The personage who supported her was, as was heretofore observed, considerably her senior. He was tall in stature, and, notwithstanding a slight stoop in his shoulders--probably the bend of age--dignified in his bearing. His countenance had once been handsome, and was still noble; and though there was an air of sternness, approaching to austerity, about his forehead, the general expression of his features was gentle and kindly. As he gazed in the lady’s face, he betrayed the deepest emotion, and appeared, on a cursory glance, to have no sense of what was passing around, but to be engrossed solely by his fears for the unconscious being whom he supported. He was yet bending over her, anxiously watching for the first return of sensibility, when the cavalier by whom they had been so effectually succoured, having dismounted from his horse, and given it over to the care of the servant, came up with him. “Hath the lady sustained any hurt, Sir?” he inquired. At this moment the young lady, as if aroused by his voice, opened her eyes, and looked up. “Is it thou, father?” she said, addressing the personage who supported her. “Thou art not hurt, then?” “Not in the least, my dear child,” replied her father. “And are we free?” said the young lady, eagerly looking round. “Quite, quite,” answered the old man; “and, under Heaven, we owe our deliverance to this gentleman.” “We owe him a great debt, then,” said the lady, raising herself up. “I hope, Sir,” she added, speaking to the cavalier alluded to, “we may live long enough to show, by our future actions, that we shall ever remember it.” As she gained an erect position, she drew off her glove, and offered the cavalier her small hand. He seized it eagerly, and with a gentle inclination of his head, suitable to the occasion, raised it to his lips. “’Twere but a poor compliment, Sir,” observed the elderly cavalier, following up what had been said by his daughter, “to say thou hast my hearty thanks. Thou hast given me more than life; and what is there in its gift, much less in an old man’s voice, that can balance such service as this?” “I’faith, fair Sir, thou ratest my help too high,” replied the person addressed. “’Twas no more than any other honest stranger would have lent thee.” “’Tis very few would risk life and limb for absolute strangers, brave Sir,” rejoined the previous speaker. “But we may be less strangers, if it so please thee, in time to come.” “If that be thy mind, fair Sir,” said the other, “it will be a right welcome thing to me, though my stay in this land will not be for long.” “Thou art not a foreigner?” said the elderly cavalier, in a tone of half inquiry, half doubt. “But I should tell thee who I am. My name is Sir Edgar de Neville; and this fair lady, to whom thou hast given more than her life, is my only child.”