"This is a strange business!" thought Manners, as he followed the gipsy into the road. "This is a strange business; and, on my part, not a very wise one, I believe. However, there seemed no other way to settle it; and having acted for the best, I must make the best of it; though, perhaps, I should have persisted in apprehending the fellow, where I had the means of doing so, at once."

Such were the thoughts of the decided, energetic, acting Colonel Manners, who was known to the world at large as one of the most skilful and fortunate officers in his majesty's service; but the other Colonel Manners--the feeling, generous-hearted, somewhat imaginative Colonel Manners, who was only known to himself and a few very intimate friends, as a man both of the most gentlemanly mind and spirit, and of the most liberal and kindly disposition--had other thoughts. I have tried to explain this union of separate characters in the same bosom already; and I think it may be understood, for it is certain that it existed.

The latter Colonel Manners--whose great principle was to keep out of sight, and who spoke so low that, though he generally, sooner or later, made himself obeyed, he was not always very distinctly heard at first, even by his fellow-denizen of the same noble bosom--now revolved the whole business in which he was engaged in a different manner; and although he could not help acknowledging that it was very strange and very silly to yield to doubtful inferences, in opposition to positive facts, yet he felt a strong conviction that the gipsy whom he followed was not guilty of the crimes laid to his charge.

He wished much also that, by any other means than those of violence, he could obtain such evidence of Pharold's innocence, or at least such powerful motives for believing him innocent, as might justify in the severer eyes of understanding that course which was prompted by feeling and kindness. He saw no means of doing so, however, unless from the man's own lips he could draw some explanation of the many suspicious circumstances which existed against him. Yet how to begin such a conversation as might lead to that result, or how to shape his inquiries so as to draw the gipsy on to the point in question, without alarming him at an interrogation of which he did not see the end? It required some thought, and yet there was little time for reflection.

Manners followed, therefore, in silence for some way, while the gipsy, with a quick step, took the path towards the hill. At the turn of the lane both Manners and Pharold looked back towards the gate of the garden, to see whether curiosity might not have tempted the gardener to follow; but though the light of day had now almost entirely left the sky, yet the distance was so short that the garden wall and the closed door were plainly to be seen, without any other object. A little farther on stood a cottage, with the warm fire and the single candle within flashing faintly through the dim small window, on the little bit of white railing before the door. Manners paused, and looked at his watch by the light; and then following the gipsy, he said, in a low and unconcerned tone, "There is an air of comfort even in an English cottage."

His purpose was to begin a conversation by any means, trusting to chance for the rest; but the gipsy did not seem disposed to render it a long one. "Holes for rats, and for mice, and for snakes, and for foxes!" he said; "God's nobler sky for God's nobler creatures! that is the best covering."

He spoke harshly, but still he did speak, which was all that Manners wanted; and he replied, "Do you think, then, that God gave men talents, and skill, and power in many arts, without intending him to make use of them?"

"Not to build up molehills out of dust and ashes!" said the gipsy.

"But how is he to defend himself, then, against the storm and the tempest?" demanded Manners; "against the midday heat of summer or the chill wintry wind?"

"He needs no defence!" answered the gipsy. "Were he not the creature of luxury rather than of God, the changing seasons would be as beneficial to his body as they are to those of the beasts of the field, and to the earth of which he and they are made. And as to storm and tempest, the searching blade of the blue lightning will strike him in the palace as surely as on the bare hill or the barren moor; and the hurricane that passes by the wanderer on the plain will cast down their painted rubbish on the heads of the dwellers in cities."

Manners saw that, as the lines of their ideas set out from the same point in directions diametrically opposite, they might be projected to all eternity without meeting; and therefore he at once brought the conversation nearer to the real subject of his thoughts. "We differ," he said, "and of course must differ, on every subject connected with the manners and habits of mankind; but there is one point on which, I trust, we shall not differ."

"I know none," said the gipsy, abruptly. "What is it?"

"It is, that the creatures of the same God," Manners exclaimed, "are bound to assist and comfort each other!"

"If such be your thoughts," answered the gipsy, turning round upon him--"if such be your opinions, then, why do you seek to torture me? Or is it that you think a gipsy not a creature of the same God as yourself?"

"I seek not to torture you," answered Manners. "Were I to see any one torture you, my hand would be the first raised to defend you. Nothing that you see of me now--nothing that you saw of me when last we met--should make you suppose that I would torture you, even if I had the power."

"I tell you," answered the gipsy, sternly, "that to live one day in the brightest saloon that the hands of folly ever decked for the abode of vice, would be torture to me! What, then, would be a prison?"

"Whatever your own feelings might make it," answered Manners. "My purpose in seeking to place you in one, could only be to fulfil the laws of my country, and to bring the guilty to justice; but not to torture you. Nor, in this, can you accuse me of looking upon you not as a fellow-creature; for, of whatever race the offender had been, you know I would have done the same under any circumstances; though your peculiar feeling respecting liberty might, indeed, make me more scrupulous in arresting you than I should be in regard to a person of another race."

"And have you been so scrupulous, then?" demanded the gipsy, bitterly. "Have you examined so carefully whether you have any real right to suspect me of the charges brought against me? Have you inquired whether those appearances on which the charges were grounded might not be all false and futile? Have you asked and searched out diligently whether some of those men who witness against me have not hatred and fear of me at their hearts? Have you done all this, before you sought to give me up to the hands of those whose enmity and whose prejudices would all forbid justice to be done me?"

