Leaving the fugitives in that period of their flight with which the last chapter closes, I must, with the benevolent reader's good leave, return to personages whom I have left somewhat too long, and for whom I own a deep interest.

Annie Walton--sweet Annie Walton--stood, as the reader may recollect, conversing with her worthy aunt, Lady Margaret Langley, and had just announced that amongst the voices she heard below was one, the tones of which recalled a person who ought to have been over the sea long before. Now, it may be supposed, and, considering all things, not unnaturally, that she alluded thus vaguely to the Earl of Beverley. Such, however, was not the case; for the voice of Lord Beverley was rich and musical, while the sounds she heard were far from being particularly harmonious; and an oath or two, pronounced in a somewhat loud tone, and intermixed with laughter, were certainly not of the vocabulary which he was most accustomed to employ.

At the same time, the stag-hound which followed them along the passages pricked up his ears with a sharp growl, and took two or three quick steps in advance, as if to spring forward on the first occasion. Lady Margaret chid him back, however. "Who is it, child?" she asked. "Who do you fancy it is? I expect no one."

"I think the voice is that of a certain Captain Barecolt," replied Miss Walton; "not a very pleasing personage, dear aunt, but one who once did us very good service--a brave man and a good soldier, my brother says, but sadly given to gasconade."

"If he be a brave man and a good soldier, a loyal subject, and have done you and Charles good service, he shall be right welcome, Annie," replied the old lady; "and he may gasconade to the moon if he pleases. Down, sir! down! Will you show your white teeth when I forbid you? But what can they be about, Annie? Never did I hear such a bustle. Hark! there is Charles's voice as loud as the other. Come quickly! let us see."

"Quick! out with the horses!" tried the voice of Lord Walton below. "See them out like lightning. Lie there, Francis, for a moment. Call my aunt--call my sister! By heaven, they shall rue it! Which way did they seem to take?"

"They halted before the house," said a faint voice, which made Miss Walton's cheek turn pale; "flushed with their success, they may dare to attack it. Captain, I owe you my life."

"Nothing, nothing, my lord!" rejoined the voice of Barecolt. "But we must be quick, Lord Walton, or their courage may fail, and they may run away, taking her with them. Can I get any better arms? for we had nothing but our swords--'twas that which ruined us."

"There are plenty in the hall," exclaimed Lady Margaret Langley, who was now entering the room in which she had left her nephew. At the same moment, one of Lord Walton's servants appeared at the other door, saying, "The horses are ready, my lord. The people seem going up the lane."

The scene the room presented was very different from that which it had displayed when Annie Walton and Lady Margaret left it. Lying on some cushions which had been cast down upon the ground, was the graceful form of the Earl of Beverley, evidently wounded, and somewhat faint. By his side stood Lord Walton, holding a light in his hand, and gazing down upon his friend's countenance, while two stout countrymen, one with a drawn sword in his hand, appeared a little behind, and the tall figure of Captain Barecolt was seen through the open door in the vestibule beyond, reaching down some arms from the wall.

"Dear Annie--dear aunt--look to the earl," cried Charles Walton. "He is shot through the leg; I cannot stop to tell you more; I must pursue them. Ha! see, he is bleeding terribly--'tis that which makes him faint."

"Go, Charles! go!" exclaimed the earl. "I shall do well enough. The wound is nothing; 'tis but the loss of blood. Quick, quick! away, or you will not catch them."

Lord Walton gave one more look to his friend, and a sign to his sister to attend to the earl immediately, and then quitted the room. The sound of prancing hoofs and jingling arms was heard without, then the creaking of the drawbridge as it was lowered, and then the fierce galloping of horse along the lane. Lady Margaret and Miss Walton knelt by the wounded man's side and asked him regarding his wound; but the voice of Annie was faint and low, and her hand trembled so that she could hardly hold the light while her aunt endeavoured to staunch the blood. More effectual assistance, however, was rendered by the servant William, who ran in the moment he had secured the bridge, and with his aid the wound was soon discovered, pouring forth a torrent of blood from some large vessel cut by the ball, which had passed quite through the leg a few inches below the knee. Lady Margaret, however, had some skill in leechcraft, and William was by no means an inexperienced assistant. Bandages were speedily procured, and with little trouble and no loss of time the wound was bound up and the bleeding stopped.

But few words were spoken while this took place, for good Lady Margaret, feeling herself in a position of authority, imposed silence upon all around her. She was too much occupied herself in her surgical operations to remark the pale countenance and anxious eyes of her niece, or the smile of confidence and encouragement with which the earl strove to quiet her apprehensions.

