Isadore and Mrs. Falkland, in the meantime, took the little path towards the brink of the river, in the immediate neighbourhood of which lay the spot where the boy had remarked the footsteps. Mrs. Falkland had lived too long in the great school of disappointment, human life, to suffer her expectations to be greatly excited; but Isadore, with a spirit naturally more enthusiastic, and as yet unchastened by any deep sorrows, felt her heart beat high, and her hopes struggle up against her fears, as she set out to take a more active part than she had hitherto been able to assume in the search for her cousin. The path wound along through the park, meandering considerably, perhaps in conformity to the taste of some ancient layer out of parks, or perhaps in consequence of the usual roundabout and circuitous nature of man's paths. Isadore, like all ardent minds, was tempted to make a more direct way for herself across the lawns; but Mrs. Falkland, in a more practical spirit, remembered that the grass was damp, and that it was not worth while to wet her feet for the purpose of saving half a minute. She adhered, therefore, to the gravel; and, as her more venturous daughter met with a little swamp occasioned by a spring, which obliged her to go round, they arrived at the spot they sought about the same time.

The spot itself, however, needs some description, and, indeed, it has been already described once before, with a special injunction to the reader to remember all the points and bearings which were then detailed. However, lest memory should be treacherous, we will once more take a view of the scene, as it was presented to the eyes of Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, who were at that moment looking exactly west-north-west. Before them was a little shrubbery of evergreens and indigenous plants, kept as low as possible, so as just to hide the wall of the park, against which it rested, and yet not to cut off from the windows of the house a beautiful rocky bank, which rose on the other side of the wall to the height of a great number of feet. This bank formed one of the faces of a small wooded promontory, or rather peninsula, which was joined on to the hills by a narrow neck, over which the high-road passed after having skirted the other wall of the grounds. It was surrounded everywhere but at that point by the river. The summit was covered with rich wood; and down the sides also, in every place where the rock did not rise up abrupt and bare, a thousand various trees and shrubs had rooted themselves in the clefts and crevices, or towered up like pinnacles from the top of every detached fragment, and overhung the calm, still bend of the river, which served as a mirror to all the beauties round about it. The setting sun, with his lower limb just resting on the western hills, was pouring a flood of splendour down the valley of the stream; and his full light bursting upon the face of the rock to the left of Mrs. Falkland and Isadore, found its way round in bright catches of purple light, illuminating every tree and angle of the rock that stood forward before the rest.

Pouring on, too, the beams streamed down the little footway which--cut through the low shrubbery to a door in the wall--led out to another path running from the high-road to the river, between the park and the cliff; and by the clear light thus afforded it was easy to see the marks of which the boy had spoken. They seemed to have been made by some one coming from the grass on the side of the river upon the soft gravel of the path, and had turned suddenly towards the door, where they disappeared, as if the person had passed through. They were small, too, as the boy had described, and were evidently not a woman's; but neither Mrs. Falkland nor Isadore were sufficiently well acquainted with De Vaux's footprints to feel anything like certainty concerning them. It were vain to deny, however, that the hopes of both were raised, though Heaven knows those hopes were vague and indistinct enough. Had either Mrs. Falkland or Isadore been asked what they expected to find, they would probably have answered, "Edward de Vaux;" but had they been required to assign a reason for such expectations, to account for his absence, or to point out any principle upon which he could have abandoned the society of those he loved, and yet linger in their neighbourhood, they would have been embarrassed for a reply. But affection does not pause to argue. Hope, too, is ever most powerful when she triumphs over reason, and, though it may seem a paradox, expectation is never so vivid as when we know not what we expect. Hope, then, as bright as sunshine, but as vague and undefined as that sunshine when it streams through the morning mist, was lighted up by the sight of those footsteps. As Mrs. Falkland gazed on them, and traced them distinctly to the door, she exclaimed, "How very stupid it was of me not to bring the key!"

"I have a key, ma'am," said the boy, groping in the pocket of his jacket; and producing it accordingly, he advanced to the door and opened it. Mrs. Falkland now looked eagerly for more traces; but none were to be seen close to the door, though the ground was composed of a reddish sort of sand, which would easily have taken the print of even a light foot. At the distance, however, of about five feet were to be seen two deep marks of the same kind, but close together, with the heels more profoundly indented in the sand than the front of the foot; and it became evident that some one had leaped from the top of the wall. This was made still clearer, when, turning back, Mrs. Falkland examined the door, on the top of the lock of which several patches of gravel had been left by the foot of some one who had taken that means to reach the summit of the wall. In the mean time Isadore was eagerly tracing on the footprints, which led straight from the deeper marks to the bank; and on one of the large stones close by the river, she soon found the impression of a foot in red sand stamped upon the green mould with which the fragment of rock was covered.

"Here, mamma, here," cried Isadore. "He must have passed here, and that since the rain of last night, too; for if you look, the marks are quite sharp, while some old ones going down towards the water are nearly washed away. I should not wonder if he were here now."