"I am not the judge," answered Manners; "and a judge alone can make such inquiries."

"Are you, then, a tipstaff, or a bailiff, or a turnkey?" demanded the gipsy, "that you should pursue me, as if the warrant were placed in your hands for execution!"

"I am neither of those persons you mention," Manners replied; "but every subject of this land is empowered and called upon to apprehend a person against whom a warrant on a charge of murder is known to have issued. But to return to what I was saying: in construing the power thus placed in my hands, I should always be more scrupulous to a person of your class--or nation, if you like the word better--because I know how galling the loss of liberty must be to one who spurns even the common restraints of cities; and could I have any positive proof that the warrant had issued against you on a false charge, I certainly should not attempt to execute it."

"On what charge did it issue?" demanded the gipsy, turning for a moment to ask the question, ere he again strode on.

"You are aware that there are many charges against you," replied Manners; "but the precise one to which you allude is, I believe, the having murdered my poor friend Edward de Vaux."

The gipsy laughed aloud. "Were that all," he said, "it were soon disproved. His blood is not upon my hand."

"Disprove it, then!" exclaimed Manners, who, from the whole tenour of the gipsy's conversation, felt more and more convinced of his companion's innocence at every step they took. "Disprove it, then! Other charges have been brought since; but I know nothing of them, except that one of them, as far as I can judge, is certainly false. Therefore, if you can but show me that the blood of my poor friend De Vaux does not stain your hand, I will leave you directly to follow what course you please; but if you cannot do so, we are now upon the bare hill-side, where there is none to aid either you or me; and you shall go no further, if I can stop you."

A man may be a very clever man, and not able to calculate all the curious turns of another's character; and it so unfortunately happened that Manners, after having led the gipsy very nearly to the point he wished, overthrew at once everything he had accomplished by the threat with which he concluded. He was sorry for it as soon as it had passed his lips, as he instantly felt it might do harm; but he did not at all calculate upon its producing so great effect as it did.

The gipsy took two steps forward, and then turning round, stood with Manners face to face. "Colonel Manners," he said, "not one drop of your friend's blood stains my hand!--I swear it by yon heaven, and by the God who made it! I could prove it, too; but I will not prove it for any man's threats. You say I shall not go, if you can stop me! I am not bound yet, thank God! with cords or chains. I am not laid in one of your dungeons. I am not shut in with bolts and bars. I will not tell you what I know! I will not give you proof of any kind; and I bid you take me, if you can." As he thus defied him, and announced his determination, Manners expected every moment to see Pharold turn to use the speed for which his limbs seemed formed; and although the gipsy was, as we have said, two paces in advance of him, he did not doubt that he should be able to seize him before he could effect his escape. The ground on which they were standing was a small flat space on the side of the hill, with the road, taking a steep ascent four or five paces beyond, and having a deep descent on one side, and a rapid acclivity on the other. Thus, if the gipsy attempted to fly along the road, Manners saw that he must necessarily turn to do so, and thus delay his flight; while, if he took any other way, he must come within reach. To Colonel Manners's surprise, however, the gipsy did not move from his place; but remained with his arms folded, in an attitude of determination, which very plainly spoke the resolution of bringing the affair to a personal struggle. Manners smiled as he perceived his intention, very confident that his superior muscular strength would at any time enable him to overpower two such antagonists.

"My good fellow," he said, "this is really very foolish; for even if you suppose yourself stronger than I am, I could disable you in a moment, if I thought fit, with my sword. As you seem determined to resist, however, I will make myself even with you in point of arms, and lay aside my sword, which I cannot draw upon an unarmed man; but it must be remembered--"

"Keep your sword, Colonel Manners," said the gipsy--"keep your sword, and draw it! I am not so much unarmed as I look:" and, as he spoke, he drew from beneath his long loose coat the weapon with which, as we have seen, he had provided himself in the morning.

Now there was not exactly at that moment what Sir Lucius O'Trigger calls very good small-sword light. The sun was down completely; and though the last gray gleam of parting daylight that lingered still in the western extremity of the valley, and was reflected from the windings of the glassy stream, fell, with all the force it had left, upon the spot where Manners and his antagonist were standing--though two or three stars were early looking through the mottled clouds, and the coming moon threw some light before her--still, his powers of vision must have been strong who could see, as clearly as is desirable, the playing of an adversary's point round his sword-blade. Manners, however, did not hesitate. He was becoming a little irritated at the tone of bitter and, in some degree, scornful defiance which the gipsy assumed; and although it was not in his nature to be very much moved by any thing of the kind, yet he went so far as to think, "Well he shall soon find that a gipsy is not quite so all-accomplished a genius as he imagines! I have had a droll fate here, certainly; to be called out by my friend's father, and to fight a duel with a gipsy!--The consequences be upon your own head, my good friend!" he added, aloud, bringing round the hilt of his sword, and drawing it from the scabbard. "I do not wish to hurt you, but you force me to do so."

"Be it on my head!" said Pharold; and their blades crossed.