Just as the old lady had finished her task, however, through the doors of the vestibule and hall, which had been left open, was heard the sharp report of pistol-shots, and a confused murmur as of distant tumult. Lady Margaret started and looked round, murmuring, "Ay, strife, strife! This is the world thereof."

Miss Walton pressed her hand upon her heart, but said nothing, and the earl, giving a glance to the servant William, exclaimed--

"For God's sake, run out and see! Have the drawbridge ready, too. If we could have got in at once, the worst part of the mischief would have been spared."

"I must go--indeed I must," said Annie Walton. "Oh, poor Charles! heaven protect him!" And running out of the room, she crossed the stone court, and bending over the low wall at the further angle, she gazed down the road in the direction from which the sounds appeared to come. Night had now set in, but yet the darkness was not very profound, and Miss Walton fancied that she beheld several moving figures at some distance up the long straight avenue. The next moment there was a flash, followed by a sharp report--then another and another; and on each occasion the sudden light showed her for an instant a number of men and horses, all grouped together in wild and confused strife. The instant after, a horseman came down the road at headlong speed, and Annie Walton exclaimed, "Oh! the drawbridge! William, let down the drawbridge."

"Wait a minute, my lady," replied the servant; "it is not every man that gallops who is coming here."

He calculated more accurately in his coolness than the lady had done in her apprehensions, for the fugitive passed without drawing a rein, and William turned round to give her comfort, saying, "That's a sign my young lord has won the day--or rather the night I should call it. Hark! there are some more coming. It is he this time, for their pace is more quiet."

Annie Walton approached nearer to the bridge, murmuring a prayer to God for her brother's safety, and straining her eyes upon the advancing body of horsemen, who came on at an easy trot down the road. At their head was a figure which she felt sure was that of her brother, but yet she could not be satisfied till she exclaimed--

"Charles, is that you? Are you safe?"

"Yes, yes; all safe," replied the voice of Lord Walton; "some of us a little hurt, but not seriously, I hope. We have made them pay dearly for their daring. Run in, Annie; run in, and I will join you in a minute."

While William and old Dixon unhooked the chains of the drawbridge from the posts and let it slowly down, Miss Walton returned to her room, where she had left her aunt and the Earl of Beverley, exclaiming with a heart relieved--

"He is safe! he is safe!"

Lord Beverley took her hand as she approached his side, gazing earnestly in her face, and saying, "Thank God!"

Annie Walton felt his look and his words almost as a reproach for having forgotten him in her anxiety for her brother; though, in truth, such was far from the earl's meaning, his only thought at that moment being, what might have been the fate of that sweet girl, had she lost both her brother and her lover in one night.

"And how are you, Francis?" said Annie Walton, wishing, with all the frankness of her heart, to make up for her absence by giving him the name she knew he would love the best upon her lips. "Forgive me for leaving you; but, oh! I was terrified for Charles."

Before the earl could reply, there was the sound of many persons' feet in the hall and the vestibule, and the voice of Lord Walton was heard giving various orders, and making inquiries concerning the wounds which his followers had received. It seemed that they were but slight, or at all events that the men made light of them, for they all protested that there was no harm done, and the only one who seemed to complain was the gallant Captain Barecolt, who replied to the young nobleman's inquiries--

"It is the most unfortunate thing in the world, my lord. I had rather the fellow had run me through the body."

"But it is not serious, surely, captain," said Lord Walton. "Let me see."

"Serious, my lord! it is ruin!" replied Barecolt. "It is right across my nose. I am marked for life, so that I shall never be able to conceal myself or pass for Captain Jersval any more."

Lord Walton laughed, replying--

"You will do so better than ever, captain; for you are so well known without the mark that no one will know you with it."

"That is true, too," replied Captain Barecolt; and the next moment Lord Walton, advancing through the vestibule, pushed open the door, which his sister had left ajar, and entered Lady Margaret's sitting-room.

He was not alone, however; for by the hand he led poor Arrah Neil, somewhat pale, and with her hair dishevelled, but perhaps only looking the more exquisitely beautiful, as the large chesnut curls fell wildly round her fair brow, and over her soft rounded cheek.

With a cry of joy and surprise, Annie Walton sprang forward and took the poor girl in her arms, exclaiming--

"Ah, dear Arrah! this is a glad sight indeed!"

