The last rays of a July sun were extending themselves over the western sky, and that sweetest period of a summer’s day—the cool evening—had just opened, when a horseman made his appearance on the high-road between Exeter and London, in the midland section of Devonshire. He looked a young man; and his years were not so many even, as one would, at first sight, have inferred from his looks. Care and travel, and probably privation, had given a stamp of experience to his features, and an air of reflection to his face, that savoured more of a man of thirty, than one of four or five and twenty years, which was more likely his age. Yet, to judge from his appearance, he was not one of those who would let the cares of life press upon him heavily, or of a constitution that, from any imperfectness or defect, would suffer greatly under the infliction of privation or hardship. His countenance was almost an oval, and sorted well with his light-brown beard and moustache, which, though they were no way scanty, he wore thin and pointed. His complexion was of that red and white which, in men, is so peculiarly English, and would have been fair to effeminacy, only that it bore evidence of having been exposed, no very long time previous, to a more glowing sun than that of England, which had given it a more manly tone, and rendered its beauty more lively and animated. His blue eyes were not large, but they were finely coloured and penetrating, and harmonized well with his fair forehead, which, though not lofty, was unruffled and expansive. His other features were turned with accuracy, and the tone of each was such as, in most instances, marks a sanguine temperament and a generous disposition. Nevertheless, the ensemble of his face was not without a touch of melancholy, though it was probably more the indication and effect of a pensive turn of mind, nursed by vicissitude, or kept in constant exercise by his daily avocations, than the vestige of any past sorrow or present care. Indeed, in the life and animation of every feature, this small trace of gloom beneath the eyes, though it was ever present, was almost lost; and there was no point in his face but manifested, in a greater or a less degree, the spirit of frankness, buoyancy, and good-nature.

The horseman was of a tall person, which was the more in his favour as, from early exercise, the muscles of his fine broad chest were fully developed, and all his well-turned limbs denoted unity and power. He was attired in grave habits, cut in the fashion of the age, which was that of Elizabeth; yet his erect and soldier-like bearing, more conspicuous from his being mounted, betokened that he had not always worn the garments of peace, but had at some time followed the noble profession of arms. A long basket-hilted sword, of the kind called cut-and-thrust, hung at his left side; and a small valise (seemingly made to hold a change of raiment, and probably the appurtenances of his toilet), which was fastened to the back of his saddle, completed his equipment.

He sat his horse with much grace, and with that union of ease and dignity, joined to flexity of limb, which denoted no less the perfect horseman, than the true and polished gentleman.

A slight breeze had risen with the evening, and as he had probably ridden some distance, and the day had been warm, the horseman rode along at a gentle pace, in order that he might enjoy more fully, and with greater ease, the fresh free air that played around him. As he passed along, his eye glanced wistfully over the country on either side, seeming to take in, every now and then, some well-known and agreeable object, that called a brighter lustre to his eye, and often a smile to his lip. Occasionally the notes of a blackbird, or some other feathered songster, would draw his attention to the bush that bordered the road, and which was now adorned with many a wreath of the wild dog-rose, and the varied greens of the hawthorn and blackberry. Then his feelings, responding to the cheering melody, would manifest a new and more sensible buoyancy, and spread over his manly face a glow of earnest pleasure.

Thus he rode leisurely along, when, as he approached a secluded-looking by-road, his ear was saluted by the report of a pistol, followed by a shrill scream; and this incident induced him to bring his horse to a stand. But after a moment’s hesitation he pushed forward again, and, clapping spurs to his horse, passed at a smart pace down the contiguous by-road, whence the sounds that had alarmed him seemed to have emanated.