There are two sorts of brave men--one which gets warm and impetuous in action and danger, and one which gets calm and cool. Manners was of the latter sort. Perhaps there never was upon the face of the earth a man whose heart applied to itself the idea of danger less than his; and, consequently, he acted as if he were a spectator, even where peril to himself was most imminent. In the present instance, he soon found that he had much underrated the skill of his opponent; for, if he had not a very theoretical, Pharold had at least a very practical, knowledge of the use of his weapon; and his singular agility and pliancy of muscle added many an advantage. Manners was sincerely sorry to find that such was the case: not that he imagined for a moment that all the gipsy's skill or activity would suffice to injure him, but he wished and designed to master his opponent without hurting him; and this he felt would be very difficult, if not impossible. He strove for it pertinaciously, however, for some time; and hazarded something himself in order to obtain that object. At length, however, he became weary of the contest, and saw that he must soon bring it to a termination somehow, although he still felt an invincible disinclination to risking such a lunge as might deprive his adversary of life. He determined, then, to play a game hazardous to himself, though merciful to his opponent; and, aided by his superior strength and height, he pressed the gipsy back against the hill as vehemently as he could. In his haste, he barely parried a lunge, and the gipsy's sword went through the lappels of his coat: but the advantage was gained; and at once disarming his adversary, he closed with him, cast him to the ground, and set his knee upon his chest.

The contest, in all, had continued for some time; but the last struggle was over in a moment; and ere Pharold well knew what had occurred, he found himself on the ground, with the sword of the British officer at his throat. He lay there, however, calm, still, stern, without making even one of those instinctive efforts to shield his bosom from the weapon, from which a less determined spirit could not have refrained.

"Now!" cried Manners--"now, will you give me the explanation I seek?"

"Never!" answered the gipsy, in a low but firm voice--"never!"

Manners hesitated for a moment; but then, withdrawing his knee from the gipsy's breast, he returned his sword into the scabbard. "I will try other means!" he thought--"I will try other means!"

Through the whole of the events which had lately passed, Manners had been gradually gaining a deeper insight into the character of the gipsy, and had learned to appreciate him better than at first; but still there was much to be considered, much to be calculated; and many a conflicting opinion, and many an opposite feeling, crossed Manners's bosom in the short space of time that was allowed for thought. He did not forget the various circumstances which had led him to believe that his friend had been murdered by the gipsy, and all of which remained unexplained; but he remembered, also, how fallacious circumstantial evidence often is; and he set against those circumstances of suspicion the positive fact, that the gipsy had saved the life of Isadore Falkland at the peril of his own, and had carried her to her mother's house at the imminent risk of being arrested. The high character which Mrs. Falkland said he had borne in the past, the regard which she had hinted that her deceased brother had felt towards him, all tended to show that he was a man of no ordinary qualities; and although, in the absence of such knowledge of his character. Manners might have judged his obstinate refusal of all explanation as a proof of his guilt, yet, seeing that in every thing else his motives and his actions were different from those of ordinary men, he judged that it might be the same in this instance also. "I will try extraordinary means with him, too," thought Manners; "and perhaps I may gain more by it than by following the dictates of rigid duty to the letter."

"Why will you not explain?" he added, aloud. "It would save both you and me from many a painful occurrence."

"Because I will not be compelled to any act under the sun!" answered the gipsy, who had only taken advantage of the degree of freedom which he now possessed to raise himself upon his arm.

"Then you shall not be compelled!" answered Manners, to whom his answer had given the right key to his obduracy--"then you shall not be compelled! but you shall be persuaded. Stand up, Pharold, and listen to me, as to one who does not feel towards you as you would make yourself believe that all our race do towards yours. You have seen my conduct--you see it now; and you must judge of me better than you lately did."

The gipsy hung his head. "You have kept your word with me," he answered. "You have brought me to a place where no odds could be found against me; and you have vanquished with your own weapons at your own trade. What more?"

"I have spared you when I might have hurt you," replied Manners; "and now I let you go free when I might make you a prisoner--"

"You let me go free!" cried the gipsy, in a tone of astonishment--"you let me go free! and without conditions, too?"

"Without any conditions," answered Manners, "but such as your own heart shall lay upon you, when you have heard all that I have to say to you."

"Then you, too, are one of the few noble hearts," answered the gipsy, rising; "and I have done you injustice."

"There are more noble hearts in the world," Manners rejoined, "than you know of, my friend. But listen to me, and let me see if yours be a noble heart too. Edward de Vaux is, or was, my friend and my companion in arms. We have stood by each other in battle; we have attended each other in sickness; we have delivered each other in danger; and, had he been my brother, I could not have loved him better. I find that, the night before last, he left his home when all the family were at rest; that he went to visit one with whom he had no known acquaintance or business; and that he never returned to those he most loved. Was it not natural for me to search for him with all the rapidity in my power?"

"It was! it was!" answered the gipsy; "and I have judged you harshly."

"I did search for him," continued Manners; "and I found, by footmarks in the earth, that he had gone with the stranger whom he had visited to a lonely quarry, and that from that spot his footsteps are not to be traced. This afforded some cause for suspicion and apprehension; but when the place where his steps disappeared was all stained and dabbled with blood, what was I to think?--what was I to do?"

"To think that he was murdered, and to pursue the murderer," answered Pharold, boldly; "and I have done you wrong: but the habit of suffering injustice and indignity from your race irritates ours into believing that you are always unjust; and, in this instance, the consciousness of my own innocence, too, hid from my eyes one-half of the appearances against me."