"Hark!" said Mrs. Falkland; "did you not hear a noise above there?"

They listened, but all was silent; and at length Mrs. Falkland added, "We have done wrong, my love, in not bringing more people with us, even if they were but women. The wood is so small and so shut in by the river that it might be searched easily."

"Send the boy back to the house, mamma!" cried Isadore, quickly: "he can bring down the butler, and probably some of the others may have returned. We can remain here, and watch till they come."

"But, Isadore," said Mrs. Falkland, gravely, "it is growing dusk and late, and the place is lonely and obscure: I do not see any good that two women can do here alone."

"Oh, Harry will be back in a moment, mamma," cried her daughter; "and, besides, nobody could hurt us. Any one on the high-road would hear a scream from this place."

Mrs. Falkland still hesitated; but Isadore continued eagerly,--"I will tell you how we can manage it then, so that there can be no danger. Send him back for the people, and you go into the park to the little mound; there you can see the high-road quite across the point."

"But I will not leave you here alone, my love," cried Mrs. Falkland, in some surprise at the proposal: "indeed I cannot think of doing that."

"But, mamma, I have been here a hundred times alone before," replied Isadore; "and, besides, what I mean is, to get up to that little point where Marian and I have sat many a day. When I am there, you will be able both to see me and to hear me if I speak to you; and if any danger were really to happen, I could make the people with the cattle in the opposite meadow hear me, while you could also make them see or hear you from the house; and I set Charlotte at the window to watch."

Mrs. Falkland still hesitated; but Isadore continued rapidly, "Run, Harry, up to the house as fast as ever you can go; bring down Mr. Gibson and any of the men you can find, and do not lose a minute."

"I am afraid that this is not very prudent, Isadore," said Mrs. Falkland, as the boy ran off like lightning; "but I suppose your plan is the best one to follow now that he is gone. I will turn back to the mound then, while you go up there. But if the boy does not return before the twilight grows thicker, come down, by all means."

"I will come down whenever you tell me, mamma," said Isadore; "and I can hear everything you say at the mound."

Without more words, then, Mrs. Falkland hastened to take up her station at a little rising ground in the park, from the summit of which she could see, not only the whole of that part of the high-road which crossed the neck of the little promontory, but also the extreme angle of the cliff above the river. Isadore, in the meanwhile, climbed up by a steep and somewhat rugged path, which had been made at her request some years before, to a small point of rock which commanded a view both up and down the river, and afforded one of the most picturesque landscapes, on either side, that the country possessed.

The height was not more than ten or twelve feet above the stream, and the distance from the mound in the park not a hundred yards, so that any one speaking in a loud voice could be heard from one spot to the other. The ascent, however, while it continued, was steep, and Isadore's heart beat when she reached the top--nor, perhaps, was it the exercise alone that made it palpitate. Although she had not displayed any fear, she was not without some slight degree of alarm; and felt not a little of that sort of excitement and agitation which is not indeed fear, but which often produces very similar effects. She looked back as soon as she reached the point of the rock, but Mrs. Falkland was not yet in sight. Another instant, however, brought her mother to the top of the mound, and Isadore demanded, "You can see the high-road, mamma, can you not?"

Mrs. Falkland did not at first distinguish what her daughter had said, and Isadore repeated the question. Not that in this inquiry she was at all influenced by fear, although it might appear so; but, in truth, Isadore's eagerness to send back the boy for aid, and remain upon the watch, had originated in a little stroke of strategy which was not ill-conceived, considering that it sprang from the brain of a young lady.

That there was some one in the wood above them Miss Falkland was quite convinced; and to ascertain who it was she knew was a great object at the time being. It had instantly struck her, therefore, that, by dividing their forces, her mother taking up a position on the little mound, whence she could see along the whole of the high-road, and down a considerable portion of the little lane under the wall, while she, Isadore, placed herself on the point which commanded a view of two other sides of the promontory, no one could well escape from the wood without coming under the eyes of one or the other of the fair watchers. She did forget, it is true, that, supposing the fugitive to be a man, and that man not her cousin Edward de Vaux, neither herself nor her mother were the least capable of making him stay, and that their hunt might very likely end, while the boy was absent, like a famous hunt of yore, in the catching a Tartar. A vague sort of consciousness, it is true, that such might be the case, impressed itself upon her mind as she climbed to the little point above the river; but still her first question was directed to ascertain whether their line of watch was, as she hoped, secure and complete.

She repeated her inquiry then, in a louder tone, and Mrs. Falkland replied, "Oh, yes, I can see to the river on the other side. But, indeed, Isadore, it is growing very dark. I can scarcely distinguish the house."

