The carriage was at this time turning down a steep descent, when some horsemen gallopping past, bade them make way for Sir Richard Mowbrey. Calantha recognized the voice of the servant: it was the same who had occasioned her so much alarm at the inn near Baron Moor. But the nurse exclaimed in terror that it was one of the rebels: she knew him, she said, by his white uniform; and the presence alone of the admiral, in the duke’s carriage, convinced her of her mistake. “Thanks be to heaven,” cried she the moment she beheld him, “it is in rail earnest the old gentleman.” “Thanks be to heaven,” said Calantha, “he either did not recognize me, or cares not to prevent my journey.” “We’ll, if it isn’t himself,” said the nurse, “and the saints above only know why he rides for pleasure, this dismal night, over these murderous mountains; but at all events he is well guarded. Alack! we are friendless.” Lady Avondale sighed as the nurse in a tremulous voice ejaculated these observations; for the truth of the last remark gave it much weight. But little did she know at the moment, when the admiral passed, how entirely her fate depended on him. It was not till morning they arrived at Kelly Cross. “Bless my heart, how terrible you look. What’s the matter, sweet heart?” said the nurse as they alighted from the carriage.—“Look up, dear.—What is the matter?”—“Nurse, there is a pressure upon my brain, like an iron hand; and my eyes see nothing but dimness. Oh God! where am I! Send, oh nurse, send my aunt Seymour—Call my—my husband—tell Lord Avondale to come—is he still here?—There’s death on me: I feel it here—here.”—“Look up, sweet dear:—cheer yourself:—you’ll be better presently.” “Never more, nurse—never more. There is death on me, even as it came straight upon my mother. Oh God!”—“Where is the pain?” “It came like ice upon my heart, and my limbs feel chilled and numbed.—Avondale—Avondale.”