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youth from his reverie. Ah!' cries he, these are my enemies: they will cut off my head; and when my head is off, I shall 'never be able to speak to my sweet Nicolette, whom I love so dearly.' By dexterous horsemanship, and good use of his sword, which they had still left him, he breaks loose, strikes down ten men-at-arms, wounds seven others, and gallops back, sword in hand. He meets, by the way, the Count de Valence, riding up on the news of his capture. Aucassin strikes him senseless from his horse, flings him across his saddle-bow, and rides with him into the town. The prisoner is allowed life and liberty only on condition of swearing never again to annoy the Count de Beaucaire. But the latter, though thus unexpectedly delivered by the prowess of his son, refuses to fulfil his promise. To the remonstrances of Aucassin he replies in a summary manner by throwing him into a subterranean dungeon at the foot of an old tower.

Meanwhile, Nicolette has effected her escape, letting herself down from the window one fine summer night by tying together the sheets and towels. Gliding in terror through the deserted streets of Beaucaire, she hides herself for awhile behind the buttress of a tower, within which she hears, through a crevice, the voice of Aucassin, lamenting his captivity. She speaks to him, and tells him she is endeavouring to find her way across the frontier to escape the vengeance of his father. Warned by the song of a friendly sentinel, she eludes the watch, crosses the wall at a part where some repairs are making, slides down one bank of the moat and climbs the other, grievously wounding her lovely hands, till at length she is safe on the outskirts of the town, at the entrance of a great forest. Having passed the rest of the night in a thicket, she is awakened in the morning by the song of the birds and the voices of shepherds, who have come with their flocks to breakfast by a fountain, a little way within the forest. She enters into conversation with them, and by the gift of a little money induces them to promise that if the Count's son should come that way, they will tell him that there is an animal in the wood of such value that he would not part with one of its limbs for five hundred gold marks, and with virtue, moreover, to cure him of his trouble, if he can find it within three days. Then she passes into the depths of the forest, leaving the shepherds in amazement at her beauty. There she builds a hut of green branches, which she garlands and tapestries with flowers.

Count Guarin, hearing that Nicolette has disappeared, releases his son, and holds a great festival in the hope of diverting his thoughts. But Aucassin, without his Nicolette, is deaf to all

merry music, and blind to all gay sights. He rides away disconsolate to seek some solace under the greenwood trees, and finds the shepherds by the fountain-their cloth laid on the grasssinging and dancing. On receiving from one of them the message left for him by Nicolette, he spurs his steed and dashes into the heart of the wood, heedless that he is tearing his dress to pieces and covering himself with blood, as he forces his way 'thorough bush and thorough briar.' At last he discovers the bower which Nicolette has made. My Nicolette has been here, he thinks, and dismounts. But, dreaming of Nicolette, he descends so carelessly as to allow himself to be thrown against a stone, thereby dislocating his shoulder. Presently, Nicolette, who was not far distant, enters the arbour, and beholds her lover!

When the first rejoicings at such a happy meeting were over, Aucassin began to be conscious of his hurt, to which love and joy had hitherto rendered him insensible. Nicolette, brave and skilful, sets the bone, applies bandages of herbs, and ere long the knight is well. But they are not yet safe; so placing her before him upon his horse, he rides on till they come to the sea-shore. There they see a merchant-vessel, in which they embark, and are carried by a storm to the harbour and castle of Torelore. After some adventures there of a comic nature, Aucassin and Nicolette are carried off in separate vessels by Moorish pirates, who surprise the castle. The ship in which Aucassin was placed is fortunately driven on to the French coast near his own city of Beaucaire. He escapes to land, finds that his father is dead, and amidst universal acclamation succeeds to his inheritance.

The

But the troubles of poor Nicolette are not yet ended. vessel on board of which she found herself belonged to the King of Carthage. Arrived at the harbour, some of the objects around her seemed familiar-awoke dim remembrances-yes! the king is her father-and it was from Carthage that she had been taken, fifteen years ago, by the pirates who sold her to the Viscount of Beaucaire. The King of Carthage rejoices over his daughter, and is so bent on giving her in marriage to a potent Paynim prince, that Nicolette is compelled secretly to escape from the palace. She stains her face and hands, and assumes the habit of a minstrel. Taking ship, she finds her way to the coast of Provence, and finally reaches Beaucaire. There she sees Aucassin sitting on a flight of steps at the castle-foot, surrounded by his knights. He is enjoying the flowers, the sunshine, and the singing of the birds; but his countenance is sorrowful, and he sighs as he thinks of his true love Nicolette. Then the stranger minstrel at the foot of the stairs takes out his viol, and sings of

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the loves of Aucassin and Nicolette, how fond they were and true. Aucassin comes down, and questions him apart. The minstrel engages to bring Nicolette away from Carthage within a week. This interval she employs in taking rest and removing all traces of her disguise. Beautiful as ever, and arrayed in rich attire, she sends a messenger for Aucassin. They embrace -they are happy-and true-hearted Nicolette becomes Countess of Beaucaire.

Let us turn now from the romance to the legend-from this tale which resembles an opera with a single actor, musical with songs, breathing of sweet odours and the woodland nightingale, dwelling on sunny nature and every form of visible beauty with all the fondness of the intense southern temperament, alternating passion with playfulness, and passing in a moment from mournfulness to mirth-let us turn from the loves of Aucassin and Nicolette to the friendship of Amis and Amile, saints and brothers-in-arms, the Orestes and Pylades of the Middle Age. Some of our readers may be acquainted with one form of the story which is to be found in Ellis's Early English Metrical Romances. In the English romance, a Duke of Lombardy takes the place of Charlemagne, and the Pope does not appear as in the French relation. But there are no material differences in the incidents or spirit of the story, which is an ennobling memorial of knightly truth, of pious obedience, and inextinguishable gratitude.