Isadore still lingered, however; for the spot where she stood, looking eastward, caught more light than the rest of the scene. She thought she heard a slight rustling sound, too, above her, as of some one creeping through the bushes; and it must be confessed that her heart beat violently. Although, in truth, she now began to think her scheme a little rash, yet curiosity and anxiety for her cousin's fate still kept her where she stood. The next moment, however, she saw some one, indistinctly, pass through the bushes on the edge of the higher part of the bank, and imagination did much to persuade her that she recognised the figure.

"Oh, mamma," she exclaimed, "I see him, I see him!" but the figure was instantly lost behind some more trees. It was evidently still passing on to the eastward, as if to escape in that direction, for the branches rustled as it forced its way through; and Isadore took two steps back to catch another sight of it as it passed before a bare facing of rock at the extreme point. At that moment there was a sudden rush through the brushwood; and ere Isadore could see that it was nothing more than a fragment of rock given way under the foot of the person above, she started back, thinking that it was he himself springing down upon her, lost her footing on the edge of the bank, and, with a shrill scream, fell over into the river.

Mrs. Falkland shrieked also, and rushed forward to the stream; but the height from which Isadore had fallen had caused her instantly to sink, and nothing was to be seen by the mother's eye but the clear glistening expanse of the water, with the reflection of the cliffs, and trees, and banks, and of the fading purple of the sky, broken by a thousand rippling circles, where her child had disappeared. With the loud, piercing, thrilling cry of maternal agony, she shrieked again and again; and, as she did so, springing from rock to rock, with the swiftness and certainty of a wild goat, appeared the figure which Isadore had seen above her. He stood for a single moment on the spot whence she had fallen, and then exclaimed to Mrs. Falkland, below, "Where is she, woman? where is she?"

"There, there!" cried Mrs. Falkland, pointing to the spot; but as she spoke a bit of white drapery floated up to the top of the water, a little farther down the stream. Pharold paused no longer, but leaped from the bank--sank--rose again--and in the next moment, with his left arm round the slender waist of Isadore Falkland, and her head thrown back upon his shoulder, he struck with his right towards the margin, where the soft, meadowy sloping of the park afforded an easy landing-place. There, springing on shore, he laid his fair burden on the grass, but she was pale, and moved not; and Mrs. Falkland gazing with agony on the colourless countenance of her daughter, wrung her hands, exclaiming, "Isadore! Isadore! she is dead! oh, she is dead!"

"No, lady," said Pharold, kneeling down, and looking intently upon the fair face before him--"no, lady! she is not dead, nor has the water had any effect on her. That is not the face of a drowned person. She must have fainted through fear, and will soon recover."

"For God's sake, then, help me, sir, to bear her to the house," cried Mrs. Falkland; "do not, do not hesitate. You who have rendered us such infinite service, do not pause there, but make it complete by bringing her to a place where she may be recalled to life."

"What!" cried the gipsy, "to be taken and thrust into a prison! Do you not know that they are pursuing me on a charge of murder--pursuing me as if I were a wolf? Have you not, yourself, been sending out men to take the murderer Pharold?"

Mrs. Falkland had forgot all other fears in her fears for her daughter; but as Pharold suddenly recalled them, she involuntarily drew a step back, and gazed on him with terror; but it required scarcely the thought of an instant to make her remember that he had saved the life--at least she trusted so--of her only child; that he had risked his own existence to rescue a perfect stranger, and she exclaimed, boldly, "No, no! I will never believe it! You are not--you cannot be guilty. But we waste time--we waste the moments that may save my child. For pity's sake, for God's sake, aid me to carry her home. I have sent, but I see no one coming--they may be long--she may be lost ere they arrive. If you will come," she added, seeing the gipsy still hesitate, "I promise you that you shall go free, and well rewarded,--you shall be as safe as if you were in your own house."

"House!" exclaimed the gipsy; "I have no house! but I will believe you, lady--I will trust you;" and taking Isadore once more in his arms, he strode rapidly and powerfully forward, followed at the same quick pace by Mrs. Falkland.

He took not the way across the green, however, believing that he might there be met by the servants, and his retreat cut off; but passing through the low shrubberies, which were almost as near, he walked on towards the house in silence. Every moment the light was becoming less and less, but he threaded the walks as if he had known them from boyhood, and took all the shortest cuts to abridge the way. At length, however, he paused for an instant, and turning to Mrs. Falkland, he said, in a low voice, "She revives! I feel her breath upon my face!"

"Thank God! thank God!" replied her mother, in the same low tone; and the gipsy then abruptly added, as he resumed his way, "You believe me innocent, then."

"I do, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland; "I cannot believe a person guilty of a cool, deliberate murder, who could so boldly and generously risk his own life to save that of a fellow-creature,--it is not in human nature."

"It is not, indeed," replied Pharold, still striding on; "but why then did you send out men to hunt me as you would a wolf?"

"I sent them not out," she answered; "but when they went, I, too, thought that you might be guilty."

"The memory of your brother," said Pharold, "the memory of him who loved me, and whom I loved as I have never loved any other man, should have made you think differently. Was he a man to love one whose nature led him to deeds of blood?"

