University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

During all the avocations of the ensuing day,
the strange cavern of the rock occupied a preeminent
place in the mind of Henry Davenport.
Whether he wrote, or played, or studied, whether
his eye rested on the solemn visage of the pedagogue,
or the laughing faces of his school fellows,
or the beloved and familiar countenances of his
own household, one single absorbing idea filled
his mind. It was the cave—the high lone cave
of the haunted rock, which excluded every other
object from the vision of his “mind's eye.”

A singular report, which though at first faintly
whispered, was now every where gathering
strength in its march through the village, at
length arrested his attention. It was rumored
that the Rev. Samuel Russel had been recently
chosen the pastor of a small church, in a beautiful
village of the Massachusetts Colony, and that,
on the ensuing Thursday, Margaret Weldon
would accompany him thither as his bride.
But the strong interest which this communication
at first excited, was soon forgotten in the
higher interest of his intended excursion to the
mountain.

The sun was about an hour above the horizon,
and its clear light was playing full upon the western
side of the rock, when Henry again found

himself within sight of the entrance to the cave.
It is not to be supposed that his love for the wild
and romantic, had as yet entirely subdued the awe
which his possible vicinity to the dwelling of
some unearthly being was calculated to excite,
indeed, as he drew nearer the spot, his movements
became every moment slower, and he often
paused hesitating and afraid to proceed. One
effort more, and he would stand before the cave.
He looked for a moment downward. The idea
of being hurled from that dizzy height, as the
punishment of his temerity, rushed suddenly and
painfully to his mind. But it was too late to retreat,
and the next moment found him at the entrance
of the cave, gazing fearfully within.

Notwithstanding the strong yellow sunlight that
now beamed through the opening, the room within
was only in part illuminated. The walls of
the cave, were here and there hollowed into
deep recesses which partially excluded its beams.
Various articles of rude furniture presented themselves,
but the eye of Henry, unattracted by
these, wandered onward to a low moss couch,
resting at last with eager curiosity upon the
figure of a venerable stranger wrapped in a military
cloak and reposing quietly upon it. He
was asleep, and as Henry soon ascertained, the
only occupant of this rude apartment: The selfsame
basket which Henry had so often transported
to the rock, stood on a small table beside
him, and near it a cup containing a few delicate
wild flowers. He gazed, for a moment earnestly
around him, and then with a slow and
noiseless tread approached the couch of the mysterious
sleeper.

His face was uncovered, and a feeling of deep

awe stole over the ardent spirit of the youth, as
he gazed on the chastened sorrowful expression
of that noble countenance. Age and sorrow had
marked his forehead with wrinkles, and silvered
the few thin locks which lay on his temples, and
yet, in every line of those high features, there
gleamed a dignity, a grandeur of soul, which
Henry had often dreamed of in his high-wrought
fancies of Grecian and Roman heroes and of Hebrew
kings and warriors, but which, till this moment,
he had never witnessed.

A sound like that of approaching footsteps
among the loose stones of the rock at length
aroused him from his reverie. Henry gazed fearfully
around him; there was no retreat. A wide
plank which had evidently been used for the purpose
of guarding the entrance, now reclined in
a sloping direction against the wall. It was the
only possible concealment; and he had glided
behind it, just as a tall and dark shadow fell on
the floor of the cave. The next moment, a stately
step echoed within, and Henry ere long ventured
to look from his concealment. Another
stranger, comparatively young, of lofty mien and
countenance, had entered this strange dwelling.
His head bent thoughtfully down, and there was
something in the restless flashing of his eye,
which conveyed the idea of perplexity and
trouble.

The sleeping stranger was soon aroused, and,
rising from his couch, he slowly approached the
entrance of the cave.

“The sun is almost down,” he said, turning
anxiously to his companion. “Saw you nothing
of her?”

“Nothing, sir,” replied the other in a melancholy
tone. “That I have waited for her coming,

is enough of itself to prevent it. There is a
blight on all my hopes and wishes, on the very
lightest of them; and there was that in the look
and tone of the speaker, which showed that those
bitter words were wrung from the innermost
depths of a wounded spirit.

