“Hist!” said the maiden in a whisper, placing her finger on her lips, “if we speak above a murmur we shall, perhaps be overhead—follow me,” and turning around, she passed swiftly through the door, and extinguishing her light, looked around to see if she was followed, and flitted into a dark alley of overhanging trees. Who can describe the emotions of de Guiscan’s bosom, as he traversed the garden after his guide? His release had been so sudden that it seemed like a dream, and he placed his hand upon his brow as if to assure himself of the reality of the passing scene. Nor were the sensations, which he experienced, less mixed than tumultuous. But over every other feeling, one was predominant—the determination to perish rather than to be re-taken, or, least of all, to suffer a hair of his fair rescuer’s head to be injured. Their noiseless, but rapid flight toward the lower end of the garden, and thence through a postern gate into the fields beyond, was soon completed,—and it was only when, arriving at a clump of palms, beneath which three steeds, and a male attendant, could be seen, as if awaiting them, that the maid broke silence. “Mount, Christian,” she said in her sweet voice, now trembling with excitement; and then turning toward her father’s towers, she looked mournfully at them a moment, and de Guiscan saw, by the starlight, that she wept. In a few minutes, however, they were mounted; and so complete had been the maiden’s preparations, that de Guiscan’s own horse, lance, and buckler, had been provided for him. But on whom would suspicion be less likely to rest than on the Emir’s daughter? They galloped long and swiftly through that night, and just as morning began to break across the hills of Syria, they turned aside into a thick grove, and, dismounting, sought rest. The attendant tied the foaming steeds a short distance apart, and, for the first time, the princess and de Guiscan were alone since his escape. “Fair princess,” said the young knight, “how shall I ever show my gratitude to you? By what name may I call my deliverer?” “Zelma!” said the maiden modestly, dropping her eyes before those of the knight, and speaking with a certain tremulousness of tone that was more eloquent than words. “Zelma!” said de Guiscan astonished, “and do I indeed behold the far-famed daughter of the Emir, Abel-dek, she for whom the Saracenic chivalry have broken so many lances? Thou art indeed beautiful, far more beautiful than I had dreamed. The blessed saints may be praised, that thou wishest to be a Christian.”