The Brae was an antique and partially dilapidated residence, at present inhabited by the aunt of Helen, and a daughter about the age of Miss Græme. At all times it wore a sombre, deserted look, but on this morning it seemed peculiarly desolate, for the whole front of the house was closed, and all the outhouses shut up. A strange fear came over the father, as he beheld the absence of these signs of life, and he hastily ordered one of the dragoons to dismount and knock at the door. The man obeyed, but for a time knocked in vain. The sound of the hilt of his heavy sword, striking on the door, echoed through the long hall of the house; but no signs of life within were visible. The usual frown on the face of Sir Roland grew darker, and he cried angrily— “Blow off the lock with a pistol, and search the house!” At this instant, however, and just as the trooper was proceeding to execute this order, the face of an old woman was protruded from one of the upper windows, while she demanded who was below. “Sir Roland Græme,” replied the leader; “where are the family? where is Miss Græme? Is any one sick?” “They are all well, but out!” briefly said the woman. “Out—out!” exclaimed the persecutor, “and on Sunday, when there is no church within miles. By G—,” he continued, striving to drown his fears in rage, “is this a time to be out? Where have they gone? Answer truly, on your life!” “May it please your honor,” said one of the dragoons, touching his cap, “may they not have gone to this conventicle, and taken your daughter with them?” Quick as lightning, Sir Roland wheeled round on the unthinking speaker, and while the indentation on his brow became deeper than ever, and his eye flashed with rage, he said— “_My_ daughter consorting with traitors and schismatics! Breathe but the word again, and by the God of heaven I will cleave you to the chine!” and his fingers played nervously with the hilt of his sword; but, seeing the deprecating look of the trooper, he recovered himself, and added, “tush! man, you are innocent, but take care how even innocently you rouse the tiger.” “Tiger,” shrieked the old woman, who had known Sir Roland in former days, and who now seemed impelled by some sudden gust of passion to speak out, “it is well said; ay! one whose fangs have been in the hearts of the persecuted remnant—but God will avenge his people. Know, false persecutor, that your daughter _has_ gone forth to-day to become one of the chosen few against whom, oh! man of sin, you have so often ridden with steel and war horse, holding the commission of your master, the Evil One. Go to, Roland Græme, I mind ye when ye were a boy, and little did I think ye would ever become the Judas you are now.”