At that moment, the clear and silvery tones of
the old man, fell on the ear of Henry, and he perceived
that he had seated himself by the table
with an open book before him. His voice was
singularly melodious, and the effect of the holy
and beautiful words, thus solemnly repeated, was
striking, and intensely interesting.

“These are they which came out of great
tribulation, and have washed their robes, and
made them white in the blood of the Lamb.
Therefore are they before the throne of God and
serve him day and night in his temple. And he
that sitteth on the throne shall dwell among them.
They shall hunger no more; neither thirst any
more; neither shall the sun light on them, nor
any heat. For the Lamb which is in the midst
of the throne, shall feed them, and lead them to
living fountains of water; and God shall wipe
away all tears from their eyes.”

He closed the book and there was a momentary
silence, interrupted only by the continued
tread of the other. “Few indeed, my son,” continued
the old man, “few and evil are the days
of our pilgrimage on earth; but let us not waste
these blessed trials, in bitter and vain repinings.
Rather praise Him, William, that he hath counted
us worthy to suffer for his name's sake. I know,
my son, that proud and restless spirit of thine,
will sometimes mount in spite of thy better reason;
but oh! let it not rise in murmurs against
the Lord that begot thee.”

“Heaven will forgive my crime,” exclaimed
the other, impatiently, “there is a boundary to
mortal endurance; and I am weary—nay I am
sick—very soul sick of hopes and exertions.
My father, life may be dear to you—to me it is
a weariness. I will give up the desperate struggle,
and go forth and die the death which heaven
hath doomed me.”

“And how hath it been doomed to you? My
son, your soul is blinded with a vain and foolish
sophistry. Because the edict of His weak and
foolish prince, hath said that we shall die, hath
Heaven doomed our death? And would you give
up life, and the service of God on earth, because it
is a weariness? Would you give up the conflict,
because your soul is sick? No, my son, God hath
not yet summoned us to our long rest—we have
not yet overcome, that we should be set as pillars
in the temple above. Patience hath not yet
had its perfect work, and long years of sorrow and
pain, may yet be in our path to heaven.”

“But you do not consider, sir,” rejoined the
other, “that we are perhaps drawing upon this
colony a cup of wrath, which the offering of our
blood might avert. Shall we look tamely on,
and behold the wild beast out of the word destroying
a vine of the Lord's own planting, for
the sake of the inglorious shelter it might yield
us? Heaven forbid.”

“But are you not wrong?” continued the elder.
“The magistrates of the colony have refused to
furnish any concealment; and the kindness of a
private individual, even if discovered, would never
bring ruin upon this people. And, William,” he
went on in a lower voice, while his tone trembled
slightly, “would you leave your wife a widow,

and your offspring fatherless, because you dared
not endure the suffering that joyfully and unmurmuringly
she has shared with you?”

A low groan was the only reply. “William,”
continued the old man burying his face in his
hands, “can you look on our noble hearted Isabella,
and say that life is a weariness? Would
you leave her alone in her sorrows, with none
to sooth her amid the blight that has darkened
all her young dreams; when she hath soothed
and loved us so tenderly, and followed us into
exile, drinking unmurmuringly of every bitter
cup which we have tasted, following us into the
dens and caves of the earth, that she might
brighten them with her smiles, and varying the
darkness of our destiny with an affection as intense
and devoted, nay a thousand times more so,
than any thing we ever dreamed of in the day
of our affluence. William, is there nothing in
love like this, to make life worth living for; or
is it because I am a doting father, that the sight
of such devotedness doth seem to breath around
this faded earth a kind of living fragrance?”

