had signed the warrant for his death, and within little more than another day that warrant would reach his prison.

“The will of Heaven be done!” groaned the captive.

“Amen!” returned Grizel, with wild vehemence; “but my father shall not die!”

Again the rider with the mail had reached the muir of Tweed-mouth, and a second time he bore with him the doom of Cochrane. He spurred his horse to its utmost speed, he looked cautiously before, behind, and around him; and in his right hand he carried a pistol ready to defend himself. The moon shed a ghostly light across the heath, rendering desolation visible, and giving a spiritual embodiment to every shrub. He was turning the angle of a straggling copse, when his horse reared at the report of a pistol, the fire of which seemed to dash into its very eyes. At the same moment, his own pistol flashed, and the horse rearing more violently, he was driven from the saddle. In a moment, the foot of the robber was upon his breast, who, bending over him, and brandishing a short dagger in his hand, said:

“Give me thine arms, or die!”

The heart of the king’s servant failed within him, and, without venturing to replay, he did as he was commanded.

“Now, go thy way,” said the robber, sternly, “but leave with me the horse, and leave with me the mail—lest a worse thing come upon thee.”

The man therefore arose, and proceeded towards Berwick, trembling; and the robber, mounting the horse which he had left, rode rapidly across the heath.

Preparations were making for the execution of Sir John Cochrane, and the officers of the law waited only for the arrival of the mail with his second death-warrant, to lead him forth to the scaffold, when the tidings arrived that the mail had again been robbed. For yet fourteen days, and the life of the prisoner would be again prolonged. He again fell on the neck of his daughter, and wept, and said:

“It is good—the hand of Heaven is in this!”

“Said I not,” replied the maiden—and for the first time she wept aloud—“that my father should not die.”

The fourteen days were not yet past, when the prison-doors flew open, and the old Earl of Dundonald rushed to the arms of his son. His intercession with the confessor had been at length successful; and, after twice signing the warrant for the execution of Sir John, which had as often failed in reaching its destination, the king had sealed his pardon. He had hurried with his father from the prison to his own house—his family were clinging around him shedding tears of joy—and they were marvelling with gratitude at the mysterious providence that had twice intercepted the mail, and saved his life, when a stranger craved an audience. Sir John desired him to be admitted—and the robber entered. He was habited, as we have before described, with the coarse cloak and coarser jerkin; but his bearing was above his condition. On entering, he slightly touched his beaver, but remained covered.

“When you have perused these,” said he, taking two papers from his bosom, “cast them into the fire!”

Sir John glanced on them, started, and became pale—they were his death-warrants.

“My deliverer,” exclaimed he, “how shall I thank thee—how repay the saviour of my life! My father—my children—thank him for me!”

The old earl grasped the hand of the stranger; the children embraced his knees; and he burst into tears.

“By what name,” eagerly inquired Sir John, “shall I thank my deliverer?”