"He was not, indeed," answered Mrs. Falkland; "but they charge you with his death, too."

"Ha!" cried Pharold, in a tone of unfeigned astonishment--"ha! that, then, is the well prepared, long-digested lie, is it? That they should accuse me of the gamekeeper's death I thought natural--though I would have given a limb to save him. That they suspected me of Edward de Vaux's, I heard without surprise; for men are always the fools of circumstances, and there were circumstances against me: but that, after twenty years, they should accuse me of the death of him that I loved more than any other thing but liberty, I did not think that villany and impudence could bring about,--and did you believe that, too?"

"No," replied Mrs. Falkland, very willing, by speaking the exact truth, to sooth the irritated mind of a man who had just rendered her so inestimable a service--"no, I did not believe it; and as soon as the charge was made in my hearing, I expressed my disbelief of it entirely."

"So, so!" said the gipsy, "there is some justice left! Lady, when you were four years old, I have carried you in these arms, as I now carry your daughter; and I thank you, at this late hour, for doing justice to one who was loved by those who loved you. No, no; I am not a murderer; and never believe it, whatever they may say."

They were now coming near the house; and Mrs. Falkland, with fears for Isadore somewhat relieved, would fain have asked the fate of her nephew; but at that moment the gipsy spoke again; and though, from the shadow cast by the trees of the shrubbery, she could not see in which way his eyes were directed, the tone of his voice, as well as the words themselves, showed her that he was addressing her daughter. "Be not afraid, lady, be not afraid," he said: "you are quite safe, though in hands that you know not; your mother is behind: lean your head on my shoulder, and keep quite still."

"Are you there, mamma?" said a faint voice, that went thrilling through all the innermost windings of Mrs. Falkland's heart. "Yes, my beloved Isadore; yes, my dearest child," replied the mother, "I am here, close beside you; and, thank God, you are quite safe!"

"Hush!" said the gipsy, "hush! If I am seen, I am lost, remember; and keep silence, if you feel that I have served you."

"Inestimably," replied Mrs. Falkland, in a low tone; and the gipsy, now emerging from the shrubbery, crossed a part of the lawn that lay between the angle of the wood and the house.

In the gray of the evening, a party of two or three persons might now be seen, though indistinctly, following the open path, about half-way across the park towards the cliff. But though he turned his eyes in that direction, the gipsy took no further notice of them; and, approaching the house, directed his course towards a glass door which led out from a small breakfast-parlour upon the lawn. Mrs. Falkland took a step or two forward, and opened the door; and Pharold carried Isadore up the steps into the room, and placed her in safety upon a sofa.

Her first action was to hold out her arms to her mother, with all that flood of gratitude, and tenderness, and joy flowing from her heart, which we feel on being restored to "this pleasing, anxious being," after having thought that we were quitting for ever the warm precincts of the cheerful day. Mrs. Falkland caught her to her bosom, and, locked in each other's arms, they wept as if they had lost a friend.

Well may philosophers say, that man never knows what joy is till he has tasted sorrow. Isadore and her mother had loved each other through life, without one of those petty rivalries, either for authority or admiration, without one of those jarrings of different purposes and opposing wishes which sometimes sap the affection of child and parent. They had loved each other through life dearly, and they knew it; but they did not know how dearly, till fate had nearly placed the barrier of the grave between them, and Isadore, safe and rescued, held her mother, weeping, in her arms. Who can explain such tears? Who can tell why the same drops which flow from pain or sorrow should be companions of the brightest joy? For who can trace the workings of the fine immortal essence within us, in its operations on the frail, weak tabernacle of earth in which it is enshrined?

However, they wept, and wept in silence; for both felt the bosom too full for speech, and both, from the still oratory of the heart, offered up thanks to God for the joy and relief of that moment. Nor was their happiness unfelt by him to whom, under the Almighty, it was owing. The gipsy stood and gazed upon them, with his arms crossed upon his chest, and the light of internal satisfaction glistening in his eye. There was something in the scene before him, and in those who were the actors therein, which connected itself with the long, long past; which woke up the memories of many a year, and which called up a thousand thrilling sensations that long had slept. But he had neither time nor inclination to let his mind rest upon all that chaos of pleasures, and regrets, and wishes, and hopes, and sorrows, and disappointments, which, when memory, awakened from her sleep, draws back the veil from the past, is presented to the eyes of every one who has lived an energetic and stirring existence. While one might count a hundred, perhaps, he paused, and gazed upon Mrs. Falkland and her daughter, giving way to the purest feelings of human affection, and suffered his thoughts to wander wildly over the years gone by; but then, starting from his revery, he remembered that he must depart.

"Lady, I go," he said. "May God bless you and yours, and send you ever, at your moment of need, one as willing and as able to help you as the gipsy has shown himself."

"Stay, stay one moment," said Mrs. Falkland. "You must not, indeed, leave my house unrewarded for the infinite service you have rendered me."