“Make me not mad with my sufferings,” replied
the other. “I tell you my heart strings
are ready to burst, you must not touch them wantonly.
My father, if I had never loved our Isabella,
or even if had loved her only with such
love as yours, I would endure all suffering cheerfully
and joyfully to the end, if so I could in any
way soothe or comfort her. But to behold the
noble being that I wooed and won amid halls of
wealth wasting, and watching, and toiling away
her bright existence; and every day to behold
another and another shade fading from her cheek,
and every hour that light and beautiful form ripening

for the tomb—and all for me! She
might have been living in some fair home in her
native land with as fresh a bloom as when I gathered
her to adorn my own dark destiny. If she
would but weep and mourn over her altered
fate, I would nerve my soul and bear it—but
she smiles, and smiles on, when I know her heart
is bursting. O I would rather die a thousand
deaths, than see her thus blighted and withering,
because I have loved her,” in spite of his manliness
the cheek of the noble stranger was wet with
tears.

A light step was heard without the cavern and
Henry Davenport felt his heart throbbing so violently
he almost feared it would discover his presence,
as a slender female figure glided by the
place of his concealment. A dark bonnet and
mantle at first prevented his anxious gaze—but
these were soon thrown off and Henry at once
beheld without doubt or disguise, the pale white
robed lady of the mist the wife and daughter of
the exiled regicides—the good, noble, the beautiful
Isabella Goffe.

The sun was just setting as she entered the
cave, and its deep glow threw a kind of mellow
tint around the forward features of the lady, so
that a faint bloom lingered on the cheek that had
seemed so fearfully pale amid the mists of the
morning. She bore in her hand a boquet of wild
blossoms as with a light and languid tread she
advanced towards the bench on which the elder
of the strangers reclined.

“Isabella, my daughter you have been absent
long,” exclaimed the old man, as she reclined
herself on the stone and threw her arm kindly
around him. “Hath any evil befallen you, my

daughter,” he continued looking earnestly and
sorrowfully on her countenance.

“I have seen,” replied the lady, in a voice
whose clear and sweet tones sent a sudden thrill
through the heart of Henry, “I have seen the
cruel and blood-thirsty men who watch our steps,
and heard them declare that they would search
every wood and rock and cave ere they gave up
the pursuit. This rude dwelling will not long
be ours. We must seek some other home if we
would not perish.”

“And where,” rejoined he whom Henry now
know to be Goffe, “if the dens and caves of the
mountain are not ours where on earth have we
a dwelling place? My father, my lovely Isabella,”
he added, slowly approaching, and seating himself
beside them, “the time has surely come for
us to die, aud why should we any longer resist
the will of Heaven. Let us go boldly forth, and
yield up this load of bitterness.” There was a
short and breathless silence.

“My son,” replied the old man, “I have read
of a higher and better being than ourselves, who
once had not where to lay his head. It is enough
for the disciple that he be as his master and the
servant as his Lord.”

“William, dear William,” repeated the lady,
as she parted the dark locks away from his high
pale brow, and gazed wistfully on his features,
“do not grieve so bitterly. In our father's house
there are many mansions, and I doubt not that we
shall ere long share their blessedness. I know,”
she added in gentle and soothing tones, “that
your lot has been a bitter one. I will not speak
of mine. It would have been happy, happy beyond
all comparison, could I have soothed the

anguish of yours, or lightened one sorrow from
my father's heart. But one effort more remains
for me. And yet,” she added, her eye glancing
for a moment around the cave, “it is a bitter
thing to leave you thus amid perils and death.”

“What mean you, Isabella?” exclaimed the
old man, while the husband gazed earnestly upon
her. “Would you take away the only earthly
joy that Heaven has left us? Isabella, did I hear
you aright?”

“Yes, father, I must leave you, I am going
over the waters back to my native land. I will
no longer waste my days in vain repinings while
a chance of happiness remains untried. The
king's heart is in the hand of the Lord; and he
can turn it as the rivers of water are turned. I
will kneel at the foot of his throne, and weary
him with tears and prayers till he grants me your
pardon. Nay, William, do not urge me. I have
made my resolution, and must and will fulfil it.
Two days from this, I sail for England. Heaven
grant, that if I see your faces again on earth, it
may be in peace.” Her voice trembled, she
paused, and leaned her pale cheek upon his
shoulder, while audible sobs interrupted the
stillness.

