True courage, distinguished from that which is called forth by particular occasions, and the operation of a powerful and headlong excitement, comprehends not only a contempt for danger, but self-possession under surprise. To meet an expected peril, for which we have had time to prepare, is a trial only for the most ordinary minds; but to retain firmness and judgment under a shock, attended by circumstances of which we could have no possible anticipation, and which render the danger more striking and formidable, undoubtedly requires a brave and intrepid spirit.

Hildebrand, on the entry into his retreat of two armed men, one of whom he recognised as an individual that he had supposed to be in England, certainly experienced no small surprise; but, despite of this, he was perfectly firm and collected. On the other hand, Inez was quite confounded, and her presence of mind, which she had hitherto maintained entire, appeared to have utterly deserted her.

There was no time for hesitation. The two intruders, preparatory to making an onset, had already unsheathed their rapiers, and, if the expression of their respective countenances might be received as evidence, seemed to be stirred and animated by the most determined hostility. The posture taken up by Hildebrand, however, and his evident resolution, induced them to pause, and, after a moment’s interval, to enter on a parley.

“Surrender, Sir!” cried Don Felix. “We have a warrant from the corregidor, apart from any suit of our own, for thine immediate apprehension.”

“I cry you mercy, Senhor,” replied Hildebrand, “but, with thy good leave, I must hold thy warrant in exceeding doubt. Thou art no alguazil, I know; and, this admitted (and ’tis past dispute), where be the powers that will put the warrant in force?”

“Thou shalt see them anon,” answered Don Felix. And, raising his voice, he added, in Spanish, “Without, there!”

He had scarcely uttered his brief summons, when the tread of feet was heard without, and, the next moment, four alguazils, armed with their long staves of office, presented themselves at the doorway. This array, however, did not have that effect on Hildebrand that the two cavaliers had expected.

“Senhors,” he cried, maintaining his original defensive posture, “I have done your laws no offence, and I am resolved that ye shall not take me alive. Look to it, therefore! or your unprovoked opposition, if ye press it further, may bring on you serious detriment.”

“Tut, Sir!” cried the cavalier who had not yet spoken, contemptuously, “dost think to brave out such a power as ours?”

Hildebrand, seeing that nothing was to be gained from parley, was about to manifest his purpose by action, and, though the opposing power was so decidedly superior, endeavour to carry his egress by force. Before he could commence his meditated assault, however, he was arrested by Inez.

That lady, having for the last few minutes been perfectly passive, and left to recover from the shock she had sustained, had by this time somewhat collected herself. The appearance of the alguazils, indeed, being also unexpected, had slightly discomposed her again; but as she observed the unshaken attitude of Hildebrand, and, what surprised her more, that it was not without effect on his adversaries, her determination revived, and she acquired firmness and nerve from the disposition of her lover.

There was a flush of anger on her face as she stepped forward, and, though the cavalier who had last spoken, and who was no other than Don Gonzalez, her guardian, met her with a smile, his look sank before her flashing eye.

“There is no need of the corregidor here, Don Gonzalez,” she cried, “or even of an alcaide, as I know thee to be. This cavalier is a guest of mine.”

“And there is no need that thou shouldst publish thine own dishonour,” answered Gonzalez.

“Thou liest, villain!” returned Inez, trembling with passion. “But beware! beware! I will go bury me in a convent, but I will be revenged on thee!”

Gonzalez turned pale on hearing this threat; and though, at first sight, the injury it would invoke against him might seem but small, he did not shrink without good cause. Whatever way he might ultimately dispose of Inez, he would be able, by a little underhand dealing, to secure a large share of her dower to himself, and, further, avoid all troublesome accounts; but if Inez should take refuge in a convent, and unite herself with the church, his views in that respect, however artfully contrived, would be utterly frustrated. There was a long account of stewardship to make up, and, if that could be accomplished, years of administration to report on, which he knew the church would not overlook; and these reflections gave a weight and importance to his ward’s threat, that he might well regard with great dismay.

