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O'Halloran and his confederates finding that they
could not shake Edward's political principles, desisted
after this, from making the attempt. They
also appeared more guarded when conversing in
his presence, so that, during the remainder of the
summer, he obtained very little information concerning
the progress of their affairs.

In the meantime, the Recluse being aware of the
capricious and revengeful disposition of several of
those who had access to his imprisoned friend, became
every day more uneasy concerning him.
With M`Nelvin, who also felt much on the subject,
and who was his only confidant, he had frequent
conferences on the practicability of procuring Edward's
liberty, but they could devise no plan that
seemed in the slightest degree to promise success.

Ellen, by the assurances she received of his personal
safety, and by the sympathy, and kind attentions
of her aunt and Miss Agnew, became daily
more resigned and cheerful, so that before the end
of August, she was seen taking her usual evening
walks, although it was observed that she generally
walked alone, and as much as possible courted solitude.

One evening, about this time, an incident
took place which, as it had some connexion with
those events which led to Edward's enlargement,
should be related.

Monsieur Monier, the French emissary already
mentioned, had fallen desperately in love with her;
and having obtained her grandfather's permission
to address her, had added greatly to her affliction
by persecuting her with his passion for several
months past. He had been lately informed of her
partiality for Edward; and in consequence began
to hate him as the sole obstacle to his happiness.

Edward had never esteemed this man, for independently
of his criminal and disgraceful occupation,
his manners were flippant, profane and arrogant,
the very reverse of those he approved. In
several conversations, the dissimilarity of their
minds had been manifested, and on some occasions,
they had taken but little pains to conceal their mutual
dislike. Our Frenchman, therefore, cordially
wished perdition to his rival.

On the evening alluded to, he followed Ellen into
one of her favourite and lonely walks, in a small
wood that skirted the Volunteer ground. She was
indulging her melancholy feelings in reading Burns's
beautifully tender song of Highland Mary when
Monier approached. He had just left the company
of the gentlemen at the castle, among whom the
social glass had circulated freely, and was a little
heated with the liquor he had drunk.

“I am right happy, right glad, mam'selle,” said
he, “to meet with you here. This is a fine, lovely-looking
place for a lover like me to meet her he
loves better than all the world.”

“Sir,” said Ellen, “I have often told you not to
speak to me on such a subject. I now wish to be
alone.—You will, therefore, be pleased to walk on

to wherever you were going, and leave me to myself.”

“Beautiful creature, do you think I can leave
you? I left my company and my wine to come after
you.”

“You did very wrong, sir; and I insist that you
shall immediately return to your company and
your wine, for whatever business you may have
with them, I assure you, with me you can have
none.”

“Ah! my dear, with your bright eyes, with your
lovely cheeks like the rose, and with your pretty
bosom like the snow, I must have business. I am
tired of politics, I now want to enjoy love.”

“What do you mean, sir,” said she, “by thus
pertinaciously obtruding yourself upon me, when I
tell you that your company is unwelcome?”

“Is my company unwelcome? Ah! I know somebody
else, whose company you would prefer in this
place.”

“No matter what you know; only begone from
me.”

“Ah! my love, you should think how that man
is in my power. He is my rival. I can be revenged.
Only let me sit with you, and talk with you, and
kiss your pretty hand, and he shall be used well.”

“I say again, sir, begone! How dare you use
such freedoms.”

“It is only the way in France, mam'selle. I
love you to my very soul, and I must kiss you and
court you as lovers always do there.”

“Your rudeness is intolerable!”

“Ah! my angel, my passion is intolerable.”

So saying he caught her very roughly.

“O God of mercy! is there no one to help me?”
exclaimed the terrified maiden.

“Villain!” cried a loud, tremendous voice, “receive
that for your infamous conduct to an angel”

—and a tall stout man without a hat, or coat, and
bald headed, struck him on the face with such
force that he fell to the ground screaming, while
the blood gushed freely from his mouth and nostrils.
Ellen could not recognize the stranger.