The road was, like all the cross-roads of the period, narrow and rugged, and in many parts overgrown with grass, or traversed by deep ruts, that rendered any kind of progress a matter of labour and difficulty. It was bounded on either side by the fence of the neighbouring fields—the common quickset, or field-hedge, which now had attained its full growth, and displayed all the luxuriance of maturity. Behind the hedge ran a row of elms, in irregular rank, and at no certain or fixed intervals, the boughs of which overhung the road, and frequently met about its centre. Indeed, the road was not unlike the avenue to a gentleman’s house, only that its extreme ruggedness, joined to the fence of quickset aforementioned, and its occasional patches of vegetation, somewhat impaired the similarity, and were features that such a locality could not be expected to exhibit.

At length our horseman came to an angle in the road, about a quarter of a mile from the highway, which, turning sharply round, opened to view a scene that inspired him with the deepest interest.

A few yards in his front stood one of the heavy carriages of the period, with its broad side-doors forced open, and its four horses brought to an abrupt halt. On the ground, at the side of the road, bleeding profusely from a cut on the forehead, lay a groaning postilion, who appeared to be on the eve of a longer journey than he had probably looked for. The corpse of another man-servant was stretched on the opposite side of the road, and his unsheathed rapier showed that, like the postilion, he had fallen unresisting. Startling as these particulars were, they hardly obtained from our horseman, after he had quite turned the angle, the ordinary notice of a glance. A group of five persons on the left of the arrested carriage immediately engaged his whole attention. Two of these were, to judge from their appearance, cavaliers of the road, or, in other words, highwaymen, and had probably just dismounted from two stout steeds hard by, which were quietly cropping the grass, or waste land, at the side of the road. A third was an elderly personage—perhaps (for his appearance bespoke him a man of rank) the proprietor of the adjacent carriage—who was combating the taller of these ruffians with his rapier. In this contest he was assisted by another person, apparently one of his domestics; but they were but indifferent swordsmen, and were hardly able to defend themselves, much less act offensively, against the experienced arm of the robber. This seemed to be clear to the accomplice of the latter; for, instead of affording him any succour, he was entirely engaged with the fifth, and, in the eyes of our horseman, most interesting person of the party—a young and beautiful female. His superior strength had already rendered her almost powerless, when he thrust his hand under the collar of her bodice, in search of some trinket, or, perhaps—for it was out of sight—some more precious valuable, which was suspended by a chain of gold from her neck. This outrage, exceeding any that she had hitherto sustained, drew from the unhappy lady a cry of utter terror, and nerved her for one last effort to break from his hold. She was still struggling, when the sound of a horse’s feet broke on her ear, and, casting a despairing glance around, her eye fell on our young horseman, who, having turned the angle, had just come fully into view. Her strength was by this time exhausted: she saw that deliverance, which had appeared hopeless, was close at hand; and she sank senseless in her assailant’s arms.

The ruffian had not a moment to lose; for the horseman, he perceived at a glance, was no ordinary wayfarer, and he was approaching at a full gallop. Throwing down the insensible form of the lady, he seemed to deliberate, under the first effects of the surprise, how he should meet him. His hesitation, however, was but momentary; for, as the horseman drew nearer, he snatched a pistol from his girdle, and discharged it at his breast. But the ball struck the horseman in the fleshy part of his left arm, and did not, according to his expectations, bring him to a halt. Seeing him still advance, the robber sought to meet his assault with his raised rapier; but whether it was that he had expected it would be less vigorous, and so was unprepared, or that he was an inexpert swordsman, his precaution was of no avail. The horseman beat down his guard directly; and with a terrific lounge, for which his long cut-and-thrust sword was excellently adapted, ran him through the body, pinning him to the pannel of the carriage at his back.

It will readily be imagined that this new incident did not transpire without attracting the attention of those other characters in the passing scene whom it so eminently affected. The report of the pistol was the first intimation they had of the horseman’s advent; and it was then that the senior cavalier, turning from the contest he was engaged in, perceived the melancholy situation of the young lady. This seemed to throw him off his guard; for, regardless of his position, he broke away from the conflict with the robber, and sprang to the lady’s assistance. His servant was very unequal to the conflict single-handed; and the robber, seeing the fate of his comrade, and probably conceiving that no effort he could make would alter the fortune of the day, availed himself of this circumstance to retreat towards his steed, keeping the servant at bay, meanwhile, though seemingly with a desire to do him no hurt.

