---Ours is the skie,
Where at what fowl we please our hawk shall flie.
RANDOLPH.
One bright September morning, old Raoul was busy in the mews where
he kept his hawks, grumbling all the while to himself as he
surveyed the condition of each bird, and blaming alternately the
carelessness of the under-falconer, and the situation of the
building, and the weather, and the wind, and all things around
him, for the dilapidation which time and disease had made in the
neglected hawking establishment of the Garde Doloureuse. While in
these unpleasing meditations, he was surprised by the voice of his
beloved Dame Gillian, who seldom was an early riser, and yet more
rarely visited him when he was in his sphere of peculiar
authority. "Raoul, Raoul! where art thou, man?--Ever to seek for,
wh