"You judge wisely, and you judge well," answered Manners. "There were strong appearances against you; and there were also many minor facts which swelled those appearances into proof so positive of my friend's death and of your guilt, that I should have been unworthy of the name of his friend--unworthy of the name of a man--if I had not pursued you as I have done."

"You would!" answered the gipsy.

"And yet, notwithstanding all this," continued Manners, "I tell you, honestly, that I believe you innocent. I may be foolish to do so--the prepossession may be false--the motives for such belief may be slight; but yet that belief is strong. With powerful evidence against you I felt convinced of your innocence; and, with the power to take you, I let you go free."

Manners paused for a moment, and the gipsy, with his hands clasped and his eyes bent upon the ground, remained silent, buried, apparently, in deep thought. "Now," continued Manners, after suffering him to revolve what he had said for a few moments--"now, I have spoken to your understanding, and I have shown you that my conduct in pursuing you has been fully justifiable, and that I am not one of those unjust and ignorant fools who entertain a base prejudice against the whole of your race, which but serves to drive them on to acts of reckless evil. I have treated you generously--I have not consulted even rigid duty; and leaving you free to act, I now speak to your heart."

"Speak on! speak on!" said the gipsy. "You speak language that I love to hear."

"I have told you," said Manners, "how I esteem Edward de Vaux; I have told you how intimate have been the bonds that united us--how dear the friendship that we felt; judge, then, of my feelings now, as I stand before you, not knowing whether he be dead or alive, well or ill, murdered or in safety. But hear me further.--There is every reason to believe him lost for ever; and in that belief, not only I, his friend, must remain, but all who loved him--all to whom he is bound by the dearest ties; and I leave you to conceive the agony of suspense which they now endure. Mrs. Falkland--her daughter, whose life you have so lately saved--De Vaux's father, Lord Dewry--"

The gipsy started, clenched his white teeth, and shaking his hand furiously towards the sky, exclaimed, "May the vengeance of God fall like a thunderbolt on his head, and wither his heart to ashes!"

"Well, well!" said Manners, seeing that he had struck a wrong chord, "pass him by; for there are others more interested than he, than I, than any of us. There is a young lady, fair, and gentle, and delicate, beloved by all who know her, blessed by the poor and the afflicted, the ornament of her house, the delight of her friends; and to her own immediate family, the cherished, the beloved relic of a noble, a generous, a feeling parent early snatched away--of a parent whom I have heard that you yourself esteemed and loved--of the late Lord Dewry, I mean; for the lady I refer to is Miss De Vaux."

"What of her? what of her?" demanded the gipsy eagerly: "but I guess! I guess!"

"It is easy for you to imagine what she must feel," said Manners. "She has been, as probably you know, engaged to her cousin De Vaux for several years, and they have loved each other through life. Their affection has grown up with them from childhood, and has been strengthened by every tie, till at length their marriage, which was appointed to take place in a few weeks, was to have united them for ever. Judge, then--judge what must be her feelings now; but I will not attempt to tell you what those feelings are--I will only tell you in what situation she now is, and leave you to judge for yourself. This very evening, the medical man who is attending her, assured me that the anxiety and apprehension which she has suffered on account of her cousin, have already seriously impaired her health; and that great fears, even for her life itself, are to be entertained, if this state of mental agony is not soon put an end to by certainty of some kind."

"That alters the whole," cried the gipsy--"that alters the whole! But let me think a moment--let me think!"

"Yes!" said Manners; "think of it,--and think well!--think what must be the feelings of a young and affectionate heart, which, early deprived of the sweet relationships of parent and child, had fixed all its best and warmest affections upon one who well deserved its love,--had concentrated upon him alone all those feelings of tenderness and regard which are generally divided among a thousand other objects; and which had so lately seen him return from scenes of danger and strife to peace and quietness, and, as all fancied, to love and domestic happiness;--think what must be the feelings of such a heart, when the object of all her thoughts and hopes is suddenly and strangely torn from her--when every trace of him is lost, but such as naturally and strongly lead the mind to conclude that death of a bloody and violent nature is the cause of his prolonged and extraordinary absence.--Think--think well what must be the feelings of Miss De Vaux, his promised bride--think what must be my feelings, as his companion and friend; and, if your heart be other than of stone, sure I am that you will instantly afford the means--if you possess them--of removing all these cruel doubts and fears, and relieving our anxiety, at least by certainty of our friend's fate."

"You need say no more!" said the gipsy--"you need say no more! I will remove your fears upon easy conditions.--I had not foreseen all this. Like a fool, I had not remembered that events, which seemed to me all simple and clear, because I was an actor in them and saw them all, would produce such anxiety and fear to those who saw no more than the result; but I have been moved by many another feeling, and occupied by many another event. I have seen men bring ruin on their own heads and mine, by following their own wilful follies rather than my counsel and command; and I have seen a thoughtless and innocent boy entrapped into becoming the sacrifice for the guilty and the obstinate. I have been called upon to punish the offenders, and to endeavour to rescue the innocent; and I have been hunted through this livelong day like a wild beast;--so that I may well have forgot that circumstances, very simple in themselves, might fill others that knew not all, with strange fears and suspicions; but besides that--besides that--I had other motives for not telling what I knew.--Those motives are now shaken by stronger ones; and for the sake of Marian de Vaux, I will say what I would not have said for the sake of my own life; but it must be on certain conditions."