But the effect of this sudden apparition upon Lady Margaret Langley was even greater than upon her niece. She gazed upon Arrah Neil with a look expressive of more than wonder; and then hurrying forward, she took her by the hand, fixing her eyes upon her countenance, and asked in a tremulous voice--

"Who is this?"

"It is Arrah Neil, a much-valued friend of ours," replied Annie Walton, unwilling to enter into any explanation of the poor girl's history and circumstances in her presence.

"Arrah Neill," repeated Lady Margaret, in a thoughtful and even melancholy tone, and then, waving her head sadly to and fro, she let go Arrah's hand, retreated to the other side of the room, and, casting herself into her usual chair, fell into a deep fit of thought. At the same time Lord Walton led Arrah to a seat, and bending down spoke few words to her in a low voice, to tranquillize her and make her feel at ease. But, while he was still speaking, the large stag-hound rose up from the side of Lady Margaret's chair, walked slowly across the room, and laid his huge muzzle on Arrah's knee. She showed no fear, and indeed took little heed, only gently patting the dog's head, as he fixed his keen, bright eyes on her face. The next moment, however, he raised himself a little and licked her hand, and Lady Margaret Langley, moved by emotions which she explained to no one, pressed her handkerchief upon her eyes and burst into tears.

Neither Lord Walton nor his sister judged it right to take any notice of the good old lady's agitation; but, while Miss Walton stood beside poor Arrah Neil and conversed with her quietly, making her own remarks meanwhile upon the great change which had taken place in her manners and appearance, the young nobleman crossed the room to the side of his wounded friend, and inquired how he felt himself.

"Oh! better, better!" replied the earl. "It was but loss of blood, Charles: the shot that passed through my leg and killed my charger must have cut some large blood-vessel, and I, not knowing that, went on fighting on foot by the side of that poor young lady, whose horse----"

"I know, I know!" said Lord Walton. "It fell with her. She told me; but what happened then?"

"Why, after a time," replied the earl, "a sort of giddiness came over me, and I fell. The scoundrel Batten had just got his sword to my throat, when that gallant fellow Barecolt, after having despatched another, sprang to the ground beside me and threw the Roundhead back. Two of them were then upon him at once; but, on my honour, we have done him injustice in thinking all his strange stories mere rhodomontade; for hand to hand with them he kept up the fight, giving them blow for blow on either side, with a skill in the use of his arms such as I have seldom seen, till at length I got upon my feet again, and, though staggering like a drunken man, contrived to call one of them off, while he put an end to Batten, sending his sword through and through him, cuirass and all. We then got the lady on horseback, for the other man turned for a moment and ran, and catching Batten's horse, I mounted, and we began our retreat hither. The fellows who had been driven off, rallied however, and charged us just as we got to the gates, for the bridge was up and we could not pass; but Barecolt plunged through the stream, clambered over the wall, and unhooked the chains. We were all by this time in confusion and disarray--I so faint that I could scarcely strike a blow, and the rest scattered about, fighting as they could. We made a stand at the bridge till I thought all had entered, and then raised it. When in the court, however, I found that the poor girl was left behind. That discovery, together with the loss of blood, made me fall as I was dismounting, and they carried me in hither, where I have lain, as you know, ever since. But, hark you, Charles! ask your good aunt if she have not some cordial, as these good ladies sometimes have, which will bring back my strength speedily, for on my life I must go forward tomorrow morning early."

"Impossible, Francis!" replied Lord Walton; "quite impossible. At the best, you cannot travel for a week or more."

"Good faith! but I must," replied the earl. "I have tidings of the utmost importance for the king."

"Then you must trust them to me," replied Lord Walton; "for the journey to York would cost you your life. If it be absolutely necessary for you to see the king yourself; I will send a litter for you and an escort from York; but, if the tidings be immediate, you had better trust them to me."

"It is but weakness--it is but weakness," said the earl. "To-morrow I shall be better. Ask your aunt, Charles, if she have not some of those strength-giving balms that poets and doctors talk of. But what has affected her thus? She has been weeping."

"Indeed, I know not," answered Lord Walton. "I will go and speak to her;" and, moving quietly across the room, he seated himself by the side of Lady Margaret, who by this time had taken the handkerchief from her eyes, and was gazing sadly and steadfastly upon the floor.

"What is the matter, my dear aunt?" he said, in a low tone, "What has affected you thus?"

