“Rachel, Rachel, what can it be?” and there was terror, mingled with curiosity, in the tones. His dame suddenly appeared, but to her it was an equal mystery; not long to remain so, however, for speedily the horse was reined up at the foot of the mountain. “Ho!--help!--help!” exclaimed a man’s voice. “Nay, nay, Hans, dost see that which he carries in his arms! My God, look there,--that pale face, lifted to the moon. He is a murderer! He gazes on it. Well may he shudder.” “Help, good folks,” the voice repeated, in earnest tones. “Give assistance to a lady. Good heavens, must my Mary die and follow her father!” A female shriek was heard, and the face raised itself to the horseman, and small white arms were thrown around his neck. Hans and his wife instantly hastened down the narrow winding path which led to the barred entrance. “Thank heaven, and you, good friends! Bayard, do not stir, as I descend with my sweet burthen. Dame, will you give her shelter?” “Aye, aye, sir. Beautiful creature! she seems asleep. Yet why should she be abroad, and in your care, on such a night?” “You must not question me,” was the reply, “at present; shew me the way,” and he carried his companion, as gently as he would an infant. “God bless thee, Mary,” he frequently muttered, as he put the small face closer to his breast, and drew his cloak around her form. Rachel preceded him into the warm and comfortable room, and drew a large easy chair from its place in the corner, to the fire. He slowly bent on his knee, and seated his burden there. Her head fell back, but her hands still grasped those of the horseman. She was deadly pale, and might have been thought a corpse. There was a mingled expression of madness, sorrow, and love, on the beautiful outlines of her face. So long had they rode in the darkness, that she could not open her eyes when the light fell upon them, and even her finely pencilled lashes were still and motionless. Her little feet, raised from the floor, quivered and trembled. The good dame bustled about, and amid all her offices of kindness, attested by her looks that she was plunged into a mystery, from which she had no objections, instantly, to be extricated; only she did not, in so many words, implore help. As she removed the wet garments from the fair stranger, she gazed anxiously upon her companion. He was young and handsome. He was nobly attired in a cloak of deep mourning, and as it was thrown back in his motions, a sword, belted by his side, was seen. His locks, as the fashion of the times required from young gallants, were long, and they curled gracefully down his shoulders. Since he entered, his eye had never turned from the face of his companion. “Mary, my Mary,” he at length said, as he played with the black ringlets on her forehead, “look upon me, Mary.”