Meanwhile Henry Davenport had listened in
painful suspense to this singular conversation,
dreading every moment lest some wandering
glance should detect the place of his concealment.
As he saw that the sunset glow was fast
fading from the cavern, he trembled lest his continued
absence should excite the alarm of the
family, and thus discover the retreat of the exiles.
The present moment seemed the most favorable
for effecting an unnoticed retreat; for the inmates

of the cave were, evidently, completely
absorbed in their own bitter emotions. There
was only a step from his concealment, to the entrance;
and with a suppressed breath the boy at
length stole out unregarded, joyfully remembering,
as he glanced once more upon the clear
heaven, that instead of ministering to the spirits
of evil, he had unconsciously relieved the wants
of those devoted exiles.

Animated with this idea, he was the next morning
setting out on his accustomed errand, when
he perceived with surprise two gentlemen, arm
in arm, coming hastily down the street. This surprise,
was exchanged for strong apprehension,
when, as they drew nearer, he recognized the
forms of the well known and hated commissioners.

“And where now so early, my little fellow?”
said Kellond, pausing before the gate. “The
ghosts and goblins must still be all awake, and
how dare you venture without bible and psalm
book?”

“Let me beg you, sir, not to concern yourself
on my account,” replied the youth, whose excited
feelings led him strongly to resent the unceremonious
address, “I have only set out for a
little ramble, and do not know that I am in any
particular need of your sympathy.”

“You are going for a little ramble, are you?
and so are we. Perhaps we may as well proceed
together. Hark'ee my boy,” continued Mr. Kellond
bending his eyes earnestly on his features,
“Dids't ever hear of the Lady of the Mist, a capricious
and handsome little spirit who seems to
have taken up her residence on one of these mountains
hereabouts. Did'st ever hear of her?”

The boy felt the rapidly changing hues of his

countenance, but he looked boldly in their faces,
“hear of her!” he replied in a tone of surprise,
“aye, who has not heard of the pale Lady of the
Mist?”

“And thou hast seen her too, mayhap,” rejoined
Mr. Kirk, directing upon him a keen and
searching glance. “Will you please, young
gentleman, let me examine that little basket of
yours?”

“The basket is not mine,” replied Henry, indignantly,
“and if it were, sir, I assure you I
should allow no one to meddle with it. Have
you any commands, gentlemen,” he added, essaying
to open the gate on which they leaned.

“Why touching this same pale spirit,” said
Mr. Kellond, “whose very name doth turn thy
young cheek so white, my friend here, and myself,
have a particular desire to take a peep at
her ere we leave the village. Could you guide
us to her residence.”

“And would you brave the fury of the enemy,
for the sake of your curiosity?” replied the boy
in a tone of strong remonstrance. “If you would,
sir, indeed I dare not go with you.”

“Look here, my lad,” said the other, holding
up before him a silver coin, “we must see this
mountain lady, and if you will guide us, this shall
be yours.”

The boy seemed to hesitate and looked earnestly
around him. “Do you assure me?” he
at length replied, with a strong effort, “shall the
money surely be mine, if I will guide you to the
haunted rock?”

“My word of honor for it, it shall surely be
yours. Only show us the pale lady.”

“Then wait a moment for me,” replied the

youth, with an appearance of agitation, “I must
carry this basket to its owner Miss Margaret Weldon
and will return to you presently.” So saying
he darted across the way, and began to knock
impatiently at the door of Mrs. Wilmot's dwelling.
Ere long it was gently opened, and Margaret
herself stood behind it.

“Come in—what would you, Henry?” she inquired
with an air of deep emotion, and she hastily
closed the door. “Tell me, I beseech you, Henry,
what do yonder gentlemen desire of you?”

“That I would guide them to the dwelling
of the pale lady, of whom they have heard so
much; and believe me, Margaret, they suspect
the truth. They are waiting for me—what shall
I do?”

Without inquiring concerning the manner in
which he had made himself acquainted with the
secret of the cave, she now stood for a moment
absorbed in silent and intense thought. “Henry,
are you sure” she at length said, “that they
are ignorant of the locality of the haunted rock?”