"I am rewarded already, lady," he said; "I am rewarded by what I have seen, I am rewarded by what I have felt, I am rewarded by knowing that there is one at least that can do justice, in her own heart, even to a gipsy. Lady, I must go: my stay is dangerous. Fare you well."

At that moment, however, there was a powerful hand laid upon his shoulder, and as he turned quickly round, he found himself faced by Colonel Manners, who still kept his hold of the gipsy's collar and shoulder, notwithstanding the sudden jerk he gave himself.

"You are my prisoner," said Manners, sternly. "Surrender at once, for resistance is in vain."

"Doubtless, doubtless," answered the gipsy, bitterly. "I have fallen into the trap, and it is useless to writhe. Oh, God of heaven! how often have I sworn never again to do a service to any of these human worms; for, if not punished by their own base ingratitude, some other evil is sure to follow, as if thou hadst sworn vengeance on every one that did an act of kindness to their outcast race!"

"You shall not suffer, however, for your service to me," said Mrs. Falkland, advancing. "I have pledged you my word, and I will redeem it.--Colonel Manners," she continued, "listen to me for one moment: this man has, within this quarter of an hour, saved my daughter's life, at the risk of his own."

"Indeed!" cried Colonel Manners. "May I ask how? I trust Miss Falkland is not hurt."

"No, not at all, I believe," replied Mrs. Falkland. "She fell from the bank into the stream--sunk before my eyes, Colonel Manners; and had it not been for his instant aid, she would have been now no more."

"I am most delighted, indeed, to hear of her escape," replied Manners; "and would to God it had been my fate to render her the assistance, instead of this person, for I should then have avoided a most painful duty. But, indeed, my dear madam, as it is--"

"Nay, say not a word more, Colonel Manners," interrupted Mrs. Falkland, "but hear my story out. He saved my daughter from the stream; he swam with her to land; but she was without sense or motion. I had nobody with me to help me, and I besought him, for the sake of Heaven, to do what my strength was, of course, not sufficient to perform, and to bear her home. He then told me his name; informed me that people were hunting him like a wolf among the woods; and asked if I could expect him to venture into the very midst of his enemies. I plighted my word for his safety--I promised him by every thing sacred that he should meet no impediment in quitting my dwelling; and upon that promise alone he came."

"I am sorry, my dear madam," answered Manners, calmly, but gravely, "that such a promise can only be binding upon yourself. Did it involve merely an act of politeness, of friendship, or of personal sacrifice, I would do anything in my power to oblige you: but there is a higher duty calls upon me than either courtesy or friendship, and I must obey its voice. I have a duty to perform towards the laws of my country--I have a duty to my dead friend; and, at any risk and all risks, I must and will obey it. I wish, with all my heart, that I had met this man anywhere but here; but wherever I meet him, I am not only empowered, but bound, by every principle of law and justice, to arrest him."

"Is there either law or justice, then, in arresting an innocent man?" demanded the stern voice of the gipsy.

"Of your innocence or guilt the law has still to decide," replied Manners. "An accusation of the gravest kind has been made against you, circumstances of strong suspicion have already been discovered to justify the charge. If you be guilty, it is but fit you should be punished; and if you be innocent, doubt not that you shall have equal justice."

"I did not expect this from you, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland, bitterly. "Have you no regard, sir, to my plighted word? Have you no consideration for my honour? I have used entreaties, sir; but I now insist that he shall go; and, if necessary, I will call my servants and make them set him free. He has saved my daughter's life, Colonel Manners; he has come hither in my service, at my prayer, and upon my promise of safety; and if he had killed my brother, he shall go hence unimpeded."

"Madam, I believe you risk that supposition without a suspicion that it may be true," answered Manners. "But I must now inform you, that one of the principal charges against this man is the very fact of having murdered your late brother."

"And the charge is false, Colonel Manners," answered Mrs. Falkland, vehemently. "Whatever he may be now,--whatever he may have become since,--he was not then a man to shed blood, much less the blood of his friend and benefactor. He could have no motive but lucre, and that motive was wanting; for from my brother he might have had whatever sums he required. Nay, more, I have often heard my brother declare, that he would not take what he offered. But, as I have said, Colonel Manners, all other considerations apart, my word is pledged, and he shall go free."

"Noble heart! noble heart!" cried the gipsy. "On my hand rests not one drop of innocent blood, as there is a God above the stars! Neither do I fear death nor dread inquiry; but my liberty is more than my life, and what should I do, for months, a prisoner among stone walls and the vermin of the earth! He talks boldly of arresting me now, when he has got me here with dozens at his back; but let him take me five hundred yards hence, where I was ere I carried your daughter hither,--let him take me to the wood, or the bare hill side, where there are no odds against me,--and then, strong as he thinks himself, let him arrest me if he can."

