With an added respect for these two young men who were bravely trying to gain their ends by peaceful means, Richard returned to the entrance of the convent, and knocked at the door. The cautious door-keeper was at length persuaded to open to him. The captain of hussars felt somewhat ill at ease in playing any other rôle before the helpless nuns than that of their defender at the head of his cavalry; he consoled himself, however, with the thought that a nun was after all not the same as other women, but a sort of sexless creature who was not to be treated according to the conventional rules of society. He found the passages all deserted, the nuns being assembled in the refectory. Pausing on the threshold of this room, the young officer beheld a scene that could not fail to move him deeply. In the middle of the room lay a dying sister, while about her were grouped her companions, ministering to her wants and seeking to comfort her. In the group one face caught his eye and held him spellbound. It was Edith. This, then, was where her aunt had placed her to await her marriage. She stretched out her hands to her lover in despairing appeal, as the bloodthirsty howls of the infuriated mob fell on her ears. With wrath in his bosom the young man ran down the stairs, and out of the door. As he sprang into his saddle he thought he saw a shutter of one of the upper windows pushed partly open. Perhaps Edith was looking out, and watching him. "Well, if she is looking, she shall see that her lover is a man," he said to himself. "Clear out of here, you dirty rascals!" were his words to the mob. Insolent laughter and mocking shouts were the answer he received. The officer's sword flashed over his head, the bugle gave the signal to charge, and Richard dashed forward into the very heart of the raging mob, straight toward the giant form of its leader. The latter brandished his iron weapon and made it whistle through the air. At that moment Richard seemed to hear a scream from the window above; then the six-foot iron bar came down toward his head with a hiss as it cleft the air. All honour to the Al-Bohacen sword that was raised to meet the blow; and all honour to the arm and hand that received the brunt of its force on the sword-hilt. There was a clash and a shower of sparks, but the Damascus blade stood the test and suffered not a nick or a scratch. Before the giant could lift his weapon again he found himself lying under the horse's hoofs. Five minutes later the square was empty. CHAPTER XIV. TRUE LOVE. Through the unlighted streets of Vienna a carriage was slowly making its uncertain way by night. The gas-mains had been wrecked,--that was one of the results of the glorious days of "liberty,"--and only the feeble coach-lamps lighted a path for the equipage.