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2 ever, knew who he was, and he would have risked worlds to have sent back his prisoner in safety, with even one line to Limerick. Hut Lord Inchiquin s troops were too vigilant to allow of any commu nication with the city,. Even this intelli gence, scanty though it was, afforded him some consolation. He knew his wife was safe, and unable any longer to endure the Tantalus-like position in which he was placed, he found means of returning again to England. His next and last visit to Ireland was in the summer of sixteen hundred and fifty. He was then pretty high in com mand, and had hopes, as he sat down with Waller’s army of investment before Lim erick, in the July of that year, that should he only be able to effect an entrance into the town, his authority would be sufficient to protect whomsoever he pleased. But the year passed away and still the city held out. And, had he but his wife and child without its walls, he would have counselled its burghers to hold out c\en still more manfully, for he well knew the iron heart and bloody hand ot the execra ble Hardress Waller. The spring of the next year found him still before Limerick ; and could he but communicate with any ot its gallant de fenders, his hatred of treachery would have urged him to expose to them the perfidy of one of their own whom they had raised to the rank of colonel. 1 bis wretch was named Fennell; and, for bis treason in selling the passes of the Shannon at Killaloe, their commander-in-chief Crom well, had promised him and his descend ants many a fair acre in Tipperary. By this pass Ireton and his myrmidons crossed the river into Clare ; and with them passed Walter Herbert. Still his heart was full of hope of saving all he held dear in the leagured city. Spring passed away, and summer again came ; and still the assail ing host made no progress toward the capture of the town which Ireton and his father-in-law regarded as the key of all the Munster territories. In the burning heat of July, while pestilence daily thinned the* ranks of the besieged, an assault was ordered on the almost defenceless keep that guarded the northern extremity of the salmon-weir, and Herbert was reluc tantly obliged to form one of the storming party. His immediate senior in command was a person named Tuthill—one ot those heartless hypocrites who could preach and pray while his brutal soldiery were mas sacring the wives and children ot the brave men whom the chances ©t war made his victims. The fort was carried by over whelming numbers ; and Herbert was doomed to witness, with horror, the butch ery of the surviving defenders, mercilessly ordered by Tuthill —an order which he unhappily had no power of countermand ing, hut in the execution of which he took no part. Still the city held out, though the “ leaguer sickness was rapidly deci mating its brave garrison. The north fortress of Thomond bridge was next car ried by assault—but to no purpose. The townsmen succeeded in breaking down two of its arches, and thus cutting oil ah approach to the city in that quarter, and in resisting the sortie three hundred of their assailants perished. Winter was now fast approaching, aDd the plague ex tending from the city, in which fifty of its victims were now daily interred, com menced to thin the ranks of the besiegers themselves. Ireton had serious thoughts of raising the siege, and he would., be yond all question have done so, were it not for treachery. Fennell, the traitor of Killaloe, was again at work—this time, unfortunately, within the very walls of the city itself. A truce of some days was agreed, on ; and Herbert was one of those appointed to treat with the townsmen. The depu ties met on neutral ground, midway be tween the city and camp, and within range of the rival batteries. Ilis heart was now full of greater hopes than ever. Could he but meet with any member of Eily’s family, ho hoped that his love for her would induce them to listen to her coun sels. But late, it would seem, had leagued all chances against him. Had lie met them, he meant to put them on their guard against Fennell’s treachery, and, without absolutely breaking trust, give them such a key to Ireton’s fears and readiness to make concessions as would, he hoped, lead to an honorable capitulation, and pre vent the bloodshed which, from the shat tered state of the town walls, and the ad ditional element of treachery within those walls, he now judged to be inevitable, un less they came to terms with Ireton. But not one of them appeared : for the traitor had laid his plans deeply, and succeeded in diverting them and the clerical party, to which they faithfully adhered, from anything like a compromise. He wished that the sole merit and reward of surren dering the city should be his own. And he succeeded. The conference ended fruitlessly ; and Herbert returned to the camp well-nigh broken-hearted. The plague continued its ravages mean. while ; and, day after day, within the city, the dying were brought by their relatives to the tomb of Cornelius O'Dea, where many, it was believed, were restored to health through the intercession of that saint ly prelate, who lay buried in the cathedral. Its effects were visibly traced in the ranks of the besieging army. Still Ireton, re lying on treason within, pressed on the siege. By a bridge of pontoons he suc ceeded in connecting the Thomond side of the river with the King’s Island, where he now planted a formidable battery, to play on the eastern side of the city. Her bert had fortunately escaped witnessing the horrors of Drogheda and Wexford ; but a sight almost as appalling now met his eyes. In the smoke of the cannonade crowds of plague-stricken victims —princi- pally women and