strength—Annabel, whose clear head and calm though resolute temper gave her no small advantage over her volatile, impetuous sister, sat, it is true, as firmly in her saddle as though she had been practising her manège in the riding school, and held her fiery jennet with a firm, steady hand; but naturally her strength was insufficient to control its fierce and headlong speed, so that she saw upon the instant that she must be carried into the whirling waters of the swift river—for a moment she thought of casting herself to the ground, but it scarcely required one moment of reflection to show her that such course could lead but to destruction—soon she drove erect and steady in her seat, guiding her horse well and keeping its head straight to the river bank, and hoping every instant to hear the tramp of De Vaux’s charger overtaking her, and bringing succor—alas! for Annabel!—the first sound that distinctly reached her ears was a wild piercing shriek—“Ernest—great God!—_my_ Ernest—help me!—save me!—” It was the voice of Marian, the voice of her own cherished sister calling on her betrothed—and he?—Even in that dread peril, when life was on a cast, her woman heart prevailed above her woman fears—she turned and saw the steed of Marian rushing, the bit between his teeth, toward the dangerous fence, which lay, however, far more distant than the river to which her own horse was in terrible proximity, and he, her promised husband, the lord of her very soul, he, for whom _she_ would have perished—oh how willingly!—perished with but the one regret of that separation, he had overlooked entirely, or heeded not at least _her_ peril to whom his faith was sworn, and even before that wild appealing cry, had started in pursuit, and was, as she looked round, in the act of whirling Marian from her saddle with one hand, while with the other he controlled his own strong war-horse. When she first heard that cry her spirit sank within her, but when she saw herself deserted, when the drear consciousness that she was not beloved broke on her, it seemed as if an ice-bolt had pierced her heart of hearts, her eyes grew dim, there was a sound of rushing waters in her ear—not the sound of the rushing river, although her horse was straining now up the last slight ascent that banked it—her pulse stood still—had Annabel then died, the bitterness of death was over—before, however, she had so much as wavered in her saddle, much less lost rein or stirrup, a wild plunge, and the shock which ran through every nerve, as her horse leaped into the brimful river, awoke her for the moment to her present situation—unconsciously she had retained her seat—her horse was swimming boldly—a loud plunge sounded from behind!—another, and another! and the next instant her steed’s head was seized by the stalwart arm of a young falconer toward the shore she had just quitted, her brain reeled round and she again was senseless—thus was she borne