bishop, being at the time in the fields, though
almost too proud to show fear, rode straight to
the northern door of St. Paul's to take
sanctuary. But it was too late. The mob closed
round him, tore him off his horse, stripped
him of his armour, dragged him, wounded
and bleeding, to Cheapside, proclaimed him
there a traitor, a seducer of the king, and
an enemy of the people's interests, and, chopping
off his head, set it on a pole. His
disfigured corpse was tossed into a hole in the
sand in an old churchyard of the Pied Friars.
His brother and some servants were also
beheaded, and their bleeding and naked bodies
thrown on a heap of rubbish by the river side.
The body of the luckless bishop was six
months afterwards disinterred, and brought to
Exeter for solemn and stately burial by the
queen's command.

The towers and steeples of Exeter have many
traditions the crow learns as he flits from one
to the other, and on the lichened and corroded
stones he croaks them in crow language to the
chattering starlings, who respect him greatly
for his blackness and his age.

Of St. Mary Major's, in the cathedral
yard, it is said that the noise of the weathercock
so disturbed Catherine of Arragon when
she slept in the deanery on her way to London,
that it was taken down. St. Mary Steps, in
West-street, boasts an ancient clock with three
quaint figures, which the townspeople call
Matthew the Miller and his two sons (Matthew
is really burly Henry the Eighth). The local
rhyme about the old horologer's automata is,

         Adam and Eve would never believe,
         That Matthew the miller was dead,
         For every hour in "Westgate tower
        Old Matthew nods his head.

If Exeter had been a Spanish city we should
have had a hundred legends about these figures,
the magicians who framed them and the goblins
who haunted them. From one of the church
towers, after the great rebellion of Edward the
Sixth's time, one of the leaders, a vicar, was
hung in his priestly robes.

Exeter is justly proud of her children. That
humbly wise man, Richard Hooker, the author of
the Ecclesiastical Polity, was born at Heavitree,
which is a suburb. Tired of disputation, he only
prayed to leave all public employment and retire
to some quiet parsonage, where he might, to
use his own beautiful language, "see God's
blessings spring out of the earth and eat his
bread in peace and privacy." One of his
friends found him, tormented by his shrew of a
wife, rocking a cradle while busy studying the
Greek Testament. Sir Thomas Bodley, the
founder of the great Oxford Library, was
another worthy son of Exeter. Gandy, the
painter, whom Reynolds imitated and whom
Kneller admired, was a third. Budgell, Addison's
friend, is also on the roll, and Jackson, the
composer—Incledon's master. When Incledon
was ragingly jealous of Braham he used to say,
"If my dear old master could only come
down from heaven and take an Exeter
postchaise, and come up to town and hear this
condemned Jew, he'd soon settle the matter."

The crow lifting from the Exeter roof, now
bears swift away to the Tamar and the granite
strewn and haunted moors of Cornwall.

                  FATAL   ZERO.

A  DIARY KEPT AT HOMBURG: A SHORT SERIAL STORY.

                  CHAPTER  XV Continued.

ELEVEN O'CLOCK, P.M.—Heaven is very
good—too good to me. I go to bed more
cheerful. Something drew me into those
vile rooms after my wandering about
miserable and purposeless; indeed it was to
escape from myself during those weary
hours. I felt a sort of thrill and sinking
at my heart. I drew near and looked at
the fatal table; it was another winning
night, and every one in spirits and excitement,
and picking up gold and silver. My
trembling fingers were really drawn "by an
overpowering instinct to my pocket, and,
literally without my knowledge, I found
I had my only stake in my hand ready to
put down. Then there was a new
combination. I remarked there was an alternation,
a zigzag going backwards and forwards,
and taking advantage of this, I was
impelled irresistibly to put down. I won, and
breathed. I won again, and went on, and
have now got back six out of my ten. 0,
God is very good—- too good! I meet
Grainger going out.

"Well done," he said, "I saw you, though
I did not wish to show myself, for fear of
making you nervous. Your moves were
bold, and worthy of a general, and your
retreat just in time."

"To-morrow I know I shall get back the
rest, perhaps more. Even a few louis more
would be something, but I should be quite
content."

I went back again.

One o'clock P.M.—As I went out of the
Kursaal down the steps on to the terrace, I
could hardly keep myself from giving a
cry. My heart so light, so airy, so bounding,
so full of hope. I had to walk round
and round those gardens before I could trust
myself to sit down calmly, and take out what
I had in my pocket. O my sweet darling
pieces, there they are on the table before
me, all come home to me again, rescued
from the vile harpies who would destroy us
all, wreck the happiness of families for a
single double florin. Let me look again,
and set them out on the table before me,
eight, nine, ten. Then, again, one, two,
three, four, five, and five double florins,