children—ventured out side the city walls to caich one pure breath of air from the Shannon, on “ the Island” hank—and there lie down and die. But when this was discovered, the heartless Waller forbade even this short respite from suffering. By his orders, those un happy beings, who could have no share in protracting the siege, were mercilessly Hogged back by the soldiery into the plague-reeking city—and such as refused to return were, by the same pitiless man date, hanged * within sight ot their fellow townsmen ! The daily sight of this revolting butch ery was sickening to the noble heart and refined feelings of Herbert. But suffer ing for him had not yet reached its climax, j As he was seated in his tent, one evening toward the close of October, fatigued after a long foraging excursion to the Meelick mountains, and musing sadly on the fate of her who was almost within sight of him, and yet whom, by what seemed to him an almost supernatural combination of adverse circumstances, he had not seen for years, his attention was arrested by the cries of a female who seemed struggling with her captors. Ilis manhood was aroused by such an outrage —committed almost in his very presence —and he rose at once to rescue the victim from her assailants. But, horror of hor rors ! at the very door of his tent, and in the grasp of an armed ruffian, lay the fainting and all but inanimate form of his wife 1 To fell the wretch, and clasp the beloved object to his bosom, was but the work of a second. But, oh ! how sorrow and sickness had changed that once beau tiful face, and wasted that once symme trical form. Death had already clutched her in his bony gripe, and selected her for his own. His kiss was upon her lips, for they were livid and plague-stained. And her beautiful blue eyes! how they now wandered with the wild look of a maniac. All that remained of the beautiful Eily he once know were the long fair ringlets that now fell down in dishevelled masses on her heaving bosom. The sight almost drove him mad. In vain he clasped her to his heart, and called her by the dear fond name of wife. She knew him not, yet, when she spoke, her ravings were all about him ; and he often wondered after ward how his brain stood the shock, when, without knowing him, she still called on him, “her own clear, dear Walter, to save her, to take her away from those terrible men—at least to come to her—for, to come to him, she had left her poor old father and little Gerald behind.” ♦Historical. [to BE CONTINUED.] The Condemned Sentinel. A cold, stormy night in the month of March, 1807, Marshall Lefebrc, with twenty-seven thousand French troops had invested Dantiez. The city was garrison ed dv seventeen thousand Russian and Prussian soldiers ; and these, together with twenty or thirty well armed citizens, presented nearly double the force which could be brought to the assault. So there was need of the utmost vigilance on the part of the sentinels, for a desperate sortie from the garrison made unawares, might prove calami toil - At midnight Jerome DnOois was placed upon one of the most important posts in the advance line of picket s, it being upon a narrow strip ot land rising above the marshy flat, called the Peninsula oi -Neh rung. For more than an hour lie paced his lonely heat without hearing anything but the moaning of the wind and the driving of the rain. At length, however, another sound broke upon his ear. He stopped and listened, and presently he called—“ Who’s there V’ The only answer was a moaning sound. lie called again, and this time he heard something like the cry ot a child , and presently the object came toward him from out of the darkness. With a quick, emphatic movement, he brought his mus ket to the charge, and ordered the in truder to halt. “Mercy!” exclaimed a childish voice. “Don’t shoot me! I am Natalia. Dont you know me ?” @1 ffli SOTOB. “Heavens 1” cried Jerome, elevating the muzzle of his piece. “Is it you, dear child ?” “Yes ; and you are good Jerome. Oh, you will come and help mamma ! Coine, she is dying ” It was certainly Natalia, a little girl only eight years old, daughter of Lisette Yaffiant. Lisette was the daughter of Pierre Vaillant, a sergeant in Jerome’s own regiment, and was in the army in the capacity of nurse. “Why how is this, my child ?” said Je rome, taking the little one by the arm. “What is it about your mother V’ “Oh, good Jerome, you can hear her now! Hark 1” The sentinel bent his ear, but could hear only the wind and the rain. * “Mamma is in the dreadful mud,” said the child, “and is dying. She is not far away. Oh, 1 can hear her crying.” By degrees, Jerome gathered from Natalia that her father had taken her out with him in the morning, and that in the evening when the storm came on, her mother came after her. The sergeant had offered to send a man back to the camp with his wife, but she preferred to return alone, feeling sure that she should meet with no trouble. The way, however, had become dark and uncertain, and she had lost the path, and wandered off to the edge of the morass, where she had sunk in the mud. “Oh, good Jerome/’ cried the little one, seizing the man’s hand, “can’t you hear her ? She will die if you do not come and help her!” At that moment the sentinel fancied he heard the wail of the unfortunate woman. Lisette, the good, the beautiful, the ten der-hearted Lisette, was in danger, and it was in his power to save her. It was not in his heart to withstand the pleadings of the child. He could go and rescue the nurse and return to his post without de tection. At all events, he could not re fuse the childish pleader. “Give me 3 r our hand, Natalia, I’ll go along with you.” With a cry of joy the child sprang to the soldier’s side, and when she