Mrs. Falkland was going to speak again; and might, perhaps, have spoken angrily, for she was less calm than usual: but at that moment Isadore's voice made itself heard, though but faintly. "Colonel Manners," she said, "Colonel Manners, speak with me for a moment." Manners looked towards her as she lay on the sofa at the other side of the room; and he felt that to hear what she had to say distinctly he must, by going nearer, release the gipsy from the grasp which he still continued to maintain upon his collar. He felt also, what perhaps Isadore had at her heart felt too, that her voice was likely to have more effect with him than that of any one else; and as Manners had a strong inclination to do his duty rigidly, he somewhat feared her persuasions. However, he could not, of course, refuse to comply; but to guard against his prisoner's escape, he instantly locked both the doors of the little breakfast-room ere he approached her. He then--seeing the gipsy stand calmly with his folded arms, as if prepared to wait his decision--drew near, and bending down his head, "I am most happy, indeed," he said, "that you have not suffered any injury."

"And yet you would ruin the person who saved me," said Isadore; "but do not reason with me, Colonel Manners, for I have neither strength nor wit to contend with you. I want to persuade, not to convince you."

"That is what I am most afraid of," answered Manners with a smile.

"Do not be afraid," said Isadore, "but listen. Do you think, Colonel Manners, that a man who could murder Edward de Vaux would risk his own life to save Edward's cousin?"

"It is strange, certainly," answered Manners, "but--"

"Do you think, then," continued Isadore, interrupting him, "that a man who felt himself guilty of murder would go voluntarily to the midst of the friends and relations of the person he had killed, solely for the purpose of carrying home a poor girl that he had just saved from drowning? Your murderers, Colonel Manners, must be curious characters."

Could Isadore have beheld the face of her hearer distinctly, she would have seen that his cheek glowed a little with something like shame; but he answered, "I did not say, my dear Miss Falkland, that I thought him guilty. I only said, that the law required me to keep him a prisoner till he had proved his innocence."

"Well, then, Colonel Manners," rejoined Isadore, "since you do not think him guilty--and I know you do not--since there is every reason to think him innocent--since mamma has plighted her word--since he has saved my life--since he came hither solely to aid me--you must let him go, indeed you must--"

Manners hesitated, and looked doubtfully at the gipsy, as he stood, dark and shadowy, with his arms still crossed upon his bosom, and his eyes bent upon the ground. Isadore saw that a word more would conquer; and though her heart fluttered and her voice trembled to think how important that word might, perhaps, become at some future time, she made up her mind and spoke it, though in so low a tone that it fell on no other ear but his for whom it was intended. "Colonel Manners," she said, "you must let him go, indeed you must--" the words she added were, "for my sake!"

Manners was embarrassed in every way. Who shall say what he would, or what he would not have done "for the sake" of Isadore Falkland? but that was not all--had he really believed the gipsy guilty, he would have had no hesitation; but he did not believe him guilty. The manner in which Mrs. Falkland repelled the idea of his being the murderer of her brother was enough to make Colonel Manners entertain many doubts on a subject where his convictions had never been very strong; and the fact of the gipsy having saved Isadore's life at the risk of his own, and carried her home at the risk of arrest, were so irreconcilable with his guilt, that Manners began to doubt too in regard to the murder of De Vaux. He knew, undoubtedly, that he himself was not the person called upon to judge; but still, of course, his conviction of Pharold's guilt or innocence made a great difference in the degree of eagerness with which he sought to apprehend him.

But there were still several other motives for hesitation, when once he began to doubt. He felt that Mrs. Falkland was perfectly right in asserting, in every way, the inviolability of the promise she had made to the gipsy--he felt that the gipsy had a right to expect that it would be kept. He knew, also, that if Mrs. Falkland chose to call her servants, and order the liberation of the gipsy, in all probability any attempt to detain him would be in vain; and he was conscious, too, that in making the attempt, he was acting, at least, a very ungracious part. Still none of these motives, singly, would have restrained him, had he not felt the strongest doubts of the gipsy's guilt; but when a great many different motives enter into a conspiracy together to change a man's opinion, they are like smiths engaged in forging a piece of red-hot iron,--one gives it a stroke with his sledge-hammer, and another gives it a stroke, till, hard as it may be, it is moulded to their will. Manners, however,--although he might be led by many considerations to temper the stern rigidity of duty,--was not a man to abandon it altogether; and, therefore, he sought a mean which, as it was only at his personal risk, he thought himself justified in following, in order that Mrs. Falkland's promise might be held inviolate, and, perhaps, that Isadore might be obeyed.

"Well!" he said, after a moment's consideration. "All this business has happened most unfortunately, that I should meet a man here whom I am bound to apprehend, and who yet is guarded by a promise of safety. However, Mrs. Falkland, although I cannot abandon my own duty, yet I must do what I can to reconcile it with the engagement under which this person came here. I think you said," he added, turning to Pharold, "that if I would take you to the wood, or the bare hill-side, with no odds against you, I might arrest you if I could--did you not?"

"I did," said Pharold, "and I repeat it."