“Whoever you are,” said she, “may heaven
bless you, for this deed!”

“Take my arm, fair innocence! I will protect
you home.”

She did so, and without speaking, he conducted
her to the public road which led to the castle.

“You are now safe,” said he, “I must leave
you.”

“But first,” she replied, “let me know to whom
I am indebted for this deliverance?”

“There are people approaching,” he replied,
“I must not be seen. Describe me to no one.
Call with the Recluse to-morrow, at five in the
afternoon. He will tell you who I am. But stop,
stay—I see M`Nelvin, who knows me. He will
conduct you to the castle.”

The poet on seeing Ellen, was about to retire,
but the stranger called him forward.

“Protect this young lady to the castle,” said he,
“ask her no questions; but return to me in an hour.
I shall explain all.”

So saying he disappeared, and M`Nelvin, with
considerable embarrassment, offered Ellen his arm.

“Oh! Mr. M`Nelvin,” said she, “I shall never
forget that man. I hope heaven will reward him—
methinks I should know his voice.”

“He is a good man, Miss O'Halloran, and you
may yet know him.”

“You have that pleasure it seems.”

“Yes, and that pleasure is the only antidote I
have against sorrows that would otherwise destroy
me.”

“Your unhappiness, Mr. M`Nelvin, which I have

long noticed, grieves me, for I know you deserve
a better fate. Can nothing be done to remove the
cause of your melancholy?”

“No; nothing in this world,” he replied, with a
sigh, “without rendering a dearer object than myself
miserable.”

They had now arrived at the castle, into which
the poet declined entering. But before they parted,
Ellen requested him to call the next day to
accompany her to the Recluse's cavern, to which
he consented.

After much reflection on the Frenchman's misconduct,
Ellen resolved not to reveal it to her
friends. She recollected his threats against Edward,
and she conceived, that by publishing his
disgrace, she would only irritate his evil passions
the more against his prisoner, and perhaps stimulate
him to push his revenge even to assassination.

At the appointed time, she accompanied M`Nelvin
to the hermit's cave, at the door of which he
left her, promising to return in an hour to conduct
her back. She found the old man in his usual
attire in his first apartment. He informed her
that he was the person who had rescued her yesterday—that
seeing the Frenchman following her
in a state of intoxication, and knowing how she had
been lately persecuted by him, he thought it prudent
to remain convenient for her protection; but
not wishing to be known to him as the Recluse, he
threw off part of the disguise he had usually worn
since he came into this neighbourhood.

“Then you are not the decrepid, destitute old
man we have hitherto taken you to be?” said she.

“No;” he replied, “but I have strong reasons
for wishing to appear so for some time. This is
all I must discover to you at present; but, I hope
the time will come when throwing off all mystery,
I shall reveal myself fully to you and to the

world. In the meantime, my daughter, when you
want a friend, when you need a protector, fly here,
repose confidence in me, and be assured you shall
receive ready and sufficient succour. I know the
secret of your heart with respect to the imprisoned
stranger. Be not ashamed of it. He is worthy of
your preference, and in thus encouraging you to
love him, you will yet find that I give a sanction
to your feelings, at which your reason will rejoice.
Return home now, my daughter—I may call you
such, for my chief wish on earth is to see you
happy; and my greatest anxiety is to guard you
against misfortune. May God bless you, and be
you still as innocent and virtuous as you now are,
and you will deserve his blessing.”

“Thank you, father,” said she, “for you have
spoke comfort to my soul. How shall I ever be
able to repay such kindness?”

“By nursing me on my death-bed,” he replied,
“and shedding the tears of affection over my
grave. Farewell! Visit me often.”

At the door of the cave, she met the poet, who
had been waiting there to conduct her home. Being
thus assured of the disinterested attachment of
two worthy persons, she became more cheerful in
her mind, although her terror of the Frenchman
was so great, that she resolved to discontinue those
solitary rambles from which she had drawn so
much enjoyment, least he should again find an opportunity
to assault her.