had se cured his hand she hurried him along to ward the place where she had leit her mother. It seemed a long distance to Jerome, and once he stopped as though he would turn back. He did not fear death, blit he feared dishonor. “Hark!” uttered the child. The soldier listened, and plainly heard the voice of the suffering woman calling for h*lp, He hesitated no longer. On he hastened through the storm, and found Lisette sunk to the arm pits in the soft morass. Fortunately a tuft of long grass had been within her reach, by which means she had held her head above the fatal mud. It was no easy matter to ex tricate her from the miry pit, as the work man had to be very careful that he did not himself lose his footing. At length, however, she was drawn forth, and he led her forward to his post. “Who comes there ?” cried a voice from the gloom. “Heavens !” gasped Jerome, stopping and trembling from head to foot. “Who comes there ?” repeated the voice. Jerome heard the click of a musket lock, and he knew that another sentinel had been placed at the post he had left. The relief had come while he was ab sent ! “Friend with the countersign !” he an swered to the last caff of the new sen tinel. lie was ordered to advance, and when he had given the countersign be found himself in the presence of the officer of the guard. In a few hurried words he told his story ; and had the officer been alone he might have allowed the matter to rest where it was. But there were others present, and when ordered to give up his musket, he obeyed without a murmur, and silently accompanied the officer to the camp, where he was put in irons. On the following morning, Jerome Dubois was brought before a court mar tial under charge of having deserted his post. He confessed he was guilty, and then permission was granted him to tell his story. This lie did in a few words, but the court could do nothing hut pass sentence of death; but the members thereof all signed a petition praying that lie might be pardoned, and this petition was sent to the General of the division, by whom it was endorsed and sent up to the Marshal. Lefebvre was kind and generous to his soldiers, almost to a fault, but he could not overlook so grave an error as that committed by Dubois. The orders given to the sentinel had been very simple, and foremost of every necessity was the order forbidding him to leave his post uutil properly relieved. To a certain extent the safety of the whole army rested on the shoulders of each individual sentinel and especially upon those who at night were posted nearest the lines ol the enemy. “I am sorry,” said the gray-haired old warrior, as he folded up the petition, and handed it back to the officer who pre sented it. “I am sure that the man meant no wrong, and yet a great wrong was done. He knew what he was doing, and ran the risk—he was detected—he has been tried and condemned. He must suffer !” They asked Lefebvre if he would see the condemned. “No, no !” the marshal replied quickly. “Should I see him and listen to his story I might pardon him, and that must not be done. -Let him die that thousands may bo saved.” The time fixed for the execution of Dubois was the morning succeeding his trial. The result of the interview with Marshal Lefebvre was made known to him, and he was not at all disappointed. He blamed no one, and was only sorry that he had not died on the battle-field. “I have tried to be a good soldier,” he said to the captain. “‘l,feel that I have done no crime that should*leiyve a stain ** * % * upon my name. 7 The captain took his hand and assured him that his name should be held in re spect. Towards evening Pierre Vaillant with his wife and child were admitted to see the prisoner. This was a visit which Jerome would gladly have dispensed with, as his feelings were already wrought up to a pitch that almost unmanned him ; but he braced himself for the interview, and would have stood it like a hero, had not little Natalia, in the eagerness of her love and gratitude, thrown herself on his bosom and offered to die in his stead. This tipped the brimming cup, and his cup flowed freely. Pierre and Lisette knew not what to say. They wept and prayed, and they would have willingly died for the noble fellow who had been thus condemned. Later in the evening came a com panion, who, if he lived, would at some time return to Jerome’s boyhood home. First the condemned thought of his widowed mother and he sent her a mes sage of love and devotion. Then he thought of a brother and sister. And finally he thought of one—a bright-eyed maid—whose vine-clad cottage stood up on the Seine—one whom he had loved with a love such as great hearts alone can feel, “Oh, my dear friend !” ho cried, bow ing his head upon his hands; “you need not tell them a falsehood; but if the thing is possible, let them believe that I fell in battle.” His companion promised that he would do all that he could, and if the truth could not be kept back, it should be so faith fully told that the name of Jerome Dubois should not hear dishonor in the minds of those who had loved him in other days. Morning came duff and gloomy, with driving sleet and snow, and at an early hour Jerome Dubois was led forth to meet his fate. The place of execution had been fixed upon a low, barren spot toward the sea; and thither his division was being marched to witness the fearful punishment. They had gained not more than half the distance when the sound of some strange commotion broke upon the wintry air. and very shortly an aid-de camp came dashing to the side of the general of the brigade with the cry : “A sortie ! a sortie ! The enemy are out in force. Let this thing he stayed. The marshal directs that you face about and advance upon the Peninsula!” In an