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 *pare. One of us shall die.—Traitor!—villain!" "Madman," said Glenarvon scornfully, "take your desire; and if one of us indeed must fall, be it you." As he spoke, his livid countenance betrayed the malignity of his soul. He discharged his pistol full at his adversary's breast. Lord Avondale staggered for a moment. Then, with a sudden effort, "The wound is trifling," he cried, and, flying from the proffered assistance of Glenarvon, mounted his horse, and gallopped from the place.

No seconds, no witnesses, attended this dreadful scene. It took place upon the bleak moors behind Inis Tara's heights, just at the hour of the setting sun. "I could have loved that man," said Glenarvon, as he watched him in the distance. "He has nobleness, generosity, sincerity. I only assume the appearance of those virtues. My heart and his must never be compared: therefore I am compelled to hate him:—but