His hesitation was not unobserved. Don Felix, watching him intently, detected it in a moment, and, seeing that he was silenced, began to fear that he would suffer Hildebrand to escape. As he thought that such an issue would be very unsatisfactory, and might involve him in some difficulty, if not actual peril, he deemed it advisable to interpose; and, by taking all blame from Gonzalez, avert any further interference of the enraged Inez.

“Senhora,” he said, “thy right to receive what guests thou wilt cannot be questioned. We apprehend the stranger, not because he is thy guest, but because he is an Englishman, and a spy.”

“This is the second time, Sir Spaniard,” cried Hildebrand, in Spanish, “that thou hast named me a spy. I spared thy life before; do thou look to it now!”

Before any one could come between them, he dealt Don Felix a blow, on his first guard, that knocked his sword out of his hand; and then made a spring at his throat. He had hardly seized his collar, however, when he was himself laid hold of by the alguazils, who, under cover of his attack, had entered the kitchen unnoticed, and now effected his capture.

But Inez, though the terror and excitement of the scene had almost overpowered her, was determined not to surrender him without a struggle. She had observed, with a quickness of perception that was not unusual in her, that her threat of retiring into a convent had not fallen on her uncle unheeded; and at this juncture, the effect of its first appliance emboldened her to recur to it.

“Don Gonzalez, mind thee what I have threatened,” she said. “Let the cavalier depart, and I promise thee, afore these witnesses, to abide myself by thy disposal.”

“Lady,” cried Hildebrand, “if thou wouldst do me a service, let my state be made known to the English Ambassador.”

Don Felix, who, on being delivered from the grasp of Hildebrand, had shrunk a pace or two back, here stepped forward again, and darted at Hildebrand a glance of exultant enmity.

“No need to trouble the lady, Sir,” he said; “we will bear thy commands to the Ambassador ourselves. But of what avail were this? The Ambassador, whom thou thinkst will succour thee, is in prison himself; and his heretic servants have been attached by the Inquisition.”

“Thou liest again, knave!” exclaimed Hildebrand. “’Tis more than Spain durst venture on.”

“Spain will venture more anon,” said Don Felix, sneeringly. “Thou wilt soon find her fleets in London river.”

A light now struck upon Hildebrand, and as he thought of the large ships of war which he had seen in Cadiz harbour, and which probably were but a small part of the armament in preparation, he was inclined to receive this assertion with some degree of credence. But, whether it were true or not, he could have no doubt about the danger of his own situation, or of the fact that, do what he might, resistance would be perfectly fruitless. His only resource, therefore, at the present moment, was to submit, and to reserve his efforts to escape till a more favourable period.

“Ye will have to give an account of your doings, nevertheless,” he observed. “But I am your prisoner now; bear me whither ye will.”

“Ye know your orders, alguazils,” cried Don Felix. “Bear him off!”

“Hold!” screamed Inez, “or, by the holy mass, ye shall heartily rue it! Don Gonzalez! an’ thou wouldst keep me from the Sisters of Mercy, have the cavalier released.”

“I durst not, Inez,” answered her guardian, in a deprecatory tone.

“Thou shalt! thou shalt!” exclaimed Inez, “or, by sweet Jesu!—”

But the excitement, which she had all along supported with difficulty, now shook her brain, and, as she was making a step forward, she reeled back, and broke into an hysterical peal of laughter. She would have fallen, but, whether from pity, or some motive of interest, her uncle sprang to her assistance, and caught her in his arms.

“Away with the prisoner!” he cried to Don Felix. “I will myself look to my ward.”

The alguazils, on a signal from Don Felix, tightened their hold of Hildebrand, and drew him forth to the garden. Don Felix followed them, and, under his direction, they proceeded to the garden-door, whence they passed into the street. Here, enjoining them to take good care of their prisoner, Don Felix left them, and they pushed on with their charge to the city-prison.

The prison, being situate at the other end of the city, towards the mainland, was some distance from their starting-point, and stood in a quarter to which Hildebrand was a stranger. But, walking at a brisk rate, their progress thither did not occupy them long, and they soon came to a stand before the prison-door.