“If I may judge from their inquiries, they
know nothing about it.”

“Then hear me, and remember that the lives
of great and good men, depend on your actions.
You must lead these strangers astray. By the
most circuitous route you can take, guide them to
the East rock—make all possible delays on the road
—any thing to amuse them and gain time for their
victims. Conduct them to the remote side of the
rock, and thence around the whole.”

“And when they at length discover that I have
deceived them,” interrupted Henry.

“Fear them not—they dare not harm you—
only delay it as long as possible. Go Henry, they

are waiting for you, but remember and detain
them.”

“I will—trust me, Margaret, I will,” and setting
down the basket, he darted forth to meet his
impatient companions.

Miss Weldon waited only until the forms of the
strangers and their young guide were no longer
visible, and then quickly arranging herself, she
hastened down the steps through the little yard,
and with a boldness which only the desperation
of the case would have prompted, she proceeded
by the most public path, directly across the village,
towards the haunted rock. Fear lent
strange speed to her steps, and in less than an
hour from the time that Henry had first made his
appearance she was at the mouth of the cavern.
Isabella Goffe had discovered her approach, and
stood without, waiting to receive her.”

“Your father, your husband, dear lady,” exclaimed
Margaret leaning half breathless against
the entrance.

“And what evil awaits them, say it quickly,
Margaret, nay, be it what it may, I am prepared.”

“Then I must tell you,” continued the agitated
girl, recovering breath and moving hastily
into the cave, “that the king's officers are at this
moment searching for you, and for this cave.
They have heard the reports concerning the Lady
of the Mist, and are not credulous enough to
believe them. If life is dear to you, you must fly
with all speed.”

“And where are they now,” said Isabella, with
a look of sudden calmness while her cheek became
white as the fresh fallen snow, “Margaret,
if they are already on the rock, it is too late
to fly.”

“No, no,” replied the young lady, “Henry Davenport
has led them astray, and they are at this
moment searching the East rock, in the mistaken
idea that it contains this cave.”

Isabella Goffe had meanwhile approached her
husband who still sat in a recess, his brow leaning
thoughtfully on his hand, and manifesting an
appearance of perfect indifference, while Margaret
pronounced her fearful intelligence.

“Do you hear her?” said the lady, twining her
arm around him, and looking earnestly in his
countenance.

“Nay, Isabella,” replied the outcast, shaking
his head and regarding her with a smile of sorrowful
affection, “it is vain to attempt it. None
dare to harbor us, and even if they did, it would
only serve to draw on them the fearful blight that
rests on me and mine.”

“William,” continued the lady solemnly, a
shade of agony darkening her features, “will
you perish without an effort?”

“Efforts are vain, my precious Isabella. It is
the will of heaven that we should die; and surely
it is a light thing for us who have no hopes here,”
and he still leaned motionless against the rock.

“Now hear me, William Goffe,” exclaimed the
lady, in clear and unfaultering tones, “if you love
me, if you have ever loved me; nay if you have
not, by my own love for you, I beseech you cast
not madly away the life which God hath given
you,” and a smile of intense intreaty wreathed the
lip of the suppliant.

“Any thing, my blessed Isabella,” said her
husband, rising hastily up while his strong tones
trembled with emotion, “I will do and suffer
all things for your sake, even though it were to

live ages of these bitter moments,” and they now
approached the entrance of the cave.

Margaret Weldon was leaning against it, her
face deeply flushed; and the old man stood near
her, listening to her words.

“Do you hear, my son,” exclaimed the latter
as they approached, “do you see the path which
Providence has prepared for us. This kind young
lady offereth us a home and shelter so long as it
shall please Heaven to spare our existence.”

“Where, and how?” said the other in surprise.

“You shall hear it William, but there is no
time for explanation now. We must hasten our
retreat ere the pursuers discover their mistake.
Heaven reward you noble girl,” he added placing
his hand on the head of Margaret, “for that in
the home of your happiness you have not forgotten
the sorrowful; and the blessing of him that
was ready to perish shall surely come upon you.”