"Name them," said Manners; "and if they be not very hard to fulfil, doubt not that I will undertake them."

The gipsy paused, and thought for several minutes, and he then replied, "I will, as I have said, put you in the way of finding your friend, Edward de Vaux; and you will find him--if not well--at least in kindly hands. But now mark me. The person with whom he is has lately come over from America with private views and purposes of his own, yet doubtful and unresolved whether he will proceed with them or not. Were his residence in England known to any one, it might force him either to execute the designs with which he came sooner than he intended, or perhaps prevent him from changing those designs, though other circumstances may render such a change necessary; or still further--"

"In short," said Manners, "he is desirous of remaining concealed; and, as far as I know, has every right to do so, without my inquiring at all into his motives. But you forget, my good friend, that there is as little chance of my knowing this person of whom you speak, as of my betraying him if I did."

"You are wrong," said the gipsy; "there is every chance of your knowing him; you have seen him I know, and esteem him I am sure; and, what I have to require is this, if, by my means, you find Edward de Vaux, and recognise the person now kindly tending him, you shall not, upon any pretence, or to any person whatsoever, reveal his real name and character. You shall recognise him merely as the person that he chooses to call himself, and speak of him as none other."

"Of course! of course!" answered Manners; "he shall keep the incognito, for anything that I may do to the contrary, as long and as strictly as he likes."

"But, one thing more," said the gipsy, "one thing more,--you shall, on no account whatever, lead--or give such information as may lead--the father of Edward de Vaux to the place where his son is."

"That is somewhat extraordinary," said Manners; "but I suppose, of course, that this person to whom you allude is Lord Dewry's enemy."

"He was once his friend," said the gipsy, "and, perhaps, now that lord may speak of him as such, for there is no knowing by what terms his deep and crafty spirit may designate the people whom he most hates. Not a week ago he gave me gold, and would fain have made me think he loved me; but I knew him to the heart, and I saw the serpent in his eye."

Whatever Manners might think of the evident hatred, strong and reciprocal, which existed between the peer and the singular person with whom he now stood, he did not judge it expedient to risk the advantages he had gained by defending Lord Dewry, especially as circumstances placed the power of dictating the conditions in the hands of the gipsy. "My acquaintance with De Vaux's father," he said, "has been too short to acquire any knowledge of his real character."

"It would require years, long years," said the gipsy, "to know his character as I know it--long, long years!--or one of those lightning flashes of nature that sometimes, whether men will or not, burst from the darkness in which they shroud themselves, and show at once the deep secrets of their spirit."

"At all events," said Manners, "common humanity leads me to wish much to inform the unhappy father of his son's safety, and doubtless your conditions do not imply that I should refrain from such proceeding, as soon as I have, with my own eyes, seen my poor friend's condition."

"In that respect, you shall be guided by him to whom I send you," answered Pharold. "It is sufficient for me to ensure, that the confidence he has placed in me will be betrayed by no fault of mine--that compassion for a gentle and innocent girl does not lead me to risk defeating the plans of a man who trusts me. I know that when you have pledged your word, you will hold it sacred. Your actions have spoken for you! Will you accept the conditions?"

"I will!" answered Manners; "and only beg of you to conclude the matter as fast as possible."

"Well, then!" said the gipsy, pointing through the valley towards the line of the distant hills; "you see yon moon, just raising her golden round behind the thin trees upon the upland. When she has risen ten palms breadths upon the sky, you shall find me here again, and I will lead you to him you seek."

"Nay, but," said Manners, "I thought you were about to conduct me thither now."

"Doubt me not," said the gipsy, sternly, discovering at once that suspicions, slight indeed, but newly awakened by the proposed delay, were coming over the mind of his companion. "Doubt me not. By the God that I worship, by the heavens his handiwork, by the life he gave me, by the liberty I value more, I will not fail you. You have spared me when you might have thrust me into a dungeon, and I would not deceive you even by a thought."

"I believe you," answered Manners; "I believe you--only this, I am very anxious, ere I return to Morley House, to be enabled to give some account of him I seek; to be enabled, in short, to afford some comfort to Edward de Vaux's family. Can we not proceed then at once?"

"No!" answered the gipsy. "I must think of my own race too. By the unhappy occurrences of last night, my people have been scattered and have fled for concealment, while I remained to see whether I could find, or could deliver, the unfortunate prey, which those who laid the trap for us had found in the snare. My companions know not yet where I am; and I know not whether they are safe. Thus, ere I go farther, I must see what have been the events of this day to those whom I am bound to protect and guide."

"Be it so then," answered Manners; "but, at all events, you will allow me to give De Vaux's family the assurance that he is living and is safe."

"As far," said the gipsy, "as you dare to trust to my most solemn assurance, he is living, and safe also, if you mean by that word that he is free from restraint, and from any risk of injury; but that he is well, you must not say; for he is ill in body and sick at heart; and it may be long ere he is cured of either."