At last he reached his horse, and with a dexterous lounge, he knocked his rapier out of the servant’s hand, and sprang unmolested to his saddle. As he gained his seat, he clapped spurs to his horse, and galloped off.

Our young horseman was at this moment withdrawing his sword from the body of the fugitive’s comrade. Hearing the clatter of the retreating horse, he turned round; but though the robber had only a slight start of him, and was no better armed than himself, he showed no disposition to give him chase. Seemingly satisfied with having driven him off, he proceeded to tender his assistance, in another character, to the still helpless lady.

The lady was reclining in the arms of the elderly individual before noticed. She was, as has been remarked, still insensible; but if her position was calculated to obscure and veil over the attributes of her mind, it was well adapted to display the exquisite graces of her person. Though she could hardly have arrived at her eighteenth summer, she had evidently attained her full height, and was progressing towards that development of contour, or general outline, which is the most glorious indication of female maturity. But it was more in promise—more in those shadowy lines which were yet hardly revealed, but which were still replete with grace and excellence—that the beauty of her person chiefly consisted. The hundred dazzling charms that marked the mould and perfectness of her limbs, though distinctly visible, were not of that character which can be defined; and they existed more as a whole than individually, and with a seeming hold and dependence on each other. There was, however, little of buoyancy in her most engaging countenance. Whether it was the effect of her swoon, or of some deeper cause, rooted in the past, her features wore a stamp of gravity beyond her years, but which might arise from a habit of reflection, as much as from any spring of disappointment or sorrow. Her complexion was dark, yet so beautifully shaded, that it seemed to comprehend a variety of tints, blended into one inseparable and harmonious whole; and this gave it a force of expression, and a sweetness of tone, truly charming. Her raven-black hair, disarranged by her recent struggle, had burst the restraints imposed upon it by her toilet, and fell loosely over her fair cheeks and neck, as if it sought, by this close and striking proximity, to be compared with the whiteness of her heaving bosom.

The personage who supported her was, as was heretofore observed, considerably her senior. He was tall in stature, and, notwithstanding a slight stoop in his shoulders—probably the bend of age—dignified in his bearing. His countenance had once been handsome, and was still noble; and though there was an air of sternness, approaching to austerity, about his forehead, the general expression of his features was gentle and kindly. As he gazed in the lady’s face, he betrayed the deepest emotion, and appeared, on a cursory glance, to have no sense of what was passing around, but to be engrossed solely by his fears for the unconscious being whom he supported. He was yet bending over her, anxiously watching for the first return of sensibility, when the cavalier by whom they had been so effectually succoured, having dismounted from his horse, and given it over to the care of the servant, came up with him.

“Hath the lady sustained any hurt, Sir?” he inquired.

At this moment the young lady, as if aroused by his voice, opened her eyes, and looked up.

“Is it thou, father?” she said, addressing the personage who supported her. “Thou art not hurt, then?”

“Not in the least, my dear child,” replied her father.

“And are we free?” said the young lady, eagerly looking round.

“Quite, quite,” answered the old man; “and, under Heaven, we owe our deliverance to this gentleman.”

“We owe him a great debt, then,” said the lady, raising herself up. “I hope, Sir,” she added, speaking to the cavalier alluded to, “we may live long enough to show, by our future actions, that we shall ever remember it.”

As she gained an erect position, she drew off her glove, and offered the cavalier her small hand. He seized it eagerly, and with a gentle inclination of his head, suitable to the occasion, raised it to his lips.

“’Twere but a poor compliment, Sir,” observed the elderly cavalier, following up what had been said by his daughter, “to say thou hast my hearty thanks. Thou hast given me more than life; and what is there in its gift, much less in an old man’s voice, that can balance such service as this?”

