M idnight had come. Very dark was the night, and favourable to the purpose of those who sought to fly from the beleaguered town. The fires in the burning houses were nearly extinguished, but the course of the conflagration could still be traced by a red glow along the street.

The two large houses, now in the hands of the king's forces, were no longer illuminated, but looked sombre and threatening—the approaches to them in front and at the rear being strongly guarded.

The church-tower could be indistinctly seen in the gloom, and a close survey of the churchyard would have shown that it was filled with troops who were resting on their arms, to be ready for action at break of day.

The barrier in this quarter was strongly guarded by the Highlanders, many of whom were lying on their plaids beside the trenches while their comrades kept watch.

Throughout the town it was the same thing.

At the Windmill battery, where Wynn's and Pitt's regiments were posted, so as completely to block up the Lancaster-road, and prevent all chance of escape in that direction, the brave Clan Chattan were gathered—most of them lying on the ground, but ready to spring to their feet on the slightest alarm.

The barrier commanded by Lord Charles Murray was likewise strongly guarded, and by a vigilant force—this being a position exposed to much peril.

As to the Fishergate barricade, it was better watched by the defenders than by the enemy.

Strange to say, the outlet connected with this battery, and which led to a lane communicating with a ford over the Ribble, was not blocked up like the other avenues.

Three squadrons of horse belonging to Brigadier Pitt were posted at intervals in the fields on the north side of the river—Pitt's own quarters being fixed at a large farmhouse on the rise of the hill—but the lane we have mentioned had been left unguarded.

This unaccountable piece of negligence had been accidentally discovered by Captain Douglas, while reconnoitring the road. Still, he had not ventured more than a quarter of a mile.

Midnight had just tolled, and the besieged town presented the appearance we have endeavoured to describe, when the Countess of Derwentwater embraced her lord, and with his aid mounted the steed that was waiting for her outside the Fishergate barrier.

“Farewell, my best beloved!” cried the earl. “Farewell! it may be for ever. To-morrow will decide my fate. Should the worst happen, be sure my last thought will be of you.”

“Farewell, my dearest lord!” she cried. “I will not say for ever! for I am certain we shall meet again!”

Dorothy was already on horseback, and beside her was Charles Radclyffe, who was resolved to see them safely across the ford.

We have already mentioned that since Dorothy's arrival in Preston, Charles had fallen desperately in love with her; but, owing to circumstances, they had been little together, and now they were compelled to part. However, they did not despair of an early meeting.

In attendance on the ladies were Father Norham and Newbiggin, both of whom were well mounted.

As the conductor of the party, Captain Douglas rode a little in advance—but the countess was not far behind him.

Almost instantly the party disappeared in the gloom, and then the earl listened intently for any sounds that might tell how they got on; but nothing to occasion alarm being heard, after waiting for a few minutes, he retired—though with a sad heart.

Meanwhile, the party proceeded in the order described, and in silence. If a word was exchanged by Charles Radclyffe, it reached no other ears but their own.

No interruption was offered as they rode down the narrow lane, and even a gate that led to a field skirting the river seemed left purposely open.

Here Captain Douglas rode alone to reconnoitre, but returned almost immediately to say that the way was clear.

During his brief absence, the countess cast a look back at the hill, and could just distinguish the dark outline of the town. Here and there, it could be seen from the reflection that a house was still burning.

As they advanced, a slight glimmer showed that the river was close at hand.

Before descending the bank, Captain Douglas took hold of the countess's bridle, and then led her horse cautiously into the water.

His example was followed by Charles Radclyffe, and the two ladies were soon crossing the ford.

Evidently the river was not very deep at this point, and there seemed nothing to occasion uneasiness, when the figure of a man armed with a musket could be suddenly descried on the opposite bank.

As will be surmised, this was no other than Parson Woods of Chowbent, who had undertaken to watch the ford.

“Stop!” he shouted in a loud voice, “you cannot pass here. Attempt to advance further, and I shall fire upon you.”

“Look to yourself, friend,” rejoined Captain Douglas. “Retire at once, or I will send a bullet through your head.”

And drawing a pistol, he prepared to execute his threat.

“Hold!” said the countess. “He will let us pass, when he knows we are ladies.”

“I don't know that,” said Parson Woods. “Who are you?”

“Make way for the Countess of Derwentwater and Miss Forster,” cried Captain Douglas, thinking to overawe him.

Precisely the contrary effect was produced.

No sooner did Parson Woods hear those important names than he called to his men who were concealed by the bank behind him:

“Arise, and follow me! Heaven has delivered into our hands the wife and sister of the principal rebels! Come with me, I say, that we may prevent the flight of the Countess of Derwentwater and Miss Forster.”

So saying, he dashed into the river, followed by his men, and though Captain Douglas fired at him, he was not harmed, but seized the countess's bridle, and detained her; while Dorothy was captured in like manner by some of his men, despite Charles Radclyffe's resistance.

What might have ensued it is impossible to say, since Captain Douglas and his companion were compelled to beat a hasty retreat by the sudden appearance of a party of Pitt's dragoons.

Father Norham and Newbiggin offered no resistance, and were captured with the ladies.