“Ho! ho!” said the Dwarf, “thou vauntest thyself a philosopher? Yet, shouldst thou not have thought of the danger of intrusting thyself, young and beautiful, in the power of one so spited against humanity, as to place his chief pleasure in defacing, destroying, and degrading her fairest works?” Isabella, much alarmed, continued to answer with firmness, “Whatever injuries you may have sustained in the world, you are incapable of revenging them on one who never wronged you, nor, wilfully, any other.” “Ay, but, maiden,” he continued, his dark eyes flashing with an expression of malignity which communicated itself to his wild and distorted features, “revenge is the hungry wolf, which asks only to tear flesh and lap blood. Think you the lamb’s plea of innocence would be listened to by him?” “Man!” said Isabella, rising, and expressing herself with much dignity, “I fear not the horrible ideas with which you would impress me. I cast them from me with disdain. Be you mortal or fiend, you would not offer injury to one who sought you as a suppliant in her utmost need. You would not--you durst not.” “Thou say’st truly, maiden,” rejoined the Solitary; “I dare not--I would not. Begone to thy dwelling. Fear nothing with which they threaten thee. Thou hast asked my protection--thou shalt find it effectual.” “But, father, this very night I have consented to wed the man that I abhor, or I must put the seal to my father’s ruin.” “This night?--at what hour?” “Ere midnight.” “And twilight,” said the Dwarf, “has already passed away. But fear nothing, there is ample time to protect thee.” “And my father?” continued Isabella, in a suppliant tone. “Thy father,” replied the Dwarf, “has been, and is, my most bitter enemy. But fear not; thy virtue shall save him. And now, begone; were I to keep thee longer by me, I might again fall into the stupid dreams concerning human worth from which I have been so fearfully awakened. But fear nothing--at the very foot of the altar I will redeem thee. Adieu, time presses, and I must act!” He led her to the door of the hut, which he opened for her departure. She remounted her horse, which had been feeding in the outer enclosure, and pressed him forward by the light of the moon, which was now rising, to the spot where she had left Ratcliffe. “Have you succeeded?” was his first eager question. “I have obtained promises from him to whom you sent me; but how can he possibly accomplish them?” “Thank God!” said Ratcliffe; “doubt not his power to fulfil his promise.” At this moment a shrill whistle was heard to resound along the heath. “Hark!” said Ratcliffe, “he calls me--Miss Vere, return home, and leave unbolted the postern-door of the garden; to that which opens on the back-stairs I have a private key.” A second whistle was heard, yet more shrill and prolonged than the first.