“Father, dost thou call? I’ll soon come to thee, soon, soon--wherever thou art. But, I must see thy face. Oh! a headless father to come to! yet, father, I _will_ come!” and she gave a loud shriek of madness. “Hush, Mary,--am I not spared to thee? Cannot we travel through life together; and if we have no home through the wide world, all in all to each other?” No reply was made. He cast a look of anguish towards the dame and her husband, who had then returned from sheltering the horse. “She understands me not. Oh! who can comfort her now?” “She is asleep,” said the dame, “and oh! young gentleman, if, as I believe from her words concerning a father, you have removed her from a father’s roof, you never, never can be happy. She is, indeed, a beautiful creature to lie in your bosom, walk by your side, and sing to you her own sweet dreams. But does the young bird sing any more when taken from the nest? In every look, however fond, you will behold a silent reproof for tearing her away from her duties to an old father, without a blessing. The husband may give the ring, but unless the father gives his blessing, she is cursed. Oh, must that young head bow before a father’s curse? Look at her slumbers, they ought to have been beneath the roof of her own home. She might have perished in this awful night, and murder had been added to your crime. Take her back to a father’s arms.” “A father!” was the sorrowful reply. “She has no father; nor can I as yet, claim over her the protection of a husband. Her father perished, yesterday, by the order of a tyrant king, under the false evidence of the governor of your castle. I had endeavoured to convey her away from the scenes of her grief, and had engaged a boat at Lancaster. But I dared not venture my precious freight on such an awful night, and I have wandered, I know not whither. Providence has brought me here to kind friends.” “Young gentleman,” replied Hans, while tears were trickling freely down his withered cheeks, “God will reward thee for thy care and love to the orphan one. But whither would you bear her? Here she may find a home, until happier days come, for I know that you will seek the wars. She cannot depart at present.” “No, no,” added the dame, “you must agree to leave her, and I shall be a careful and affectionate mother, though an humble one.” “Thanks, my good friends, both from the dead and the living! I could not have hoped that so secure a home was awaiting her. O nourish her for my sake, and when she speaks of her father, mention my name, Henry Montressor, and assure her, that he will be father, husband, all! I must leave her this moment. Should she awake, we could never part. There is a purse of gold. Use it freely.” “Not for ourselves,” replied the generous miller. “Although she be of gentle blood, we make her our child. Her sorrows will be lightened in our home, in this peaceful retreat.”