But a few words of explanation passed between the alguazils and the gaoler. These rendered, Hildebrand was, without further ceremony, pushed within the gaol-door, and given over to the gaoler and his assistants. Two of the last-named functionaries, by the direction of their principal, instantly secured him, and hastened to deprive him of his arms. Having effected their purpose, they hurried him down a flight of steps, at the lower end of the passage, to a subterraneous dungeon, where they left him in hopeless captivity.

Solitude and bondage are melancholy companions. Hearts that never knew the melting influence of pity, or experienced the thrill of fear, but met every vicissitude with a stern and unbending front, have been cowed and overwhelmed by their first whispers, and have been hurried on, by an enlarged and more intimate fellowship, into distraction and despair. They are a sort of living death, enclosing the spark of life in a walled grave, where the air, so sweet and buoyant without, is pestilence, and one’s breath corruption. Acquainted with these, we seem to be dead before our time, and yet, though shut out from action, to live in thought,—to suffer all the terror and captivity of the grave, and be convulsed with the workings of a restless vitality.

As he heard the fastenings of his dungeon-door secured, a chill like that of death, if one can form a conception of the last sensibility of the dying, crept through the bosom of Hildebrand. He was there alone—without solace, without hope, without even God.

He durst not pray. The reflection that he had been brought into this situation by his own imprudence—nay, by a corrupt and abandoned selfishness, which affected the peace of another—this reflection was upon him; and, when he thought of imploring the protection of Heaven, it met his prayer in his throat, and turned it back with a reproach.

But the image of Inez, though predominant, was not his only accuser. If, urged by despair, he drove it for a moment from his mind, a hundred bitter and remorseful recollections rushed into its place. His imprudence, if so mild a term may be retained, had not only brought destruction on himself, from which there was no prospect of escape, but, in its consequences, would entail ruin on others. He could not think of his ship, lying in an enemy’s harbour, within the range of the batteries, and every moment liable to be visited by the local officials, without a thrill of anguish. Even his benefactor, Sir Walter Raleigh, would not be exempt from the effects of his folly; and, in the utter failure of his design on the Mexican fleet, which he had laboured so diligently to accomplish, and in which he had embarked the chief part of his fortune, would suffer irreparable detriment. Nor did Hildebrand forget, while pursuing this train of reflection, to charge himself with having failed seriously in his duty to his country. The assertion of Don Felix, on his being arrested, that the Spanish government contemplated the invasion of England, and which the martial preparations everywhere in progress amply corroborated, afforded ground to his conscience for a more startling accusation, and a more bitter and excruciating reproach.

He had stood upright in his dungeon, within a pace or two of the door, ever since he had been left alone, without moving a single step. The darkness around him, like that of Egypt, could almost be felt; but he was insensible to it, and could only think, at that moment, of his folly, his imprudence, and his guilt.

It may seem strange, on a superficial view, that a man who had passed his life in action, and had undergone all manner of vicissitudes and perils, should be reduced by the first touch of calamity to such utter prostration. That a sudden blow to an even and prosperous life should fall with severity, and be met by dejection, is no more than one might expect; but if it unman him who has been adversity’s companion, and, in his progress onward, walked hand in hand with all the accidents of war, it excites our surprise, and scarcely seems reasonable, or possible. But, however this may be borne out by ordinary cases, it is no less true, in the particular instance under consideration, that Hildebrand did not meet the passing calamity with any degree of fortitude. On the contrary, indeed, it found him totally unmanned,—his spirit cowed, his mind foundering, and his once brave heart, that a sense of rectitude would have nerved against the heaviest tribulation, burthened and weighed down by an overwhelming remorse.

