And now, as the door once more closed upon Darvil, tears for the first time came to the relief of Alice. It was a woman’s weakness that procured for her that woman’s luxury. Those garments--they were Ernest’s gift--Ernest’s taste; they were like the last relic of that delicious life which now seemed to have fled for ever. All traces of that life--of him, the loving, the protecting, the adored; all trace of herself, as she had been re-created by love, was to be lost to her for ever. It was (as she had read somewhere, in the little elementary volumes that bounded her historic lore) like that last fatal ceremony in which those condemned for life to the mines of Siberia are clothed with the slave’s livery, their past name and record eternally blotted out, and thrust into the vast wastes, from which even the mercy of despotism, should it ever re-awaken, cannot recall them; for all evidence of them--all individuality--all mark to distinguish them from the universal herd, is expunged from the world’s calendar. She was still sobbing in vehement and unrestrained passion, when Darvil re-entered. “What, not dressed yet?” he exclaimed, in a voice of impatient rage; “hark ye, this won’t do. If in two minutes you are not ready, I’ll send up John Walters to help you; and he is a rough hand, I can tell you.” This threat recalled Alice, to herself. “I will do as you wish,” said she meekly. “Well, then, be quick,” said Darvil; “they are now putting the horse to. And mark me, girl, your father is running away from the gallows, and that thought does not make a man stand upon scruples. If you once attempt to give me the slip, or do or say anything that can bring the bulkies upon us--by the devil in hell!--if, indeed, there be hell or devil--my knife shall become better acquainted with that throat--so look to it!” And this was the father--this the condition--of her whose ear had for months drunk no other sound than the whispers of flattering love--the murmurs of Passion from the lips of Poetry. They continued their journey till midnight; they then arrived at an inn, little different from the last; but here Alice was no longer consigned to solitude. In a long room, reeking with smoke, sat from twenty to thirty ruffians before a table on which mugs and vessels of strong potations were formidably interspersed with sabres and pistols. They received Walters and Darvil with a shout of welcome, and would have crowded somewhat unceremoniously round Alice, if her father, whose well-known desperate and brutal ferocity made him a man to be respected in such an assembly, had not said, sternly, “Hands off, messmates, and make way by the fire for my little girl--she is meat for your masters.” So saying, he pushed Alice down into a huge chair in the chimney-nook, and, seating himself near her, at the end of the table, hastened to turn the conversation.