"That is bad enough, indeed," answered Manners; "but it is so much better than the events, which we had reason to believe had occurred, that the bare fact of his being in a state of security will be an infinite relief to those who love him. I will trust to your word entirely, and both give the consolation which you have afforded to those who will feel it most deeply, and be here at the time you name, though I am not very much accustomed to calculate hours by hands-breadths of the sky; and you must remember that, from Morley House, the moon is seen in a different position from that in which she appears here." The gipsy smiled, with a slight touch of contempt at Manners's inexpertness in a mode of calculating the time, which was to him familiar. "Well, well," he said, "be here in just two hours, and you shall find me waiting you. In the meantime, rest at ease regarding your friend, and speak securely the words of hope and comfort to his family; and God be with you in your errand of peace. You have acted a noble part to-night, and there is one that blesses those who do so."

Thus saying, he sprang down the bank to the spot where the sword, which Manners's superior skill and strength had wrenched from his grasp, was lying under a low bush. Pharold snatched it up, and was about to return it to the sheath; but some sudden thought seemed to cross his mind, and holding it up, he gazed upon it for a moment or two in silence. "Accursed be thou!" he cried at length, in a bitter tone. "Accursed be thou, false friend and faithless servant! to leave thy master's hand at the moment of need!" and breaking the blade across his knee, he cast the fragments down the hill, and strode away, scarcely appearing to notice that Colonel Manners still stood gazing at his wild and vehement behaviour.

Manners smiled as he turned to retread his steps; and perhaps that smile might be occasioned by seeing the gipsy wreak his indignation at the failure he had met with in their struggle upon the senseless object which his hand had not been able to retain. Perhaps, too, he might remark how all uncultivated people resemble children; but, at all events, the tidings that he had heard of his friend's safety, and his conviction that those tidings were true, had certainly given him a much greater inclination to smile than he had felt when he came to that spot.

As he thought, however, over all the circumstances, while bending his way back once more to Morley House, he did not certainly find that his situation was, in every respect, a very pleasant one. He had to remember that the gipsy, Pharold, was charged with two other crimes besides the assumed death of Edward de Vaux. In regard to the first of these two, that of having been an accessary, or principal, in the murder of the late Lord Dewry, Manners had but Mrs. Falkland's opinion upon the subject to support his own doubts of the man's guilt. In regard to the second, that of having participated in the outrage at Dimden Park, and having fired the gun by which Sir Roger Millington was wounded, Manners, after leaving the peer at Dimden, as we shall almost immediately have occasion to show more particularly, had visited the keeper who had been wounded in the affray, and from him had learned sufficient to satisfy his mind that Pharold was guiltless of any share in that unfortunate transaction. On that point, therefore, his mind was satisfied; but, in regard to the other charge, he did not feel at all sure that he was not liable to severe animadversion for the lenity he had shown towards the gipsy.

"I do not know the laws of the land," he thought, with a half smile, "quite well enough to be sure whether they may not make me out an accessary after the fact, if ever this Pharold should be found guilty of slaying his benefactor; but, at all events, if the good gossiping world were to get hold of my having taken two or three moonlight walks with him, and having let him escape when I had the power to apprehend him, it would make a pretty story of it." However. Colonel Manners was a man who had too much confidence in his own motives, and too much reliance on what he called his good fortune, though others named it his good judgment, to care much what the world said; and this was probably one of the reasons why that world was well satisfied to load him with praise and honour. He took his way back to Morley House, therefore, tolerably satisfied with what he had done, thinking, "I must now, however, try to soften down Mrs. Falkland's wrath and indignation at my persevering rudeness this evening; but, doubtless, the tidings I bring will prove no small propitiation."

To these thoughts he endeavoured to limit himself, though imagination strove hard to lead him into a thousand rambling fancies concerning the causes of De Vaux's disappearance. Manners, however, had a habit of keeping his thoughts under proper discipline, and always prepared to repel whatever force might attack them. Thus, as he knew, or at least trusted, that a few hours would give him a thorough insight into the real situation of Edward de Vaux, he would not give way on that point, and tried to think of something else. But the light brigades of fancy are like a troop of Cossacks, and the moment they are beaten off at one spot, they wheel and attack another. When imagination found, then, that Manners would not be drawn from his intrenchments by the thoughts of De Vaux, she tried what she could do with the image of Isadore Falkland; but Manners was prepared there, too, and had reproached himself so bitterly with some slight beatings of his heart, which had occurred during his last meeting with that fair lady, that he resisted all thought upon the subject with the heroism of Leonidas.

Having thus reached Morley House in safety, Manners's first inquiry was for Mr. Arden; but the old butler, with a look of solemn importance, informed him that the magistrate had been gone about half an hour, leaving a message, however, for Colonel Manners, to the effect that, having some other business of much importance awaiting his return, he could not have the honour of staying till Colonel Manners arrived, but would come back early the following morning.

"That will do quite as well," answered Manners; and seeing that the cloud of self-importance upon the old man's brow had not as yet quite disgorged itself of its contents, he paused in order to hear what next, and the butler proceeded: "Please, sir, Miss Marian--that is to say, Miss De Vaux, but we always call her Miss Marian, to distinguish from Miss Isadore--but Miss Marian sent her maid down just now to say, that when you come back she wishes very much to see you herself, for she desires to speak with you."

The man spoke in as mysterious a tone as if he were communicating a state secret, but Manners who hated nothing on earth so much as mystery, answered rather sharply, "Well, as you see I have returned, you had better call Miss De Vaux's maid to take me to her mistress."