“I’faith, fair Sir, thou ratest my help too high,” replied the person addressed. “’Twas no more than any other honest stranger would have lent thee.”

“’Tis very few would risk life and limb for absolute strangers, brave Sir,” rejoined the previous speaker. “But we may be less strangers, if it so please thee, in time to come.”

“If that be thy mind, fair Sir,” said the other, “it will be a right welcome thing to me, though my stay in this land will not be for long.”

“Thou art not a foreigner?” said the elderly cavalier, in a tone of half inquiry, half doubt. “But I should tell thee who I am. My name is Sir Edgar de Neville; and this fair lady, to whom thou hast given more than her life, is my only child.”

If Sir Edgar furnished this information with the view of ascertaining the name and rank of his deliverer, preparatory to entering more fully on those friendly relations which he had just opened, and had invited him to extend, the result must have disappointed him; for the cavalier, whatever was his motive, did not disclose these particulars, but rather answered him evasively.

“Mine is a happy fortune,” he said, “that hath won two such friends. But this fair lady hath need of repose, Sir Edgar. I have some small matters to settle at the village of Lantwell; and will be your escort, if you will give me leave, as far as your lodge, which I can make to fall in my way.”

“Thou knowest Neville Grange, then, Sir?” inquired Sir Edgar.

“’Tis many years since I was in this part afore,” said the cavalier, slightly colouring; “but I once knew it right well.”

“We will not claim thine escort only, then,” returned Sir Edgar; “but, while thine affairs hold thee at Lantwell, thy fair company also, an’ thou wilt give us leave.”

As the cavalier was about to reply, he caught a glance from the dark eyes of Miss de Neville, seeming, by the warmth and kindliness of its expression, to second the invitation of her father; and, repressing the answer which he had been about to make, and which was probably of a negative character, he replied with a bow of acquiescence.

Preparations were therefore made for entering once more on their journey. The wounded postilion, who, it was now discovered, was but slightly hurt, had his forehead bound up, and was then able to mount his horse, and resume the duties of his post. The dead servant, with the corpse of the robber, was drawn to one side of the road, and there left till, on Sir Edgar’s arrival home, a suitable means of removing them could be procured. Sir Edgar and his fair daughter took their places in the carriage; and their deliverer, and the old servant, who was entirely unhurt, mounted their horses, and rode slowly along on either side of that vehicle.

While the party thus pursued their way, each individual was too busily occupied by his thoughts to seek to open a conversation. Indeed, the young cavalier, however his thoughts might have been engaged, was more seriously unfitted for the amenities of discourse. In the excitement of the rescue, the pistol-wound he had received in his arm, at his first appearance on the scene of action, had not been heeded; but now that he had ceased to be physically employed, and was, to a certain extent, left to himself, its violent throbs became most painfully sensible. The hoemorrhage appeared to be slight; for his murrey-coloured jerkin, except round the hole where the ball had entered, was hardly soiled; yet he could feel the ball burning in the middle of his arm. He tied his scarf tightly over it, thinking that, by its pressure on the part affected, this would mitigate the dreadful throes by which it was every moment convulsed. But the angry wound throbbed as before, and the blood in his arm, from his shoulder downward, seemed to rage and boil, and, as it gurgled round the wound, to burn like liquid fire.

In this manner he rode along for about two miles, continually hoping, at every successive wind in the apparently interminable lane, to come up with some farm-house, or peasant’s cottage, where he could procure a drink of water. But no prospect of relief presented itself, and he was about to avow his utter inability to proceed, when, looking round, he perceived that the road was approaching a gate, with a porter’s lodge just visible over the fence, which he recalled to mind as the entrance to Neville Grange. The carriage came to a halt the next moment; and the mounted servant, who had been riding on the inner side of the carriage, nearest to the gate, spurred forward a few paces, and rang the lodge-bell. The young cavalier felt a dizziness come over him at this juncture; and drawing his horse up, within a pace or two of the carriage, he staggered in his saddle, and fell back against the carriage-door.