It is often at the eleventh hour, when it is too late to make reparation, that a man becomes alive to the full effect of a past and irretrievable excess. Even then, however, if heartily resolved on amendment, it is possible to render the consequences of his trespass less grievous and severe. A good intention involves some of the benignant influence of a good act; and though we should be unable to carry it into effect, the conviction that it had received our best support, and that its failure was not owing to any lack of effort, but to causes beyond our reach, will afford us a savour of that satisfaction and cheerfulness that attend success. When we conceive a sincere regret for wrong we have inflicted on others, the heart is beginning to expand, and, if we may use such a phrase, to develop its resources; and though we may writhe under the first and earlier visitings of self-accusation, and feel its continuance to be torture, it will gradually call up in the heart better and softer feelings, and, in our compassion for those we have injured, lend a comfort and strength to ourselves.

Thus did Hildebrand ultimately attain a certain degree of fortitude and composure. As the reproaches of his conscience became more familiar, and the terrors of his position, from his surveying them over and over again, lost their air of novelty, his manliness seemed to revive, and, though he was still unutterably miserable, his wretchedness was not without dignity, and his remorse was no longer despair.

But, notwithstanding the amelioration of his distress, he remained pensive and restless the whole night. The day—for even in the gloom of his dungeon, to which perfect light was unknown, there was a slight distinction in the seasons, and he could tell the day from the night—found him still awake, and still rapt in anxious reflections.

The morning was somewhat advanced before he received a visit from the gaoler; and though, as his remorseful mood was unshaken, the immediate features of his situation continued to press themselves on his mind, this circumstance did not escape him. It had hardly incurred his notice, however, when, not without feeling some interest in the issue, he heard the fastenings withdrawn from the dungeon-door; and the door being thereupon pushed open, the gaoler entered.

The grim functionary was not alone. He was followed, a few paces in his rear, by a short, broad-built friar, who, from his hesitating step, appeared to enter the cell with anything but complacency.

The friar, for whatever reason, had his cowl drawn close, so that his face was invisible; but, through the small eyelets of the cowl, one could see a spark of gentleness in his eyes, that at once recommended him to favour. He carried a lighted lamp in his hand, and, on passing through the doorway, he held it out before him, and glanced rapidly round the limits of the dungeon.

Meantime, the gaoler, whom familiarity with dungeons rendered less curious, advanced to the unhappy prisoner, and, without a word of greeting, placed before him a repast of bread and water. Leaving him to regale himself therewith, he turned towards the door again; and the friar, who had by this time finished his survey of the dungeon, and fixed his eye so as to meet his, waved him forth.

“Well, have thy will,” said the gaoler, in reply, “but ’tis only till thou canst take his confession, mind! I will wait thee without.”

Thus sulkily complying, the gaoler passed out of the dungeon, and drew-to the door behind him. The friar, as though he looked on his movements with suspicion, followed him with his eye; and, when he had passed out, held up the light, with a fixed and steady hand, to see if he had closed the door. Apparently satisfied on this point, he turned away from the door, and stepped hastily towards Hildebrand.

Hildebrand was in the further corner of the dungeon, seated on the floor, with his arms, to protect them from the cold, folded close over his bosom, and his back resting against the wall. The movements of the friar, though he watched them earnestly, did not induce him to alter his position, and he waited his approach in the same posture.

The friar stood right before him. Coming to a halt, he leaned his head a little forward; and with the hand which he had at liberty—for he carried the light in his left hand—threw back his cowl, and disclosed the features of Inez.

Hildebrand, uttering an exclamation of surprise, sprang to his feet, and caught her by both her hands.

“Hush!” whispered Inez, perceiving that he was about to speak: “remember, thy surly keeper, though without the door, may be within ear-shot. Moreover, what I have to say must be told with despatch.”

“Every word thou sayest,” answered Hildebrand, “is life and blood to me. Speak on!”

But though he was so anxious to hear what she had to say, Hildebrand’s attention was not so wholly engrossed by this object, above every other, that he could look on Inez herself without emotion. Her appearance was not calculated to encourage or confirm his reviving fortitude. On throwing back her cowl, her long black hair, which was wont to be arranged with such exquisite taste, appeared loose and dishevelled, and had evidently been pushed behind her small ears with a rude and careless haste. Her eyes were red with recent weeping, and, withal, by their quick and furtive glances, betrayed an anxiety and restlessness, if not terror, that it was distressing to behold. Her other features, as far as the light rendered them apparent, looked equally anxious, and her face was pale as death.