"A dream, Charles," replied the old lady; "a dream of the past. But it is gone. I will no more give way to such visions." And rising from her chair she advanced directly towards Arrah Neil, and again taking her hand, she kissed her tenderly, saying, "You are so like one that is gone and who was very dear, that I was overcome, sweet child. But I shall love you well, and you must love me too."

"Oh! that I will," replied Arrah Neil; "I always love those that are good to me; and because they have been few I love them the better."

"Right, right!" exclaimed Lady Margaret. "Love few, and love well. But, now to other things. Charles, this noble friend of yours must be carried to bed, there to lie till we are sure the wound will not burst forth again."

"Why, my dear aunt," replied Lord Walton, "his rash lordship tells me he would fain go on to York to-morrow."

"Madness!" answered Lady Margaret; "but all his family were mad before him," she added, in a lower voice. "His father thought to win honour and gratitude by doing good; his mother died of grief. Madness, you see, on both parts. He has told me who he is, so I wonder not at any insanity. Now, I will answer for it, he thinks it a duty to go on; but I will tell him it cannot be. My lord the earl, you are a prisoner here till further orders. It is vain to think to move me. For your dear mother's sake, I will be your jailer, let the business that calls you hence be what it will. So now to bed, my lord: you shall have that which will restore your strength as quickly as may safely be, but we must have no fever if we can help it; and I will tell you plainly, that, were you to attempt to reach York tomorrow, you would go no farther. I will have the people in to carry you to the room prepared for Charles: it is close at hand. He must shift with another."

"Nay, nay!" said the earl; "I can walk quite well, dear lady. I am better now; I am stronger. Charles will lend me his arm."

"Take care, then," replied Lady Margaret, "and do not bend your knee, or we shall have it gushing forth again. Here, tall man, whoever you are," she continued, turning to Captain Barecolt, who entered the room at the moment, "put your hand under the earl's arm, while my nephew aids him on the other side. There--that will do; now, gently. I will go before. Call some of the people, Annie."

Thus aided and escorted, the Earl of Beverley moved easily to the room which had been prepared for Lord Walton on the same floor, while Miss Walton followed anxiously, and paused for a moment while her aunt examined the bandages round his knee. Her lover marked the look of painful expectation with which she gazed; and perhaps no balm in all Lady Margaret's stores could have tended so much to restore health and strength as the deep interest that shone in her eyes.

"Do not be alarmed," he said, holding out his hand to her; "this is a mere nothing, and they are all making more of it than it deserves. Go and comfort your fair companion, for she needs it much; but I shall see you tomorrow--shall I not, Annie?"

The last word was uttered in a low tone, as if he almost feared to speak it; but there are moments when a woman's heart grows bold, and those moments are especially when it is necessary to cheer and to console.

"Oh, certainly, Francis!" replied Miss Walton. "I will see you, beyond doubt: my aunt and I will be your nurses. For the present, then, farewell. I will go and comfort poor Arrah, as you say."

When Annie Walton returned to the room where she had left Arrah Neil, she found her still seated, but with the great stag-hound, now with one paw upon her knee, looking up in her face as if he would fain have held some conversation with her, had he but possessed the gift of speech. Arrah, too, was bending down and talking to him--smoothing his rough head with her hand, and seeming as much delighted with his notice as he appeared to be with hers. As soon as Miss Walton entered, however, she turned from her shaggy companion to her friend, and, advancing towards her, threw herself into her arms. For a moment she remained silent, with her eyes hid on the lady's shoulder, and when she raised them they were wet with bright drops; but Annie remarked, though without one spark of pride, that there was a great difference in the manner of Arrah Neil towards her. There was a something gone--something more than the mere look of deep, absent thought, which used so frequently to shade her countenance. There had been a reserve, a timidity, in answering or addressing her, more than mere humility, which was no longer there. Often had she striven to reassure the poor girl, and to teach her to look upon the family at Bishop's Merton rather as friends than mere protectors; but, though Arrah Neil had ever been frank and true in her words, there seemed always a limit drawn in her manner which she never passed, except perhaps at times when she was peculiarly earnest towards the young lord himself: It had seemed as if she felt even painfully that she was a dependant, and resisted everything that might make her forget it for a moment.

