We were still so far from the target, that the
sound of the stroke on it took quite two seconds
reaching us. We could not now see the target
smoke when it was hit; but there was still the
sharp tang and the dull flat cleaving sound when
the bullet drove into the turf.

At this distance the inferior shots only hit
about once in three times; but the miller with
the iron hand was still redoubtable, for he
struck the mark four times running.

The last shot came, to decide the fate of the
cup, whether it was to go to Applewood or
Melsome. The bets were in favour of the landlord,
for the miller was choleric and rather flurried.

Brotherhood went first, he being already one
ahead; if he got a blue this time lie was the
victor. A blue for the miller, and there would
be a tie.

The landlord fired first, kneeling; a steady
hit and long aim; a careful, good shot. The
red flag of danger suddenly appeared, and the
marker came out to examine the shot. Much
agitation; it must be a white: no, hurrah! it
was actually a blue.

The miller knelt—anxious and too quick; he
was too sure of himself, was the miller. The aim
was perfect—full on the bull's eye. "Good for a
liner," called out private Barnes, who was betting
on the miller; but he pulled too quickly, the barrel
flew up, and lodged the bullet exactly on the very
top ridge of the seam that divided the target.

"Excellent line," cried the backers of the
miller—but the cup—the cup was Brotherhood's.

His companions now broke their ranks and
crowded to congratulate the victor, who modestly
leant his chin on his rifle–barrel and said he
"scarcely expected to do it;" but you could see
he did expect it, by the contented twinkle of his
left eye.

The exciseman in a graceful attitude was
relating to his adherents the exact reasons why
he lost the cup; but these did not seem to be
quite satisfactory; a comrade saying, "But
you pulled too quick—you pulled too quick."

As for the miller, he was rather in a temper, I
fear, for he said nothing, looked rather red under
the eyes, and kept wiping away nothing in
particular from his rifle lock.

The ceremony of the day now began.

"Form hollow square!" shouted St. Ives,
nodding at Brotherhood, who looked as uncomfortable
as if he were going to be instantly hanged,
and fumbled about at his cartridges, which surely
scarcely wanted counting just then.

The hollow square was formed. In the centre
was throned St. Ives with the cup glittering
before him on the table, its top–coat of brown
paper peeled off.

Sergeant Brotherhood—that grave, stolid,
honest fellow, now blushing just like a girl—was
called forward. St. Ives, in a short pithy speech,
presented him with the cup, which he received
with stammered thanks. The lesser prizes were
given and the riflemen dispersed to lunch. Loaves
were tumbled out of haversacks, great stone
crocks of beer gurgled out their contents, and
the riflemen formed a ring round jovial St. Ives
and the winner of the silver cup. I left them chanting
out brave old songs, and went homeward.

I had not walked more than two miles when
Sergeant Brotherhood came up to me, and reined
in the gaunt camelopard of a horse he rode,
to have a talk. The silver cup dangled from
his rifle, nor can I call the display of a trophy
so stoutly won, mere vanity. I asked to look
at it, and read the inscription:

24TIH DOWNSHIRE RIFLES, V. R.,
APRIL, 1862.
PRESENTED BY LIEUT. ST. IVES;
WON BY——

Brotherhood's name was still to be added by
the Buyborough silversmith. In the dusk of
the April twilight, the cup glimmered brightly,
and the gold of the lining shone with a mellow
radiance. I trust I have in me as little envy as
most men; yet I could scarcely resist envying the
winner of the cup when he placed it on the table at
home, and his wife and children ran to kiss him.

Turning for a moment in a Whittington attitude,
I could hear the quick shot of the Chicklebury
Company as they went on with their
couluding sweepstakes.

INFALLIBILITY AT TOULOUSE.

A:N amiable French archbishop, having
forgotten where his allegiance was due, and proved
himself a stronger Papist than patriot, has lately
subjected himself to the disgrace of having his
archbishoply orders countermanded. He wished
to hold an open–air jubilee, promising plenary
indulgence, and enhanced with every possible
pomp of ceremonies, to commemorate a glorious
victory. His government interposed, saying
"No; you shall do no such thing. The event
you would celebrate, is best forgotten. It is
a grievous and bloody episode of our ancient
religious discords. Your jubilee will probably
excite division and hatred, besides disturbing
the public peace. We cannot prevent the
procession of the Sacrament, which is sanctioned
by ancient custom; but we will prevent the rest
of the street performances which you threaten in
your pastoral letter."

Will you? Sundry staunch fanatics, zealous
and crafty, of the bad old sort, openly declare
that you will not. The month of May will soon
show which spirit shall prevail in the city of
Toulouse—the spirit of the Vatican, or the spirit
of the Tuileries.

Strangers who are only acquainted with the
north–west, the north, and the north–east, of
France, are apt to conclude that the Roman
faith pervades the whole land unquestioned; but
history, as well as further travel, will teach them
that, in the west and south–west at least, a
reformed religion has struck deep and ancient
root. Whenever the two opposing creeds came
to try issues it was as the meeting of lire and
water. In one thousand five hundred and sixty–two,
just three hundred years ago, the city of
Toulouse amused itself with a public rehearsal
of the massacre of St. Bartholomew. Four
thousand Protestants who had been inveigled