"Oh, Miss Marian, sir, is in the little drawing-room," replied the butler: "she has been there these ten minutes, though Mrs. Falkland does not know it, because she is with Miss Isadore, who fell into the water, and wet her clothes, and had nearly been drowned, they do say; but--"

Manners waited for no further information on subjects with which he was already acquainted; but, walking up stairs, proceeded to what was called the little drawing-room, and opened the door. Marian de Vaux was sitting on a sofa, with her fair rounded cheek, grown many a shade paler since Manners last saw it, leaning on her hand, and her arm again resting on the table. Her head was slightly bent, and the hand on which it leaned curved round at the wrist, with the fingers dropping languidly under her cheek, and with weary hopeless anxiety in every line. Her eyes, when Manners entered, were cast down, with a drop like a diamond struggling through the long dark lashes; and the light, falling from above, threw the greater part of her beautiful face into shadow; but it fell clear and soft on her fair open forehead, and on her brown hair, which, to save the trouble of much dressing, was braided back behind her ears, but which still, by many a wavy line and struggling bend across her brow, showed its natural tendency to fall into ringlets round her face. An open book was on the table before her; but it looked not as if she had been reading, for it was turned in such a way that her eye could not possibly have deciphered its contents.

She did not hear the door open; but Manners's first step in the room caught her attention, and she raised her eyes. "Oh, Colonel Manners," she said, as soon as she saw him, "I am very glad you have come, for I very much wished to speak with you; but I am afraid you are fatigued, and perhaps may not have time to spare."

"Not at all," answered Manners, with a smile, which he intended to prepare the way for better tidings. "Indeed, I think, Miss De Vaux, that if you had not sent me an invitation, I should have sent to petition one."

"The fact is, Colonel Manners," said Marian, "I wish to know the truth. My dear aunt and my cousin, with the very kindest intentions, keep the truth from me--at least, so I am led to believe by what my maid has told me. Now, indeed, it would do me less harm, though they do not think so, to tell me the whole at once; and I am sure, Colonel Manners, that you will be kind enough to do so, when I assure you that I am far better able to bear even the worst tidings than this terrible, awful state of suspense."

Manners took her hand, and gazed in her face with a smile full of kindness and hope, for he feared to make the change from grief to joy too sudden, by speaking the happier news he now had to bear; but even that was too much, and Marian's heart, as she read his smile aright, beat with fearful violence; and, pale as ashes with emotion, she sunk down again on the sofa, from which she had partially risen to speak to him.

"I see that your fortitude is not half real," said Manners, seating himself near her; "but let me entreat you to hear me calmly, my dear Miss De Vaux."

"Oh, I will! I will, indeed!" cried Marian. "But, for Heaven's sake, speak, Colonel Manners: you smile; and I know you would not smile on one so wretched, if you had not some hope to give! Is it not so?"

"It is," answered Manners; "and delighted I am that now, for the very first time, I can give it. But, indeed, you must be calm; for the intelligence I have obtained is not so entirely good as to warrant our indulging in any very great joy, though it may do away our worst apprehensions."

"That is enough! that is enough!" cried Marian. "If they have not murdered him, I can bear almost anything else with fortitude: but now, for Heaven's sake, tell me all, for you see I can bear it with calmness and composure."

"First, let me defend Mrs. Falkland and your cousin," replied Manners, wishing, by a little delay, to give his fair hearer's mind time to habituate itself to a change of feeling; for neither her look nor her manner served at all to confirm the assurances of calmness and composure which she gave him. "Let me defend Mrs. Falkland and your cousin: they really could give you no precise information, for till within the last half-hour none has been obtained."

"Oh, but they knew more than they let me know," cried Marian; "at least, if my maid has told me true: but I trust it is not true; for I cannot believe that Edward can be safe, if she spoke correctly; she said you had found his footsteps, and blood, Colonel Manners, and the place where he must have fallen." As she spoke, her countenance filled with horror at the ideas she recalled, and she clasped her hands over her eyes, as if to shut out some fearful sight.

Colonel Manners thought that the sooner such a lady's-maid was discharged the better; but as he could not contradict the story the woman had so imprudently told, he left it as it was, and replied, "Do not, my dear young lady, call up such painful images, when I assure you that there is no foundation for the supposition that your cousin has suffered in the way our fears led us to imagine. My information, as yet, is scanty; and, till tomorrow, you must not ask me even how I have obtained it; but I have the most positive assurances that De Vaux is safe, though ill."

"Thank God! thank God, for his safety, at least!" cried Marian; "but are you sure, Colonel Manners--are you quite sure? I do not wish to put any questions that you may not like to answer; but only tell me if you yourself are quite sure of Edward's safety?"

"I am perfectly and thoroughly convinced," answered Manners, "that, whatever may have been the accident which may have prevented his return home, he is both in security, and attended with care and kindness. Indeed, my very telling you the fact should make you feel quite sure that my own conviction is firm; for, indeed, Miss De Vaux, no inducement would make me hold out a hope to you, were I not sure of that hope having a good foundation."

"Thank you! thank you!" replied Marian; and, with one of those sudden bursts of tenderness which--springing from some secret action, either of memory or imagination, without one spoken word or external circumstance to call them forth--sometimes overpower us, when least we expect it, she gave way to a gushing flood of tears, and, for a moment or two, let the bright drops flow unrestrained. "You have not seen him, then, Colonel Manners?" she said at length, wiping her eyes, and looking up with a glance in which apprehension still contended a little against joy.

