LIFE and liberty, while safe, are little thought of: for why? they are matters of course. Endangered, they are rated at their real value. In this, too, they are like sunshine, whose beauty men notice not at noon when it is greatest, but towards evening when it lies in flakes of topaz under shady elms. Yet it is feebler then; but gloom lies beside it, and contrast reveals its fire. Thus Gerard and Margaret, though they started at every leaf that rustled louder than its fellows, glowed all over with joy and thankfulness as they glided among the friendly trees in safety and deep tranquil silence, baying dogs and brutal voices yet ringing in their mind's ears. But presently Gerard found stains of blood on Margaret's ankles. "Martin! Martin! help! they have wounded her: the crossbow!" "No, no," said Margaret, smiling to re-assure him. "I am not wounded, nor hurt at all." "But what is it, then, in Heaven's name?" cried Gerard, in great agitation. "Scold me not then!" and Margaret blushed. "Did I ever scold you?" "No, dear Gerard. Well, then, Martin said it was blood those cruel dogs followed; so I thought, if I could but have a little blood on my shoon, the dogs would follow me instead, and let my Gerard wend free. So I scratched my arm with Martin's knife--forgive me! Whose else could I take? Yours, Gerard? Ah, no. You forgive me?" said she beseechingly, and lovingly and fawningly, all in one. "Let me see this scratch first," said Gerard, choking with emotion. "There, I thought so. A scratch? I call it a cut--a deep terrible, cruel cut." Gerard shuddered at sight of it. "She might have done it with her bodkin," said the soldier. "Milksop! that sickens at sight of a scratch and a little blood." "No, no. I could look on a sea of blood; but not on hers. Oh, Margaret! how could you be so cruel?" Margaret smiled with love ineffable. "Foolish Gerard," murmured she, "to make so much of nothing." And she flung the guilty arm round his neck. "As if I would not give all the blood in my heart for you, let alone a few drops from my arm." And, with this, under the sense of his recent danger, she wept on his neck for pity and love: and he wept with her. "And I must part from her," he sobbed, "we two that love so dear--one must be in Holland, one in Italy. Ah me! ah me! ah me!" At this Margaret wept afresh, but patiently and silently. Instinct is never off its guard, and with her unselfishness was an instinct. To utter her present thoughts would be to add to Gerard's misery at parting, so she wept in silence. Suddenly they emerged upon a beaten path and Martin stopped. "This is the bridle-road I spoke of," said he, hanging his head, "and there away lies the hostelry." Margaret and Gerard cast a scared look at one another.