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"And let us try, with God's help, while we may,
To make the done undone, ere ends the day."

Love's Revenge.

WHEN the peasant Cyril had made his escape from the inquiries of the Turkish officers, it struck him, to use his own expression to his wife, that he had been a very great rascal. "But what was I to do ?" continued he. "I was not born to be a martyr."

"Nor I neither," said his wife. "Wherefore, let us quietly go to the cottage, where old Cosmas used to live till they murdered his son; we shall find shelter there, I warrant."

"I know not, I know not, sweetheart," replied her husband. "Here have I this soldier's money in my scrip! S. Luke be praised they found it not! and it goes against my heart to have betrayed him, or at least not to give him warning. I will back towards Hadrianople, may be I may meet him on the road.”

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May be you may meet the foul fiend, rather say," said his wife angrily.' "Come along, come along: a

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wise man may do once what we have done to-night, but only a fool will do it twice."

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Nay, nay, wife, I will go. There, take the money. I warrant you I keep out of the way of mischief. I will go, I will."

And in spite of all that his wife could urge-in spite of tears, threats, and ridicule, Cyril set forward; night being now very far advanced. With a good heart he kept on, feeling as if he were making some slight recompense to his benefactor for his former vile cowardice and ingratitude. Twilight broke before he reached the city; and he retired into a little grove at the side of the road to hold counsel with himself on what he was to do, on the degree of danger that would attend his re-entering the city, on the chances that Contari would return on the same road by which he had gone, and on other themes of a similar kind.

"After all," said he to himself, "would that I had taken the advice of my wife! And yet—and yet-well; none can compel me to enter the city; and while I keep out of it, I am safe enough. Would, though, that I could do something for that soldier!"

While occupied with these thoughts, his attention was attracted to a party of horsemen, who, leaving the city, were now winding up the hill where he stood. Though unable to see, at that distance, the person of any of them, Cyril felt a kind of unaccountable presentiment that Contari was one; and on finding that a number, at least, of them were Greeks, he left his retreat, and came forth into the road, so that they could not advance without passing him. As the party drew nearer, he discovered, beyond all doubt, that one of them was the Varangian whom he had guided into Hadrianople, and instantly resolved on telling him what had

occurred. The others, though utterly unknown to Cyril, were, it is almost superfluous to say, Euphrasia, her father and mother, Burstow, and Stephen; the latter of whom now wore the dress of a Christian peasant well to do in the world, or small farmer.

"Noble sir," said Cyril, addressing Contari, "may I crave a word with you for a moment, and in private ?"

"Be quick then, good peasant, for my business is one of haste. Lochagus, ride forward; I will overtake you." "May it please you, worthy sir, when you dismissed me last night, I hastened home with my best speed, and found that, through that accursed horse which you left at my poor cottage, the Turks had set it on fire, and were waiting to seize me. Hardly did I escape with my life. They took all I had,"—at least, thought Cyril, they were as guilty as if they had, and I am sure the Varangian could afford to make good the money he gave me, if I had lost it," and among other things, your worship's letter. That they opened and read; and the chief of the party sent two or three Janissaries to the cottage therein mentioned by you, and, as I fear me, with no good tent.” "Now GOD forbid!" cried Contari. "Lochagus, a

word with you!" He related the circumstances to Burstow, and then said, "What shall we do ?"

"We cannot leave the Lady Choniatis and her daughter, nor can we diminish our numbers by separating from them. They must push on with us; for I fear the worst, if they find out the truth of the matter." He again rode forward to the rest of the party, and explained what had occurred, and what was feared.

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Oh, let us save the poor girl and her mother at all risks, if we can," cried Euphrasia.

"We have need enough to ride, on our own account," said the Exarch, "and this is an additional spur."

“Then on, sir, in S. George's name," cried Contari "Here are you, and I, and Stephen, and the Lochagus, whose one arm is worth four Turks, any day,-only let us lose no time."

Much at the same moment that Contari said this, the Turks were, without any manner of hurry, leaving Bourghiaz, after the night's repose, which, by their superior officer's direction, they had taken there. But as they rode slowly, and Burstow and Contari hurried on their party at its utmost speed, it is not astonishing that the latter should have gained very considerably on the former, and have made their appearance on the hill in time to prevent Eudocia the necessity of further suffering.

As they gained the brow, Contari, who was foremost, shading his eyes with his hand, and exclaiming, “Ah! what have we here ?" drew his sword, the only weapon which he had, and galloped recklessly down the hill.

"We must support him," cried Burstow, " or he is lost: there are six or eight of them.-Ladies, ride on as fast as you can, keeping about a hundred yards behind us; you will be quite safe. Now, Exarch! now, Stephen!"" And the three dashed forward together.

On descending into the little valley which intervened between the hills, they again lost sight of the whole party; but, at their second view, they were near enough clearly to distinguish what was passing. Eudocia lay stretched on the ground; Walid was bending over her, and apparently listening with great eagerness to what she was saying. The other Turks, also dismounted, were in a circle round, and holding their own and their leader's horses: two being more especially occupied in keeping guard over Father Demetrius. Contari and his companions were not a hundred yards from them, when first perceived. All was confusion-mounting of horses-an

attempt to form-an adjuration to stand firm-when the Varangians were among them. Walid was in the midst of a brief exhortation to his men to do their duty, when one sweep of Contari's long sword silenced his voice in death ; one or two blows were struck by the Janissaries, but the loss of their leader, and the suddenness of the attack, had beaten down their courage; and, within five minutes from the first onset, they were riding off in all directions, not without leaving two of their comrades on the scene of action.

While Burstow and Nicetas Choniates rode back to cheer their companions with the intelligence that the danger was over, and Stephen procured such information as he could from the crowd of peasants who were now rapidly collecting, Contari threw himself from his horse; and kneeling by Eudocia, eagerly inquired into what had passed. She was too much exhausted by pain and the struggle to be able to reply in more than a few words; but Father Demetrius, after despatching one of the bystanders for Sophia Tomatis, gave him the full account, "You will have," he added, "a heroine for your bride, my son; only love her according to her deserts, and she will be happy indeed."

"I cannot do that, Father," replied Contari; "but I will love her most dearly and tenderly, nevertheless. But what are we to do? Her I cannot leave here; my own party-whom, GOD be praised! I have rescued-are hurrying on to Constantinople: had they not all better journey together? But it must be at once, for we shall doubtless be pursued."

"Carry her first to her mother's cottage," replied Father Demetrius; "there I will look to her, for I have some small skill in medicine, and you shall tell me what has chanced as we go along. Bid all your party thither

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