Meanwhile, Isabella Goffe with that look of
beautiful composure she so well knew how to assume,
was hastening the escape of her devoted
relatives. A forced smile still played on her
countenance, and, save its deathlike paleness,
there was no expression of the intense agony
which wrung the heart of the heroic wife.

“Farewell, my father,” she cried, throwing her
arm around the old man, as he lingered a moment
on the threshold. “It will be long ere we
meet again—we may never meet again,” she
added solemnly, and with a strong effort subduing
the sobs of her anguish. “Bless me, Oh, my
father,” and she fell upon his neck, while the old
man breathed forth a fervent petition that the
God of heaven would be to his cherished one as
a hiding place from the wrath of that fearful tempest.

Then turning away and leaning upon his
staff he moved rapidly downward.

But William Goffe still lingered at the door of
the cave. “You must not stay,” exclaimed the
lady, fervently. “Farewell, William. Long and
bright days may yet be in store for us, even on
earth; and if we see each other's faces no more
here, we will so live that we may meet in heaven.”
He folded her in his arms, his stern lip trembled,
and his eye grew dim with tears.

“Farewell, thou best and loveliest—thou art
indeed more meet to bloom amid the inheritance
of saints in light, than here—farewell, my own
precious Isabella, fare thee well,”—and wrapping
the mantle around his noble form, he turned abruptly
from the cave.

Margaret and the high souled Isabella were
still standing at the entrance, and gazing earnestly
upon the fast receding forms of the judges,
when the sound of a loud trampling in the path
beneath, arrested their attention. Two well
dressed cavaliers, whom they instantly recognized
as the royal pursuivants, were ascending the steep
acclivity. Near the foot of the mountain, the
quick eye of Isabella, familiar with every avenue
to the place of refuge, discovered their horses under
the shade of a large tree, awaiting their return.
As the cavaliers approached the summit,
their glances were directed frequently and earnestly
in various drections, resting at last on the
form of Isabella, for Margaret had retreated within
the cave. Mingled surprise and admiration
were visible on their countenances, as they now
obtained a nearer survey of the beautiful inhabitant
of the cliff; and as if they had expected to
find the Lady of the Mist, only the disguised

form of one of the regicides, they were evidently
confounded. The lady herself, with a reserved
and graceful dignity, seemed waiting their message.

“We are seeking,” said Kirk, as they paused a
few steps from the place she occupied, “we are
seeking to obey the mandate of his Majesty, by
arresting two condemned criminals, the regicides
Whalley and Goffe.”

“Then let me assure you, sir,” replied the lady,
in tones which, in spite of all efforts, betrayed
her emotion, “your excursion here is fruitless, I
am the sole inhabitant of the cave, and you must
seek elsewhere for your victims.”

“And how long,” inquired Kellond, who perceived
at once, by the manner of the lady, that
their conjectures were not groundless, “how long
since the said criminals effected their escape from
hence?—Shall we search the cave?” he continued,
turning to his companion, for Isabella Goffe now
maintained a haughty silence.

“It is in vain searching the cage, when the
bird has flown,” replied Kirk, following at the
same moment the direction of the lady's eye, as
she cast a troubled and involuntary glance upon
the distant road. “Tom Kellond, look ye there!”
he exclaimed, suddenly and eagerly pointing his
companion, as he spoke, to a point in the road
where it wound round a green and shaded hill,
on the side of which the forms of the fugitives
were at that moment distinctly visible.

“Can you tell us, madam,” rejoined Mr. Kellond
hastily, “if the persons you are gazing after
so earnestly, have anything to do with the objects
of our pursuit? Methinks they answer well the description.”
A flash of unutterable agony for a

moment lighted the beautiful eye of Isabella;
the next indeed a careless and haughty smile appeared
on her features, but it was too late—they
had read the meaning of her first glance, and
now without waiting for further inquiries, moved
swiftly down the rock.

“There is no hope for them, Margaret,—
they will surely perish,” exclaimed Isabella, as
Miss Weldon issued from the cave,—“they will
surely perish,”—and she folded her arms, and
gazed in silent and hopeless agony upon the distant
and beloved forms of the unconscious victims.