A single glance was sufficient to reveal these particulars to Hildebrand; and by the time Inez was ready to answer him, he was able, with a slight effort, to give her statement his undivided attention.

“I have ventured hither,” she said, “not without imminent hazard, lest thou shouldst think I had deserted thee, and so grow desperate. There is a young cavalier in this city, right trusty in his disposition, whom I know well—indeed, he is my cousin; and, through him, I think I may do thee some service.”

“What may he be?” inquired Hildebrand, eagerly catching at the slightest prospect of succour.

“Little of himself,” answered Inez; “for he is a mere youth. Nevertheless, with thy aid, and under thy counsel, he may do thee great service. I will make it a suit to the corregidor (who is a bachelor, and will be well content to do me grace) to grant him a pass to visit thee. When he is here, thou mayst confer with him, and see how he can help thee!”

A conference with such a person did not promise to be attended with any material and decided benefit; but, in fortune’s extremity, we are inclined to look on every change, whatever may be its aspect, with an eye of favour, and to tender countenance and welcome to the most flimsy prospect. Incidents that, like the images that the sun calls up on a reflective lake, become mere shadows on inspection, originally assume the shape and attitude of substantial advantages; and when the turbulent flood of life is rushing mercilessly over us, a very thread of hope, which the eye can hardly distinguish, appears to be a cable, and we seek to haul ourselves from the depths by floating straws.

Hildebrand caught at the proposition of Inez as if it had opened a channel for escape.

“How can I ever requite thee, dearest lady?” he said. “I prithee, see the cavalier use despatch in coming.”

“Have no fear for that,” answered Inez, with unabated agitation.

“There is one service he might do me ere he come,” pursued Hildebrand. “Thou knowest now (what I should have told thee before, but from a fear of thy displeasure) that I am an Englishman. Sooth to speak, I am captain of an English cruizer, which lies in the harbour yonder.”

“Jesu shield us!” exclaimed Inez, with lips that would have told her terror without words. “Durst thou, then, to enter Cadiz Harbour with a single cruizer?”

“’Twas a perilous deed, certes,” answered Hildebrand, “and Heaven grant it prove not fatal! But, to the point. My bark is the outermost one in the harbour, and hath the Scottish flag (St. Andrew’s cross, red on white) flying at the stern. I would the cavalier would visit her.”

Inez hesitated a moment.

“It shall be done,” she said, at length.

“He must inquire out my lieutenant,” resumed Hildebrand. And, taking a ring from his finger, he let it drop in the hand of Inez, and continued:—“This ring will be my token to him; and when he knows how I am fast—But, down with thy cowl.”

Inez, however, taken by surprise, turned on his face a glance of bewilderment, and made no attempt to give his injunction effect. It was fortunate that Hildebrand immediately perceived her hesitation, or the gaoler, whom he heard entering, and had perceived to be alert in his vocation, would have been upon them before she had resumed her disguise. But observing that her presence of mind was completely gone, he drew down her cowl himself; and thus, by a prompt interposition, which surprise could not arrest, deprived the impending peril of half its terror.

He had hardly drawn down her cowl when the gaoler entered. A terrible degree of fear had come over Inez; and by one of those revolutions of the system which it is impossible to account for, and which are effected in a moment—as though the loose thought that they must originally spring from, having snapped under the weight and pressure of the occasion, had shaken and unbraced every faculty—by one of those strange revolutions, her excited nerves were left without restraint, and her imagination without a bridle. A dreadful infatuation fell upon her; and, with this in her mind, she was prompted to throw off her disguise, and yield herself a prisoner to the gaoler. Fortunately, however, her subjection to the morbid influence was but momentary. Recklessness of herself, though it was supreme for an instant, was quickly overtaken by affection for Hildebrand, and, with the magic presence of love, her spirit revived, and her self-possession was recovered.