"Then we are agreed," said Colonel Manners. "I will do so, although I am fatigued and exhausted."

"Who has a right to be the most fatigued?"' cried the gipsy. "Have I not been hunted since the morning from wood to wood? Have I not had to double and to turn like a hare before the hounds? Have I not twice swam that quick stream? Have I had repose of mind or body, that you should talk of fatigue?"

"Well, well," said Manners, "all this matters little. I accept the proposal which you have yourself made; and I thus specify the terms. Though accompanied by me, you shall go free from this place in any direction that you please for one quarter of an hour; a space of time fully sufficient to put you out of all danger of being overpowered by numbers. At the end of that time you are my prisoner."

"If you can make me so," cried the gipsy: "if you can make me so."

"Agreed," replied Manners: "that is what I mean, of course; otherwise our agreement would be of no use."

"Colonel Manners," exclaimed Isadore, calling him back to her, for, in speaking, he had advanced a little towards the gipsy and Mrs. Falkland, "for God's sake, do not go. You do not know what may happen. Indeed, indeed, it is risking a valuable life most rashly. Let me persuade you not to go."

She made Colonel Manners's heart beat more rapidly than ever it had done in his life; for to a man who felt as he did, and who had nourished the fancies that he had, to hear the voice of beauty, and worth, and gentleness pleading to him for his own safety, was something much more agitating than the roar of artillery, or the rush of charging squadrons. Isadore spoke, too, in a voice low, from an effort not to appear too much interested, and a little faint, too, perhaps, from late agitation and exhaustion; so that there was, in fact, a great deal more of tenderness in her tone than she at all wished or intended.

"Nay, nay, Miss Falkland," answered Manners, who, in this instance, though gratified, could resist--"nay, nay, I have yielded as much as I can, indeed. I must either arrest this man here, or, out of respect to your mother's promise and to your entreaties, must let him depart to a spot where we may stand man to man, and then do my best to apprehend him there."

"Oh, let him go altogether, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland; "the one charge made against him is false, depend upon it; and in regard to Edward de Vaux, surely his conduct in saving Isadore may be taken as a proof that he is innocent there also. Why should you risk your life in a struggle where you know not how many may come against you?"

"Lady, you do me justice and injustice in the same breath," said the gipsy; "not one hand should be added to mine against his, if the whole world were inclined to assist the gipsy, instead of to oppress him. But at the same time, I tell him, as I have told you, that not a drop of innocent blood is upon this hand; that it is as pure as his own, and that I am more truly guiltless than those who boast their innocence and sit in high places."

"I think," said Manners, turning to Mrs. Falkland, "that we must here end all discussion, my dear madam. My mind is perfectly made up as to what it is my duty to do. The risk, in this instance, is merely personal; and from such I will never shrink; and I feel very sure, also, that there is no chance of failure."

"Be not too sure," said the gipsy.

"But, Colonel Manners," urged Isadore, "if this person will give us what information he possesses--if he will tell us what has become of Edward--if he will explain all, in short, will it not be better to gain those tidings, and let him go quietly, than to hazard so much on a chance which may be productive of no results?"

"But will he make such a confession?" said Manners; "will he give such information?"

The gipsy was silent; but Mrs. Falkland anticipated his answer. "Doubtless he will," she said, "if you will undertake to let him go free when he has done."

"Solely, if he can prove that Edward de Vaux is alive," answered Manners. "Words, my dear lady, can be of no use--I must have proof before I let him depart. He must not alone tell me what has become of my poor friend, but he must convince me that what he has told is true; otherwise I part not from him."

"I know not well," replied the gipsy, "whether I have even a right to tell what I know; and how can I prove it, without remaining in your hands, and under the curse of a roof where I can scarcely breathe, till those come who would thrust me into a prison, one month of which were worse than a thousand deaths? No, no! I neither will speak to be disbelieved, nor stay to be tortured, if I can win liberty by facing, singly, a thing of clay like myself. If you will keep your word with me, keep it now. If you would not play me false, throw open your door, and go out with me to a place where you shall see whether, with God's free air blowing on my cheek, and God's pure sky above my head, any single arm on earth can stay me, if I will to go." As he spoke, however, two or three dim indistinct forms passed across the windows, which still admitted the faint lingering twilight of an autumn evening, and the gipsy, dropping his arms by his side, listened for a moment attentively. "It is too late," he exclaimed, at length--"it is too late. You have kept me till the bloodhounds have come back; and you shall have the joy of seeing them worry their quarry before you."

"What is it you mean?" cried Manners. "Of what bloodhounds do you speak?"

"He means what, I am afraid, is too true, Colonel Manners," said Mrs. Falkland, in a tone of bitter disappointment; "that Mr. Arden and the people sent to search the wood have just returned; and that, therefore, notwithstanding my word and your proposal, his apprehension in my house is the recompense he will receive for saving my daughter's life."