“But remember,” replied the young lady, “it
is only our superior height which enables us to
see them. Some time must elapse, ere they again
become visible to the pursuers; and perhaps they
may first be warned of their approach.”

“Ah, how slow—how slow ye move,” muttered
the lady, unconsciously addressing the objects of
her solicitude. “Would to heaven that my voice
were the thunder or the whirlwind, so it might
reach your ear. My father—William—my own
William,—fly—fly—I conjure you,”—and her
voice was choked with a burst of agony, too wild
for control. “Ha! Margaret, as I live, they are
waiting for their enemy,” she continued, after a
moment's pause; and Margaret perceived, with a
sensation of mingled astonishment and horror,
that the forms of the distant travelers were now
indeed apparently stationary.

The road at a short distance before them was
intersected by a small but rapid stream, over which
a bridge had been recently erected; and after
gazing, for a few moments, in every direction

around them, the persecuted judges again moved
onward.

“Where are they, Margaret,” said Isabella,
who having turned for a moment to watch the
progress of the pursuers, now looked in vain for
the forms of her husband and father—but neither
could her companion at all account for their sudden
disappearance. “Ah, I comprehend it now,”
continued the lady with a sudden burst of delight,
—“they are concealed beneath the bridge,—do
not doubt it—did you mark how suddenly they
vanished?” and in a delirium of fear and hope,
she leaned to watch the approaching crisis. In
descending the hill, the horsemen gradually
changed the quick gallop with which they had
first appeared, into a slower movement, occasionally
pausing and gazing earnestly around them.
They were evidently astonished to perceive that
the objects of their search were still no where in
sight, and, as Margaret had feared, unwilling to
believe that they could possibly have proceeded
with sufficient velocity to become invisible in the
distance.

“Merciful God! deliver them,” exclaimed the
lady, as Margaret essayed to support her sinking
form in her arms. The pursuers had at this moment
paused in the midst of the bridge, and were apparently
scrutinizing with much interest, the fair
and quiet landscape around them. “You cannot
bear it—dear Isabella,” said Margaret, “trust
them with heaven, and come into the cave.”

“Oh, hush—hush,” whispered Isabella, regarding
her a moment with that fearful smile with
which love had taught her to veil her wildest
agony, “I can bear any thing, Margaret,—do not
doubt me,” and again her eye rested upon the

pursuers. They were at that moment dismounting
from their horses, and after carefully fastening
their bridles to the railing of the bridge, and
proceeding to the other side, they began swiftly
to descend towards the margin of the stream.

“Ah, they are lost! After all, they are lost,”
murmured Isabella faintly. “I was wrong, Margaret,
I can not—no—I can not endure it,” and
with one long and agonizing sigh, her head drooped
motionless on her shoulder.

“They are gone—look up, my sweet friend, and
fear nothing,” said Miss Weldon, as she stood
with her arm around the lady, and fanning with
her light bonnet, her faded brow and cheek.
“They are going to search the wood beyond.
Ah! I knew they would never dream of such a
hiding place.” The pursuers were now indeed
winding their way along the margin of the stream
towards an extended wood, at no great distance,
whose thick and tangled underwood seemed
to present the most natural place of concealment.

A faint hue of life at this moment tinged the
cheek of the pale Isabella, and a joyful brightness
glistened in her eye, for now the beloved
beings, who had but just seemed lost to her forever,
suddenly appeared rising from the bank of
the stream. They passed swiftly over, and then
paused a moment, pointing to the horses which
their pursuers had tied to the bridge. After a
moment's consultation, the younger of the fugitives
turned again to the bridge, and loosening
the bridles, left the horses at liberty; and then
rapidly rejoined his companion. The steeds, as
if comprehending his wishes, quietly trotted

homeward, leaving their worthy riders to the free
employment of their respective powers of locomotion.
In what manner these were exercised,
doth not appear from our history; it is certain,
however, that the regicides pursued without discovery,
their northward journey.