The gaoler entered with a dogged look, as if he were determined, whether Hildebrand had been confessed or no, that he would allow of no longer conference.

“St. Jago be gracious!” he cried, “hath he not got his shrift yet, father?”

“I have done,” answered Inez, in a feigned voice. “Let him be looked to!”

“Ay, ay, he shall be looked to, I’ll warrant thee,” rejoined the gaoler, with a grin. “That be good, i’faith—very good!”

Inez, who was not disposed to talk, made no reply to his observations, but proceeded in silence to the door. The gaoler followed her, and, drawing open the door, they passed into the passage beyond. Having effected their egress, the gaoler, lingering behind, drew to and secured the door; and Hildebrand was again the sole inmate of the dungeon.

Want of rest had rendered his mind less obedient to its helm than usual; but, for all this, it had derived great solace, and even strength, from the visit of Inez. It may seem a strange anomaly, but observation will prove it to be true, that, after we have been writhing under the pressure of despair, we are most disposed, by the constitution of our nature, to give free room to the least inspiration of hope. This singular fact was exemplified in Hildebrand. He was still unhappy, but, though his prospects had undergone no sensible amelioration, he was no longer hopeless. If his interview with Inez should result in no personal benefit, it at least afforded him an assurance that his situation would be communicated to his friends, and, whatever might be the issue, some effort would be made, he was certain, to set him at liberty.

Revolving these reflections in his mind, the misery of his situation became considerably alleviated; and though, every now and then, as he remembered the nature of his connexion with Inez, and how tenderly she had shown herself to be attached to him, his breast would be visited by an involuntary pang, his fortitude was now fixed on a solid and stable foundation. He was not free, it is true, from the depressing effect of a want of repose; but his thoughts being no longer swayed by distraction, he was better able to seek repose, and more open to its approaches.

Sleep stole upon him insensibly. It was late in the night ere he awoke, and, though not at ease, he felt considerably refreshed. Rising to stretch his limbs, his foot struck against something on the floor; and, with more curiosity than the circumstance seemed to warrant, or his position to admit of, he stooped to ascertain what it was. It was a large flagon, filled with water; and on passing his hand round the outside, he found a small loaf also; and he remembered it was the meal which the gaoler had left him in the morning.

The provision was far from being unwelcome, and Hildebrand, not without a good appetite, proceeded to discuss it. Having finished his meal, and warmed himself by a little exercise, he lay down again, and with some degree of patience waited the coming of day.

Conformably to his expectations, he was visited in the morning by the gaoler, who, as on the preceding morning, brought him his day’s provision. From this time, he was in momentary expectation, through the whole of the day, of hearing from Inez; but every succeeding moment brought him only disappointment. The evening came on, and night; and he was still without intelligence of his anxiously expected visiter.

His suspense sank into depression as the night advanced, and, from the unlooked-for delay, he began to fear that Inez had been unable, by her own unaided efforts, to bring the design which they had concerted into effect. While, however, he was yet pondering on his not unreasonable fear, he thought that he heard footsteps approaching. The matter was not long doubtful; for, before he could well be said to be listening, he heard the massy bolts of the dungeon-door shot back; and by the time he had sprung to his feet (which he did almost instantaneously), the door was thrown open.

Two persons entered, one of whom, from the light which he carried in his hand, Hildebrand perceived to be the gaoler; and he supposed the other to be his expected ally. His supposition was shortly confirmed; for the cavalier, having taken the lamp from the gaoler, came more into the light, and, on near inspection, was seen to wear the guise and appointments of a gentleman.

He was, as Inez had described him, a mere stripling, and seemed to have scarcely seen his sixteenth year. But it was more by his face that his youth was apparent, in his present attire, than by his form. So far as the latter could be seen, through the fall of his deep-brown cloak, it was round and full, and almost matured. At the waist, it is true, it was slender in the extreme; but the broad volume of his chest, and the full and graceful outline of his shoulders, which could be traced on the outside of his cloak, showed that he was well proportioned, and, at a little distance, might be thought to be verging on manhood. His face was almost too beautiful for a man’s; and its resemblance to that of Inez, especially about the nose and eyes, was so striking, that Hildebrand discerned it directly. He wore a light moustache above his mouth, and under his nether lip, where it fell into the chin, a subordinate imperial. But it was his movements, more than anything else, that fixed attention; for his step was like light, and, in its carriage of his person, displayed a grace and dignity surpassing man’s.

