'God forbid!' cried Arwed, checking the descending blow. 'I am no murderer!' But at that moment Megret, having disencumbered himself of his troublesome opponents, hurled the Scot to the earth. 'At last!' triumphantly exclaimed Megret, setting his foot upon the breast of his fallen foe and slowly raising his sword for the death-stroke with an infernal smile.... At that moment a woman in a peasant's dress and with a child in her arms, rushed forward with an agonizing shriek. Wildly floated the rich blond locks about her white forehead, which strangely contrasted with the bloom of the rosy faced infant. 'Christine!' cried the terrified Arwed. 'Mercy!' shrieked the unhappy woman. 'Mercy for my husband, for the father of this child!' 'You know not what you ask, madam Mac Donalbain!' said Megret, scornfully. 'Whoever is well disposed towards you and your house, cannot do a better thing than speedily to help you to a widow's veil.' He aimed a blow,--but Arwed opportunely struck up his sword and forced him back. 'Mac Donalbain is a prisoner!' cried the youth with noble indignation. 'From this moment he stands under the protection of the law, to which he is amenable, and you have no right to take his life.' 'Ah, Arwed, you are indeed always yourself!' sobbed Christine, falling at his feet with her child. 'Such generous subtlety,' said Megret, putting up his sword, 'becomes loathsome to me when practically applied in the important affairs of life.' 'In this case, generosity is more cruel than malignity!' cried Mac Donalbain, closing his eyes from exhaustion by loss of blood. Meantime the right had fully conquered. Fifteen of the robbers had fallen in the fight, and seven had madly thrown themselves from the summit and found the death they hoped to escape, upon the sharp cliffs of Ravensten. The remainder, twelve in number, struck with terror by the fall of their chief, threw down their arms and begged for mercy. Whilst Megret caused the prisoners to be bound together in couples, Mac Donalbain was by Arwed's direction conveyed into the lower vault of the tower, and his wounds taken care of. Arwed then turned to Christine, who had followed them to the tower. 'Wretched woman,' cried he, grasping her powerfully, 'where is thy father?' Christine pointed speechlessly to a corner of the cave-like room, and then threw herself in silent wretchedness upon Mac Donalbain's couch of sorrow. Arwed hastened to the designated spot, found and sprung a trap door there, which opened into the rocky cellar of the castle. A long, winding staircase conducted him to a subterranean but well lighted room, where, still paler and weaker than when he last saw him, his poor old uncle met his view. 'My son! my preserver!' cried the old man, with outspread arms. 'Thank God, my object is accomplished!' exclaimed Arwed, with heartfelt joy. 'Yet once more has my melancholy existence been rendered really useful in the world.'