“These were the last words I heard. I had fallen, I believe, into his arms. With that instinct that acts most auspiciously in the absence of both thought and feeling, he dragged me in his brawny arms to the wall, _and twisted my cold fingers_ in the ropes of the ladder. The touch restored me in a moment; and, almost before my hand had touched the ropes, my feet began to ascend them. My companion followed extempore. We reached the summit,--I tottered from weakness and terror. I felt a sickly dread, that, though the ladder was there, Juan was not. A moment after a lanthorn flashed in my eyes,--I saw a figure below. I sprung down, careless, in that wild moment, whether I met the dagger of an assassin, or the embrace of a brother. “Alonzo, dear Alonzo,” murmured a voice. “Juan, dear Juan,” was all I could utter, as I felt my shivering breast held close to that of the most generous and affectionate of brothers. “How much you must have suffered,--how much I have suffered,” he whispered; “during the last horrible twenty-four hours, I almost gave you up. Make haste, the carriage is not twenty paces off.” And, as he spoke, the shifting of a lanthorn shewed me those imperious and beautiful features, which I had once dreaded as the pledge of eternal emulation, but which I now regarded as the smile of the proud but benignant god of my liberation. I pointed to my companion, I could not speak,--hunger was consuming my vitals. Juan supported me, consoled me, encouraged me; did all, and more, than man ever did for man,--than man ever did, perhaps, for the most shrinking and delicate of the other sex under his protection. Oh, with what agony of heart I retrace his manly tenderness! We waited for my companion,--he descended the wall. “Make haste, make haste,” Juan whispered; “I am famishing too. I have not tasted food for four-and-twenty hours, watching for you.” We hurried on. It was a waste place,--I could only distinguish a carriage by the light of a dim lanthorn, but that was enough for me. I sprung lightly into it. “_He is safe_,” cried Juan, following me. “_But are you?_” answered a voice of thunder. Juan staggered back from the step of the carriage,--he fell. I sprung out, I fell too--on his body. I was bathed in his blood,----he was no more.” CHAPTER X. Men who with mankind were foes. * * * * Or who, in desperate doubt of grace.-- * * * * SCOTT’S MARMION.