instant all was changed in that division, and the brigadier general who had temporary command thundered forth his orders for bis countermarch. The gloom was dissipated, and with glad hearts the soldier turned from the thought of the execution of a brave comrade to the thoughtof meeting the enemy. “What shall we do with the prisoner ?” asked the sergeant, who had charge of the guard. “Lead him back to the camp !” exclaim ed the captain. The direction was very simple, but the execution thereof wa3 not to be so easy, for hardly had the words escaped the captain’s lips when a squadron of Prus sian cavalry came dashing directly to wards him. The division was quickly formed into four hollow squares, while the guard that had the charge of the prisoner found themselves obliged to flee. “In heaven’s name !” cried Jerome, cut my bonds and let me die like a soldier/’ The sergeant quickly cut the cord that bound his elbows behind him, and then dashed forward to the point where his own company were stationed. The rattle of musketry had commenced, and the Prus sians were vainly endeavoring to break the squares of French troops. Jerome Dubois looked about for some weapon with which to arm himself, and presently he saw a Prussian officer, not far off, reel ing in his saddle as though he had been wounded. With a quick bound he reached the spot, pulled the dying officer from his seat and leaped into the saddle. Dubois was fully resolved that he would sell his own life on that day—sell it in behalf of France—and sell it as dearly as possible. But he was not needed where he was. He knew the Prussians could not break those hollow squares; so he rode away thinking to join the French cavalry, with whom he could rush into the deepest danger. Supposing that the heaviest fighting must be upon the Nehrung, he rode his horse in that direc tion ; when he reached it he found he had been mistaken. Upon a slight eminence toward Hagelberg the enemy had planted a battery of heavy guns, supported by two regiments of infantry, and already with shot and shell immense danger had been done. Marshall Lefebvre rode up shortly after the battery had been opened, and very quickly made up his mind that it must be taken at all hazards. “Take that; battery,” he said to a colo nel of. cavalry, “then the battle is ours.” ' Dubois heard the order and saw the ne cessity. Here was danger enough, sure ly ; and determined to be the first at the fatal battery, he kept as near to the leader as ho dared. Half the distance had been gained, when from the hill came a storm of iron that ploughed into the ranks of the French. The colonel fell, his body literally torn in pieces by a shell that exploded against his bosom. The point upon the Peninsula now reached by the head of the assailing column was not more than a hundred yards wide, and it was literally a path of death, as the fire of twelve heavy guns was turned upon it. The colonel had fallen, and very soon three other officers went down, leaving the advance without a commissioned leader. The way was be coming blockaded with the dead men and the dead horses, and the head of the column stopped and wavered. Marshall Lefebvre from his elevated place saw this and his heart throbbed painfully. If that column was routed, and the Prussian infantry charged over the Peninsula, the result might be calami tous. “But, see ! A man in the uniform of a French private, mounted upon a power ful horse caparisoned in the trappings of a Prussian staff officer, with his head bare, and a bright sabre swinging in his hand, rushes to the front and urges the column forward. His words are fiery and his looks are dauntless. “For France and for Lefebvre !” the strange horseman cries, waving his sword aloft and pointing towards the battery. “The marshal will weep if we lose this day.” The brave troopers thus led on by one who feared not to dash forward where the shot fell thickest, gave an answering shout and rushed on, caring little for the rain of death so long as they had a living leader to follow. Hoping that he might take the battery, and yet courting death, Jerome Dubois spurred; finally the troops came upon the battery with irresistible force. It was notin the power of the cannoniers to withstand the shock, and the Russian infantry that came to their support were swept away like chaff. The battery was quickly captured, and when the guns were turned upon those who had shortly before been their masters, the fortune of the day was decided. The Russians and the Prussians—horse, foot, and dra goons, such as were not taken prisoners— had lost much more than they had gained. Jerome Dubois returned to the guard house, and gave himself up to the officer in charge. First a surgeon was called to see what should be done with him. The colonel applied to the general of the brigade, and the general of brigade ap plied to the general of division, and the general of division applied to Marshal Lefebvre. “What shall we do with Jerome Du bois ?” “God bless him!” cried the veteran general, who had heard the whole story ; “I’ll pardon him to-day and to-morrow I’ll promote him.” And Jerome Dubois, in time, went himself to see the loved ones in France ; and when he went he wore the uniform of a captain. “The Decisive Conflicts of the Late oivi 1 War,” are treated in a series of brochures by Gen. J. Watts de Pevster, containing the comments of a military philosopher on the tactics of some of the principal commanders in the war, and il lustrated by a variety of historical paral lels and examples. AS alt Whitman has prepared a “final edition” of his poems for a London publisher- Rev. Henry Giles’s brilliant and popular lectures on Shakspeare, entitled “The Human Life in Shakspeare,” are just published in Pos ton.