to you, cannot you bring that stubborn

heart to pardon?"—"No: were it in the hour of death, I could not."—"Oh, Elinor, do not curse me at that hour. I am miserable enough."—"The curse of a broken heart is terrible," said Miss St. Clare, as she left him; "but it is already given. Vain is that youthful air; vain, my lord, your courtesy, and smiles, and fair endowments:—the curse of a broken heart is on you: and, by night and by day, it cries to you as from the grave. Farewell, Glenarvon: we shall meet no more."

Glenarvon descended by the glen: his followers passed him in the well known haunt; but each as they passed him muttered unintelligible sounds of discontent: though the words, "ill luck to you," not unfrequently fell upon his ear.