Now, however, that restraint was gone: she gazed upon Annie Walton with a look of deep love; she kissed her as she would have kissed a sister; she poured forth her joy at seeing her again, in words full of feeling--ay, and of poetry; and the lady was glad that she did so. She would not for the world have said one syllable to check such familiarity, for the character and fate of Arrah Neil had been to her a matter of deep thought and deep interest. She felt, indeed, also, that after all that had passed--after the scenes they had shared in, and the anxieties and fears they had felt for each other--Arrah Neil could never be to her what she had formerly been; that there was something more in her bosom than pity and tenderness towards the poor girl; that there were affection, tenderness, companionship--not the mere companionship of hours and of dwelling-places, but the companionship of thoughts and interests, which is perhaps the strongest and most enduring of all human ties. There was even more than all this. The change in Arrah Neil went beyond mere manner; the tone of her mind and of her language had undergone the same: it seemed elevated, brightened, enlarged. She had always been graceful, though wild and strange. There had been flashes of a glowing fancy, breaking forth, though oppressed and checked, like the flickering bursts of flame that rise fitfully up from a half-smothered fire; but now the mind shone out clear and unclouded, giving dignity and ease to every expression and every act, however plain the words or ordinary the movements; and Annie Walton felt that from that hour poor Arrah Neil must be to her as a friend.

"Come, dear Arrah," she said, "sit down beside me, and let us talk calmly. You are now amongst friends again--friends from whom you must never part more; and yet we will not speak now over anything that can agitate you. Lord Beverley tells me you have had much to suffer; and I am sure all the scenes you have gone through this day, and the fatigues you have endured, must have well-nigh worn you out and overpowered you."

"I am weary," she replied, wiping away some drops that still trembled on her eyelids; "but I have not suffered as you would do, were you to pass through the same. It is my fate to encounter terrible things--to pass through scenes of danger and difficulty. Such has been my course from childhood; such, perhaps, it may be to the end of life. I am prepared and ready: nay, more--accustomed to it; and when any new disaster falls upon me, I shall henceforth only look up to heaven, and say, 'Oh God! thy will be done! I am not a garden-plant, as you are, Annie. I am a shrub of the wilderness, and prepared to bear the wind and storm."

"Heaven forbid you should meet with many more, Arrah!" answered Miss Walton. "There are turns in every one's fate, and I trust that for you there are bright days coming."

"Still with an even mind will I try to bear them, be they fair or foul," said Arrah Neil--"more calmly now than before; for much has happened to me that I will tell you soon; and I have found that those things which gave me most anguish have brought me happiness that I never dreamt of finding, and that there is a smile for every tear, Annie--a reward for every endurance."

"You have learned the best philosophy since we parted, dear girl," replied Miss Walton; "and in truth you are much changed."

"No, no!" said Arrah Neil, eagerly: "I am not changed; I am the same as ever--just the same. Have you not seen a little brown bud upon a tree in the spring-time, looking as if there were nothing in its heart but dry leaves? and then the sun shines upon it for an hour, and out it bursts all green and fresh. But still it is the same bud you looked at in the morning. As for my philosophy, if such be the name you give it, I have learned that in the course of this day. As I rode along, now hither, now thither, in our flight from Hull, I thought of all that has passed within the last two or three months: I thought of how I had grieved, and how I had wept when they dragged me away from you and your kind brother; and at the same time I remembered what all that pain had purchased for me, and I asked myself if it might not be always so here, even on the earth. Ay, and more, Annie; if the grief and anguish of this world might not have its compensation hereafter. So, when I found myself surrounded by the troopers without, and saw that good lord borne in here wounded, and the bridge raised behind him, I said, 'Now is the trial; O God! thy will be done.'"

Annie Walton gazed upon her with surprise, increasing every moment; but she would not suffer the effect produced upon her mind to be seen, lest she should alarm and check the fair being beside her: fearing, too, that at any moment one of those fits of deep, sad abstraction of mind should come upon her, which she could not believe to have wholly passed away.

She merely replied, then, "You say, dear Arrah, that the pain you felt in parting with us has purchased you some great happiness. May I ask you what it is?--from no idle curiosity, believe me, but merely because, as I have often shared and felt for your sorrows, Arrah, I would fain share and sympathize with your joy."

"I will tell you; I will tell you all," replied Arrah Neil, laying her hand upon Miss Walton's; "I must tell you, indeed very soon; for I could not keep it in my own bosom, lest my heart should break with it. But I would fain tell him first--I mean your brother, who has been so kind and noble, so good and generous towards a poor girl like me, whom he knew not."

But, before she could conclude the sentence, Captain Barecolt returned from the chamber of the Earl of Beverley, and a conversation interesting to both was brought for the time to an abrupt conclusion.