"Do not be afraid, my dear madam," said Manners, "I will find means to keep my word with him; but let us be sure that it is as you suppose, before we risk going out into the park. I think I hear sounds in the hall also."

Every one was silent; and the noise of distant footsteps and voices speaking was heard from the hall and vestibule; and in a moment after, some persons approached the very room in which Manners and the rest were standing.

The steps passed on, however, to the library; and at the door thereof paused immediately after, while the voice of the old butler said, "She is not there, sir," and the feet returned. They then heard the door of the music-room, which lay on the opposite side, open; and the butler again said, "Nor there." The next moment a hand was laid upon the lock of the very door near which they were standing, and Manners held his finger to his lips in sign of silence. The old man made one or two ineffectual attempts to turn the lock, and then repeated, "Nor there either; for the door is locked for the night--though it is very odd the housemaid should take upon herself to lock up the rooms when I am out. I am sure I cannot tell where my mistress is, sir, nor Miss Falkland either, unless they have both been spirited away, like poor Mr. Edward; for they certainly are not up-stairs in either of the drawing-rooms, nor at the place where the boy told me he left them. But now I think of it, I should not wonder if they were in poor Miss Marian's room; and if you will walk up into the drawing-room, sir, I will send to see."

"Do, do," said the voice of Mr. Arden; "but it is very strange that they should have left the spot so suddenly, when they sent for you to come to them. Why did you not search the wood directly? It is not bigger than my hand."

"Oh, sir, I set the boy and the two others we had called to help us to search," replied the butler; "but I came back again, because it was not my place to search woods, sir; and, besides, I had a presentiment that your honour would be here."

"The devil you had," said Mr. Arden; but what the worthy magistrate further replied was lost as he followed the butler up the stairs towards the drawing-room.

"Now, my dear madam," said Manners, in a low voice, "let me advise you instantly to join Mr. Arden, and to keep him engaged till I can effect my retreat with our friend here; and you, my dear Miss Falkland, for God's sake do not forget yourself any longer; we have treated you very ill already, to keep you here so long in wet clothes. I am not very much accustomed to act as physician to ladies; but if I might advise, going to bed and warm negus would be my prescription."

"Which I shall instantly follow, Colonel Manners," said Isadore; "but, for Heaven's sake, take care of yourself too. Let us see you gone before we open the door."

"No, no," answered Manners; "yours must be the first party to march off: I cannot move till I have reconnoitred the ground." Thus saying, he turned the key and opened the door as silently as possible, and Mrs. Falkland and her daughter passed out into the corridor. Isadore paused for a single instant, as if she would have spoken either to Manners or the gipsy; but the former held up his finger, and gently closed the door that led from the breakfast-room into the interior of the house.

"Now, then," he said in a whisper to the gipsy, "let me see that all is safe;" and opening the glass door, he gazed forth over the lawns. The twilight lay heavy over the whole scene, and the dim indistinctness of the day's old age rendered it impossible to see any distant object. There was no one, however, in the immediate neighbourhood of the house; and Manners, looking back into the room, beckoned the gipsy forward, saying, "Now, come with me."

Pharold instantly complied; and Manners whispered, "While we are in the park, you remain under my guidance and protection. As soon as we are safe out of it, you take the lead which way you will."

The gipsy nodded, and Manners took his way by the shortest cut to the trees. Then taking a walk which led up by some steps and a small rustic door into the garden, he crossed over, till they were both between the fruit-wall and a high holly hedge. Along this path he now walked rapidly, till they reached a spot half way between the house and the gate through which, with Isadore and Marian, and Edward de Vaux, he had once walked out into the woods. Here the gipsy halted for a moment, but then followed on without remark. The next instant, however, Manners heard in the bushes a noise of rustling, which the gipsy had before distinguished; and ere he had taken two steps farther, a man stood before him in the walk.

"Are you the gardener?" said Manners, still advancing.

"Yes," said the man. "What if I be?"

"Why, then, go to the house," said Manners, "and if you find Mr. Arden, the magistrate, there, give him Colonel Manners's compliments, and tell him that if he will wait half an hour, I will be back with him, as I have matters of importance to speak to him about, but am obliged to go a little way with this good man ere I can attend to anything else."

"I beg your honour's pardon," said the gardener; "I did not know you in this dark walk. That made me speak so rough; but if your honour be going out by that ere door, it's locked. I have just been locking it."

"Well, open it again, then, gardener," said Manners, "and then make haste and give my message."

"That I will, your honour," answered the gardener, walking on towards the door. "But did your honour say that this here man was along with you? He looks--"

"Never mind what he looks," answered Manners, somewhat sternly. "He has matters of importance to arrange with me, or he would not be here; so make haste and open the door."

The man obeyed, and only demanded further, whether he should leave the key. "No," said Manners; "I will return by the other gate.--Now go out, my good friend, and lead the way to the place you spoke of." Pharold proceeded through the open door; and Manners, bidding the gardener not forget his message, followed out into the road.