confidence, "the deil mair o' a sound comes frae earth, water, or air, than that croak o' a raven that even now flew o'er the quarry loch. We'll e'en be seeking hame, I think. I hae back to the road to Pittenweem to gae, and ye've a mile a-gate between ye and Riddlestain. Gude e'en to ye!"

And, without even troubling himself to look over the quarry brink, the beadsman began his ordinary half-trotting pace; and in a short time Henry saw him, in the distance, making rapid progress over the heath. Meanwhile he was himself at a loss what to think or what to do. The strange manner of the beadsman led him at one time to suppose that he was satisfied that no misfortune had occurred to the inhabitant of the quarry; and at another, his parting words, joined to the inexplicable disappearance of the extraordinary individual, inclined him to an opposite belief, and filled him with painful feelings of self-crimination for not having rendered a timely assistance in behalf of a fellow-creature. He could not yet move himself from the spot. Placing himself on his breast, he looked over the brink of the chasm, gazing through between the trees on the deep, sullen pool, which, like a sleeping monster, satiated with prey, lay as still as death. His ears were not less occupied: for a space, not less than half-an-hour, he lay in this position, without seeing or hearing the slightest indication of anything that might solve the mystery. He was enveloped in the gloom of his own personal experiences of the day. The thoughts of the calcinated corpse of Hamilton, and the speaking spirit of the wild place where he lay, all combined with the painful feelings of the inquiry in which he was engaged to render his mind susceptible of morbid influences, and fecundative of supernatural creations of awe. He resolved frequently to rise suddenly to escape from the depressing yet charmed influence of the place, and the inexplicable circumstances connected with it, and resolved, on the following moment, to endure still the creeping sensations of fear that run over him, in the hope of getting the mystery cleared up. His watch, however, still proved ineffectual. More time passed, but the silence continued unbroken by any sound, save, occasionally, the flap of a night-bird's wing, as it floated past, or the dying scream of a victim, awakened to die in the talons of the hawk. Rising, at length, he cast another look over the chasm, and bent his steps to Riddlestain.

When he reached home, he found his parents waiting impatiently for him.

"It is all over," said he, as he sat down, and covered his face with his hands. "The martyr has received his crown. God have mercy on us who are of the new faith!"

"And we are in danger from the commendator Blackburn," replied old Riddlestain. "He has taken the lands of Falconcleugh; and he will not be contented till he get Riddlestain also. Where is the martyr's treatise on the saving efficacy of faith? You took it with you to day to St. Andrews."

"Here, here," replied Henry, as he searched his bosom for the brochure. "No, no—it is gone!" he continued, as he rose and looked wildly around him. "I was reading it by the wayside; and, overcome with fatigue and suffering, I reclined, and slept—and now I find the book is gone. What may come of this, when our enemies are ranging the land with the fiery faggot?"

"Saw you no one by the way?" said the father.

"Only Carey, the wandering beadsman of Pittenweem," replied the son.

"Seek him—seek him, ere you sleep, Henry! Our lives depend on your recovering that book, which they call heretical, because it shows us the true way to that place where priests have no power. But the way it leads is through earthly flames, and we are not yet so well prepared for that ordeal as he who passed to-day."

The young man flew out of the house, and taking his way again past Falconcleugh, without stopping to know more certainly the fate of the inhabitant of the quarry, he was hurrying on in the direction which he supposed had been taken by the bluegown, when he heard a noise, as if of the opening of a door of the old mansion. The sound startled him, and he returned and placed himself in the shade of the walls. In a few minutes, he saw the old beadsman, who he thought had betaken himself to his quarters at Pittenweem, come forth, in the company of a young woman rolled up in a cloak. They hurried onwards as if afraid of discovery; and Henry, following them, traced them to the small cottage of Mossfell, about a half-a-mile distant from Falconcleugh. "My own Margaret again at Falconcleugh at a late hour," muttered the youth to himself, as he saw the young woman part with the bluegown, and betake herself to the cottage, while Carey proceeded on his way to Pittenweem. The youth allowed him to continue his course until he came to the spot where he had been reading the book. He then made up to him.

"Thus far only on your way, Carey?" said he, as he overtook him.

"Nae farther, Master Henry," was the reply, accompanied by a scrutinising twinkle of the beadsman's eye, as if to ascertain whether the questioner had noticed his proceedings. "But what has brought you again frae Riddlestain, at this late hour?"

"It is not to ask you what I know you will not tell me, Carey—the secret of Mansie of the Quarryheugh, and whether he be now in the bottom of the waters. I am myself in danger; and would know if you met any one on the road to-night, ere you came up to me?"

As he spoke, he proceeded to search for the heretical tract.

"So it was you," said the beadsman, "from whom, when sleepin by the roadside, was ta'en the written heresy that Blackburn's clerk, Geordie Dempster, was busy reading to his fellow-traveller, John o' the Priory, in Dame M'Gills, at the Haughfoot. The body o' young Riddlestain will be a cinder ere the sun has gane twelve times owre the East Neuk. If the commendator got Melville o' Falconcleugh burned in France, will he, think ye, hae ony great difficulty in getting Henry Leslie burned in Scotland?"

"Your words carry fire in them, Carey; but I have not said that the book was mine."

"There's nae occasion for the admission," replied the bluegown, "especially to ane wha lives by the auld kirk, and maybe ought, even now, to turn his face to St. Andrews, to evidence against you. You may be safe at Riddlestain for this night, but scarcely owre the morn. I will gie ye warnin, if ye will trust me."

"I will," replied Henry.

And the bluegown, waving his wand, continued on his journey, while the young man turned his steps, in fear, towards home. He again came to the cottage of Mossfell, and stood before the door. Margaret Bethune resided there, under the protection of old Dame Craigie. She was reputed an orphan; and, as such, she had secured the interest of the family at Riddlestain. By other claims she had secured the affection of the son; and never, until this night, had he observed in her conduct aught that excited any other feeling than love and respect, nor had what he had witnessed in any material degree altered the opinion he had formed of her. Yet, what object had she to serve by visiting the dark chambers of Falconcleugh with a wandering bluegown, at so late an hour of the night. He had heard from the servants at Riddlestain that she had been seen stealing from the old mansion at late hours; but she had uniformly avoided his inquiries for information. On this occasion, she might have gone to inquire as to the fate of Mansie, who had, apparently, been plunged into the waters. Yet why did the beadsman avoid the subject, and not offer satisfaction on a matter of importance to any one possessed of a spark of humanity? The danger of his own situation did not prevent him from indulging in these thoughts; and, as he stood and listened, he ascertained that the inmates had not gone to bed.

"I will see," he muttered, "whether Margaret and her old friend observe the same silence."

And he rapped at the door. He got admittance; and, seating himself by the fire—

"I am disturbed," he said.