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 tions which concerned their eternal welfare. He shuddered and drew himself together; but, instantly summoning up his wonted resolution, he exclaimed, "Who is there?—what art thou, that darest to echo my words in a tone like that of the night-raven?—Come before my couch that I may see thee."

"I am thine evil angel, Reginald Front-de-Bœuf," replied the voice.

"Let me behold thee then in thy bodily shape, if thou be'est indeed a fiend," replied the dying knight; "think not that I will blench from thee!—By the eternal dungeon, could I but grapple with these horrors that hover round me as I have done with mortal dangers, heaven nor hell should say that I shrunk from the conflict!"

"Think on thy sins, Reginald Front-de-Bœuf—on rebellion, on rapine, on murder!—Who stirred up the licentious John to war against his grey-headed father—against his generous brother?"

"Be thou fiend, priest, or devil," replied Front-de-Bœuf, "thou liest in thy throat!—Not I stirred John to rebellion—not I alone—there were