face in an agony of tears and shame.

He gently raised, and tried to soothe her. In a few moments, by a strong effort of self-control, she was becoming calm again, when they heard the outer door open cautiously, and some one enter the but.

Giacomo sprang up instinctively, and moved towards the door of the room in which they were sitting. "It is Cuthwin returned," he said carelessly, recovering himself.

"Swytha!" said a voice without, 'Swytha, are you there?"

It was not the basket-maker's voice - that they both knew at once. Giacomo laid his hand upon the bolt; his companion grasped his arm, pale and trembling.

"Swytha!" said the voice again, in a louder tone; and then a hasty step approached the chamber door, and a hand tried its fastenings.

The priest held it firmly closed for a moment or two, with the look of a man hesitating as to his course of action. Then, motioning Isola towards the couch at the end of the

apartment, and raising his hand as a warning to be silent, he rapidly drew from under his cloak a short bright dagger, and holding it so as still to conceal it from observation, opened the door and stepped quietly out, closing it behind him, and stood confronting the unexpected visitant, calm and self-possessed, whatever thoughts might be passing within him.

Not so the intruder. Startled he might very naturally have been, as the sudden appearance of the Italian in the doorway almost forced him backwards; but it was something more than momentary astonishment which made him recoil yet a step or two further, when he recognised Father Giacomo's eyes, brighter even than usual, gleaming upon him in the twilight.

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Keep off!" he cried, flourishing the staff in his hand with a sort of wild gesture of defence, but dropping it again as he saw the priest's unmoved demeanour "saving your reverence, good father, how you startle a man-who would have thought to met with your worship here, of all unlikely places?"

"Nay then, Master Picot," returned the priest, "I might rather ask, I think,--if I were curious in matters that concern me not-what might be the purpose of your visit— which seems, however, to be something of a private and confidential nature?"

Picot had staggered back among the displaced osier bundles, and was steadying his footing with some difficulty; which might account for a degree of embarrassment and want of readiness in his reply.

"Well, the truth is, father, I came here-Cuthwin, look you, has brought himself into trouble- Sir Godfrey had some tidings this afternoon of a stolen buck; and we have orders to take him, if he may be found."

"And you came here, then, for that purpose?" The priest had stepped forwards so as again to bring himself close to the forester, and was holding him captive, as it were, with his piercing glance.

"Nay," replied Picot, shuffling again rather uncomfortably "I scarce expected, as I may say, to find

him here he gave us all the slip, and is gone clear off, I reckon." And he gave a brief but not very clear account of the afternoon's adventure.

"God help him, poor knave!" said Giacomo; but you, my good Picot, like a trusty servant, having had your eye on his misdoings for some time, I think-you gave your master this information?"

"Why-no," said Picot hesitating still more uncomfortably-"no-it was not from me Sir Godfrey heard it first; I had my suspicions, it is true I confess I had suspicions, but--" "Suspicions! my excellent Picot, you wrong yourself; when you find a peasant broiling venison, it becomes rather more than a suspicion that he makes himself free of his lord's coverts."

"Holy Virgin!" said the hunter, making an attempt to cross himself, may I never

'Hold!" said Giacomo-" do not waste your oaths; I know all."

"Well!" said Picot doggedly, recovering himself a little, and speaking more at ease than before; "if the devil will have it so, there be no help for it. Much good there comes of a man being tender-hearted! 'tis the first time, as I remember me, I ever turned soft, and I warrant me it will be the last. He said the child was dying with the fever, and mine did die-and he begged hard of me: and I swore him to kill nought but a young roe; but he could never stay his hand there, I might have known; and now he has struck down as fine a buck as goes within our liberties! How thou hast come by thy knowledge, Father Giacomo, thou canst tell better than I"-and he eyed the chaplain with his old misgiving— but thou must e'en do thy worst with it, if it like thee."

Nay, Picot," returned the priest; "had I meant you harm, remember, I could have done it ere now. I do not say I think much the worse of you, that you came here even now to help a friend in trouble, though he be somewhat of a hardened sinner against forest laws. I have your secret-if you knew all, it is well for you that I have; it shall rest safe with me. And now," he continued, laying his hand upon the hunter's

shoulder, "I have my secret too; and I think I may trust you with so much of it, at least, as will not bring you into trouble. I take it, you and your fellows have charge to make farther search for this unlucky Cuthwin?"

"Giles and Herwald will be on the watch by daylight," said Picot; "I go to Sir Godfrey for farther orders to-night."

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To-night then it must be," said Giacomo, after some moments' thought. "I shall need your service here, Picot; it shall be well paid; and I will not forget the obligation." "If it be nought against my lord Sir Godfrey," said the forester, looking at him suspiciously.

"In no way against Sir Godfrey, nor against any man, rest assured. Will you do my bidding?"

"I will," said Picot. If he did not hate the chaplain less, he feared him more. Giacomo was a subtle observer of men's looks and tones; and he read in the forester's brief reply earnestness at least, if not good-will. He knew that there are occasions when a show of implicit confidence becomes the only safe precaution.

"I have a friend here who needs to take a journey to-night, and is too ill to walk; you can provide me with a safe beast, and accompany us yourself as far as we shall need your services."

"I will do your errand if I can," said Picot; "Rob Miller hath an easy-paced mare, but I doubt if he will be over ready to loan her, though he will do as much for me as for any man; but your reverence spoke of payment, and Rob will do that for money which he would scarce do for good-will."

"You shall be paid liberally, Picot-never doubt of that; but in this matter the fewer we take into council the better. Keep the money for thyself, and ask no one's leave for the hiring but the good beast herself; you need no guide to the miller's stable but the moonlight, and Grizzel has done a night's work in your service before now."

The hunter started, and made some inaudible exclamation. What ever books it was that the chaplain

studied, they contained, it was perfectly clear to Picot, very minute information as to his own daily life. He began to be very seriously alarmed, not so much from fear of Father Giacomo's making use of this information to do him any mischief with Sir Godfrey, as from the indefinite dread of having an eye thus unnaturally conversant with his private actions. His religious views, as far as they went, had a good deal of the old gloomy pagan leaven; and he was beginning to entertain a horrible suspicion that for some of his misdeeds he was being handed over, body and spirit, to do the work of the evil one. But he dared not show disobedience now; from that time forth Father Giacomo was his acknowledged master.

The chaplain had calculated upon his advantage, and used it to the full. "An hour after nightfall," he said, "you will be ready here within call; if any of your fellows should be on the watch to-night, and seem likely to interfere with our movements, you will know how to provide them with occupation in some other direction; our way will lie through Lowcote."

"It shall be done, father," said the forester, with humble acquiescence; "I will not fail you; but I must wait upon Sir Godfrey now, and it will be dark within an hour."

Picot left the hut, and the chaplain, after making fast the door behind him, returned to Isola, whom he found trembling with anxiety, but calm and self-possessed.

"We have no choice left now," he said, "this place is no longer safe for you ;" and he explained that the basket-maker was a fugitive, and that the miserable dwelling was liable at any moment to be searched.

"I knew it," she said, "and therefore I had made up my mind, as I was about to tell you, to leave it, if it were possible, even this night." And she told him something, but not all, of Cuthwin's discovery and flight. "I am quite ready." She looked up into his face with a smile.

"Yes, this very night it must be," said Giacomo: it is a terrible risk; yet better for you at this time than discovery. The air is wonderfully warm and still, and we must hope