Amis and Amile were born on the same day-the one in Burgundy, the other in Germany. Their fathers met in Italy, on their way to Rome; and the two children, between whom a remarkable resemblance was discernible, were baptized together by the Pope himself, who presented them with two golden cups, exactly alike. As they grew up toward manhood, they felt impelled, about the same time, each to set forth in search of the other. After a search of two years, they meet at Paris, and swore perpetual brotherhood. Charlemagne made Amis his treasurer, and Amile his seneschal. At length Amis, who was married, left Amile at Paris, to return to his wife. Amile, forgetting the good advice of his friend, becomes entangled in a love affair with the Emperor's daughter-is accused accordingly by Ardré, his enemy, and a day appointed for the ordeal by battle. As the time approaches, Amile becomes conscience-stricken at the thought of an appeal to heaven in behalf of a falsehood. Will not sinful heart make feeble hand?' In this strait, Amis comes forward to take his place. Their resemblance is complete; and Amis can swear with a good conscience that he has never loved Belisent. The wicked Ardré falls beneath his sword, and the grateful Emperor gives his daughter's hand and the lordship of a city to

the champion who has vindicated her fame. The friends now change places once more, Amile setting out with his bride to take possession of his command, and Amis returning to his

wife.

Ere long, it pleased Heaven to visit Amis with leprosy. Then his wife began to hate, and attempted, more than once, to strangle him. He was driven away, and wandered in utmost wretchedness to Rome, attended only by two faithful followers. Forced thence again by a grievous famine, he requested Azones and Horatus to carry him to the castle of his old companion-in-arms, Amile. Arrived there, he sounds the leper's rattle before the gates. The charitable Amile orders them to carry out to him bread and meat, and his golden cup, filled with wine. It is discovered that the poor leper possesses one precisely similar, and so, in a few moments, Amile recognises the friend and benefactor who had delivered him from death, and won for him his wife. With tears and lamentations he embraces the miserable object, and he and Belisent, making him an inmate of their home, lavish upon him every care and kindness.

One night the angel Raphael appeared to the sufferer, and told him that he was commissioned at last to reward his patience by revealing to him the means of cure. He must tell his friend Amile, that if he will kill his two children, and anoint him with their blood, the leprosy will depart. Amis protests in vain. There is no other way. Sorrowfully he communicates the divine message to his friend, who is at first incredulous. When assured that such is indeed the way pointed out by Heaven, his faith and friendship rise superior to his parental love.

'Did not Amis,' he asks himself, appear before the king, and 'encounter death in my stead? And shall I refuse to yield him 'up my children? He kept faith even to the death for me; should 'not I for him? Abraham was saved by faith, and by faith did the saints subdue kingdoms. And God saith in the Gospel, Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto you, do ye even so unto them.''

Then, without more delay, he went into his wife's room, and bade her go to church and pray. When she was gone, he took his sword, and approached the bed where his two children lay asleep. Leaning over them, he began to weep bitterly, sayingWas there ever father that willingly slew his own children? Alas, my children, I shall be no more a father, but a cruel murderer!'

And the children, feeling their father's tears dropping on them, awoke, and looking up in his face, began to smile. They were about three years old, adds the tale.

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"Your laughing will be turned into weeping,' said the father, for presently must your innocent blood be shed.'

So saying, he cut off their heads, and then replaced them on the pillow, covering the bodies over as though they were still lying asleep. Then, with the blood he had collected, he anointed his friend, who recovered by miracle in a moment. The two friends repair immediately to the church, to render their thanksgivings. Belisant, little thinking at what a price the cure has been attained, unites with joyful surprise in their expressions of gratitude. When they returned home the Count was full of heaviness, thinking of his dead children. So the mother ordered them to be sent for, that they might divert him with their play.

Let them sleep on,' said he, and then went up into the room alone to weep over them. He found them playing on the bed, and round the neck of each, where the heads had been severed, a mark like a crimson thread!

The Story of the Emperor Constant, concise and animated in style, is partly oriental, partly classical, in its material, introducing us to the parents of Constantine, with the usual anachronisms of romance, and giving us a Mussulman Emperor some three hundred years before the birth of Mahomet.

The Paynim Emperor Muselin is wandering one night, with a few of his courtiers, through the streets of Byzantium, quite in the style of Haroun Alraschid, when he hears a man in a balcony praying aloud, now that his wife may not, and now that she may, be brought through her maternal troubles.

'A strange prayer,' observes the Emperor. 'Surely every man 'should feel only compassion at such a time. By Mahound and 'Termagaunt, if the fellow cannot render me good reason I'll "have him hung.'

On being questioned, the husband replies, that his acquaintance with astrology has made him aware that if the child should be born at a certain moment, it would be some day either hanged or drowned; if at another, the boy would hereafter marry the Emperor's daughter, and become Emperor himself. For this reason he had prayed at one time for a hastening, at another for the delay of his son's birth. Happily the infant had seen the light at the favourable moment, and would one day wed the daughter of the great Muselin.

'Villain, never!' exclaims the Emperor.

The next day, Muselin sent a knight to bring the child away secretly, and, having received it, rips it up, and is about to pluck out its heart, when the knight stays his hand, promising to carry it away and drown it. Moved with pity, however, he