“The shrieks of Isidora had now reached the ears of the revellers, who rushed in crowds to the garden--the servants followed them with flambeaux snatched from the walls adorned for this ill-omened festival, and the scene of the combat was in a moment as light as day, and surrounded by a hundred spectators. “Part them--part them--save them!” shrieked Isidora, writhing at the feet of her father and mother, who, with the rest, were gazing in stupid horror at the scene--“Save my brother--save my husband!” The whole dreadful truth rushed on Donna Clara’s mind at these words, and casting a conscious look at the terrified priest, she fell to the ground. The combat was short as it was unequal,--in two moments Melmoth passed his sword twice through the body of Fernan, who sunk beside Isidora, and expired! There was a universal pause of horror for some moments--at length a cry of--“Seize the murderer!” burst from every lip, and the crowd began to close around Melmoth. He attempted no defence. He retreated a few paces, and sheathing his sword, waved them back only with his arm; and this movement, that seemed to announce an internal power above all physical force, had the effect of nailing every spectator to the spot where he stood. “The light of the torches, which the trembling servants held up to gaze on him, fell full on his countenance, and the voices of a few shuddering speakers exclaimed, “MELMOTH THE WANDERER!”--“I am--I am!” said that unfortunate being--“and who now will oppose my passing--who will become my companion?--I seek not to injure now--but I will not be detained. Would that breathless fool had yielded to my bidding, not to my sword--there was but one human chord that vibrated in my heart--it is broken to-night, and for ever! I will never tempt woman more! Why should the whirlwind, that can shake mountains, and overwhelm cities with its breath, descend to scatter the leaves of the rose-bud?” As he spoke, his eyes fell on the form of Isidora, which lay at his feet extended beside that of Fernan. He bent over it for a moment--a pulsation like returning life agitated her frame. He bent nearer--he whispered, unheard by the rest,--“Isidora, will you fly with me--this is the moment--every arm is paralyzed--every mind is frozen to its centre!--Isidora, rise and fly with me--this is your hour of safety!” Isidora, who recognized the voice but not the speaker, raised herself for a moment--looked on Melmoth--cast a glance on the bleeding bosom of Fernan, and fell on it dyed in that blood. Melmoth started up--there was a slight movement of hostility among some of the guests--he turned one brief and withering glance on them--they stood every man his hand on his sword, without the power to draw them, and the very domestics held up the torches in their trembling hands, as if with involuntary awe they were lighting him out. So he passed on unmolested amid the groupe, till he reached the spot