"Not yet," Manners answered; "but I have received a solemn promise that I shall be conducted to the place where he is this very night."

"Oh, let me go with you!" cried Marian, starting up.

"Nay, nay, I am afraid that would not do," answered Manners, smiling. "Think what the world would say, my dear Miss De Vaux, if you were to go wandering about, no one knows whither, through a long autumn night, with no other escort than a colonel of dragoons."

Marian was won even to a smile; and, while it was yet playing round her lips, and sparkling in her eyes, Mrs. Falkland entered the room, not knowing by whom it was tenanted. "Marian! Colonel Manners!" she exclaimed; "and both laughing, too! then some very happy change must have come over our affairs."

"Oh, most happy, my dear aunt!" cried Marian: "Colonel Manners--and I know not how to thank him--has discovered where Edward is, and that he is safe."

"God be praised!" cried Mrs. Falkland; "but let me hear all about it, for this is news indeed."

"In the first place," said Manners, willing, if possible, to escape any very close cross-examination till he could speak with more security on the many points of De Vaux's situation, which were still doubtful--"in the first place, I have to apologize, my dear madam, for some want of courtesy to-night when last we met; but you must remember that I am but a rude soldier, and accustomed to think far more of what I consider my duty than of what is polite; and I am sure that my good news will gain me your forgiveness."

"If your perseverance have gained tidings of my poor nephew," answered Mrs. Falkland, "my forgiveness for much graver offences--could Colonel Manners commit them--would be but a poor recompense."

"I hope Miss Falkland has not suffered at all," continued Manners. But Mrs. Falkland exclaimed, with a smile, "Not at all, I trust! but, Colonel Manners, I will not be put off without an answer. You shall not keep all your good news for Marian, and refuse to let me share. What have you discovered?"

"Why, my dear madam," answered Manners, "I will tell you the candid truth. I have discovered very little beyond the bare fact, that De Vaux is in safety, though not well; and you must ask me no more questions till I can give you satisfactory answers. I am to be conducted to him, however, this very night, and within an hour of this time. Miss De Vaux wished to go with me, and we were smiling to think what sort of story the world would make of her taking a midnight walk over the moors, and through the woods, with the ugliest colonel of dragoons in his majesty's service."

"But are you obliged to go alone?" asked Mrs. Falkland.

"I rather think that is part of my compact," answered Manners; "and I believe it must be on foot, too."

"And you were fatigued an hour ago," replied Mrs. Falkland; "and though I, selfishly, cannot make up my mind to ask you to put off your expedition till to-morrow, yet I must prevail on you to take some refreshment." So saying, she rang the bell, and then went on: "I need not ask who was your informant; and I feel equally certain that the tidings are true, because you give them credit, and because you derived them from him."

"Now, I am in the dark," said Marian, "both in regard to this person you speak of and to Isadore. What made you believe she had suffered from any accident, Colonel Manners, as you inquired of my aunt just now?"

"I am afraid that the whole story would be too long to tell you at this moment," answered Manners, while a footman appeared, and Mrs. Falkland ordered some refreshments to be brought immediately, "especially as you see I have to sup before I go; nor will I deny that I need my supper, for, to tell the truth, I have not dined. But Mrs. Falkland will relate our whole story of this evening when I am gone; will tell you how your cousin escaped drowning by a miracle; and how Colonel Manners behaved in a very rude and uncivil manner; and how at length a compromise was entered into, which reflected more honour upon his obstinacy than upon his politeness."

"No, no, Colonel Manners, I will not tell her such stories," answered Mrs. Falkland. "I will tell her, perhaps, that Colonel Manners's duty as an officer, and his feelings as a man, clashed with her aunt's duty as a person of her word, and her feelings as a woman; that her aunt did what she seldom does,--lost her temper; and that Colonel Manners ended the matter wisely and well, and by his perseverance obtained joyful tidings without a breach of faith."

"You are both speaking in mysteries to me," said Marian, rising; "so I will go and make Isadore tell me the whole in less enigmatical language. Where is she, my dear aunt?"

"She is in bed," answered Mrs. Falkland, "but not likely to go to sleep."

"In bed!" exclaimed Marian; "then, indeed, it is time that I should go and see her, for I do not ever remember Isadore having been in bed at nine o'clock before, and something must be the matter."

Thus saying, she quitted the room; and left Colonel Manners to take some refreshment, and to relate, the while, to Mrs. Falkland, as much as he had time and inclination to tell of his adventure with the gipsy.

"I fear no danger," he concluded, when he had ascertained by his watch that the time appointed for his return was approaching--"I fear no danger, and have every confidence in the extraordinary man who is to be my guide; but, at the same time, it is always well to be prepared; and, therefore, I shall not only exchange these heavy riding-boots for something more fit for walking, but I will take the liberty of adding a brace of pistols to back my sword in case of need." He then took leave of Mrs. Falkland; and, after making the alteration he proposed, once more sallied out, like the knight of La Mancha, with a heart scarcely less chivalrous, though guided by a mind which happily had power to restrain and direct the operation of his feelings. Here, however, the thread of his adventures must be broken off for a while, in order that we may leave no longer unfilled that void in his history which now exists between the moment at which we last left him in conversation with Lord Dewry, and that of his sudden reappearance at Morley House.