It will readily be supposed, from this description, that, however greatly the cavalier might excite Hildebrand’s admiration, his appearance was not calculated to inspire him with a reasonable hope that he would be able to afford him any succour. Hildebrand conceived such an impression of him on the instant. The high expectations that he had entertained were dissipated, and, now that he seemed to have reached a crisis, his heart turned cold with despair.

But he had no time to follow up his gloomy reflections. He had hardly effected his survey of the stranger’s person, by which the feeling described had been prompted, when that individual, without knowing how his thoughts were occupied, drew his attention to other matters.

“Thou mayst retire,” he said to the gaoler.

“May I, forsooth?” answered the gaoler. “By the holy rood, I take it mighty kindly of thee to give me such great licence. Howbeit, I be disposed to stay.”

“How?” rejoined the cavalier. “Did not I give thee the corregidor’s pass?”

“But that said nought of my leaving thee alone with the prisoner,” replied the gaoler, who, with the rapacity of his profession, was looking out for a small douceur. “No! no, Senhor? I’ll even stay, an’ it please thee.”

“Then, shalt thou stay altogether!” cried the cavalier, vehemently. And, drawing a pistol from under his cloak, he levelled it at the gaoler’s breast. “Secure him!” he added to Hildebrand.

It was a happy circumstance that Hildebrand fulfilled this injunction with promptitude, or the nervous agitation of the cavalier’s extended arm, not to mention the tremor of his voice, which, in his utter surprise and consternation, the gaoler did not observe, would have made it immediately apparent that his prowess and resolution might be easily overcome. Before the gaoler could collect himself, however, Hildebrand, favoured by his bewilderment, sprang boldly on his chest, and grappled him in both his arms. They struggled for a few moments with fearful earnestness and energy. Hildebrand’s first assault, while the gaoler was uncollected, had given him some advantage, and he had been enabled to secure the gaoler’s arms; but, as the struggle proceeded, the gaoler gained ground, and got his right arm free. He had his back planted against the door, and one of his short, bandy legs, by way of outwork, pushed between the legs of Hildebrand, so that the latter could not well throw him; and on obtaining the freedom of his right arm, this enabled him to maintain his position with the other, and make his right arm the vehicle of offensive measures. While Hildebrand was striving to throw him to the ground, he dropped his hand into his girdle, and, with a sudden jerk, drew forth a long knife. From the position of Hildebrand, however, he could not use it within, as he had intended; and he was obliged to draw it forth, and seek to stab him in the back.

All this time, the young Spanish cavalier, with a singular and unaccountable indecision, had remained perfectly quiescent. He seemed, indeed (if the truth must be told), to be overwhelmed with fear, and to possess neither the will nor the power to interpose. But his irresolute disposition did not continue. As he saw the long knife of the gaoler raised above Hildebrand’s back, on the point of dealing him a deadly wound, his indecision appeared to vanish, and, whether from the impulse of the moment, or a more manly agency, his spirit to revive.

“Jesu! he will stab him!” he exclaimed.

With these words, he sprang nimbly forward, and seized the uplifted arm of the gaoler with both his hands. At the same moment, Hildebrand, hearing his exclamation, looked up, and perceived his danger. The incident seemed to nerve him with new determination, and, throwing all his strength into his grasp, he seized the gaoler by the shoulders, and threw him bodily to the ground. As he fell, his head came in contact with the wall of the dungeon, and the concussion, with the fall, rendered him senseless.

“’Tis bravely done,” said the young cavalier. “We will now go forth. But, hist!”

“They are footsteps!” whispered Hildebrand.