The light of the lamp waxed dim and smoky, as the heavy hours rolled on, but Adelaide sat there still; and in the increasing gloom of the chamber, where the faint rays were absorbed as soon as they touched the dark oak wainscotting, her form, clothed in white garments, seemed like that of a spectre, and all the other objects in the room like the faint unreal phantasms of a confused dream. But who is that who suddenly stands beside her?--An old man in a long grey robe, with sandalled feet, a cowl over his head, and steps so noiseless, that in the terrible apathy of despair she hears them not. She started up the next instant, gazing wildly at him, and thrusting back the glossy masses of neglected curls from off her marble brow. "I have come to save you, my dear child," said Father George. "Be quick, cast something over you, and come with me." The fair girl threw her arms around his neck, and fell upon his bosom, "Ferdinand! Ferdinand!" she murmured. "Save him, Father, save him. Mind not me. I can bear my fate, whatever it is. Oh, save him, save him! They have condemned him to death. If morning dawns, he is lost." "He is safe, daughter," answered Father George. "Safe, and by this time, I trust, far away. I have left him to those who will not, and who cannot fail." "Oh, but is it sure?" demanded Adelaide. "Did you see him go? My father's words were dreadful. He would set a sure guard. He would leave no chance. Are you sure that he is safe?" "As safe as I am," answered Father George, confidently. "The stones of this castle would sooner fall, than one hair of his head under your father's vengeance. Come, my child, come; make no more delay. It is now near daybreak. Take but your mother's picture, and your veil to wrap you in, and come away with speed." Joy was perhaps more overpowering than grief to Adelaide of Ehrenstein. Her hands trembled, her limbs well nigh refused their office; but yet she hurried her brief preparation as much as might be; and then the monk took her by the hand, and blowing out the lamp, led her on. The door of her chamber was open, though she had not heard it unlocked. The antechamber without was vacant, and the last rays of the sinking moon were streaming through the windows against the wall. Everything in the castle was still as death, and in the wide corridor all was vacant and silent, with the carved figures on the stone seats grinning in the pale reflected light that poured from the sky through the small panes. The feet of both the lady and her guide were noiseless, for her step, like her heart, was lightened; and though she trembled still, she hurried on down the wide staircase, and the narrower flight of steps that led from the lesser hall to the old stone vestibule near the greater hall. At the door of the latter, Father George paused, and knocked thrice; and then whispering, "Fear nothing," he opened the door, and led her in.