When he rose from his meditations, it was with a brow indicative of a deeply suffering mind; and as he strode onwards, still pursuing the course of the brook, a spectator looking at him from a concealment, might have detected on his visage the workings even of an agonized spirit, though it was observable, that, even in this solitude, where there seemed to be so little fear of observation, he still struggled to preserve an air of serenity. The roar of the waterfall fell upon his ear, and perhaps as the voice of an old acquaintance; it did not rouse him from his dream of pain, but seemed, although he essayed to approach it, to plunge him deeper in gloom; and he would perhaps have crossed the rustic bridge without being conscious of the act, had not his footsteps been suddenly arrested by a figure that started suddenly in the path, and recalled him to his senses. He looked up, and beheld a young man, in a hunting suit and leather hat, with the rifle and other equipments of a woodman, standing before him. The texture of his garments was coarse, and there was nothing in them to indicate any superiority in the wearer above the young rustics of the country; but he wore them with an air of ease, a _savoir s'habiller_, by no means common to the class. His figure was light and handsome, and so was his face, though the latter was miserably pale and thin, and marked with the traces of grief, and the former considerably emaciated. As he stepped into the path, he dropped the butt of his rifle upon the earth, as if for the purpose of arousing the abstracted comer by the clash; and when the Colonel looked up it was not without some alarm at opposition so unexpected. "Fear not," said the young man, eyeing him with a mournful, yet steadfast gaze, "I design you no hurt." "And why should you?" cried Colonel Falconer, returning his gaze, with one that seemed meant to rend him through. As he looked, however, he faltered, turned pale, and thrust his hand into his bosom, as if to grasp at a concealed pistol. The act was observed by the stranger, and he instantly repeated his words,-- "Fear nothing,--at least fear nothing from _me_: I desire to serve you, not injure.--Accident, or Providence, has given me the means. You are Colonel Falconer?" "And you?" cried the gentleman, with an agitated voice. "I--what matters it what _I_ am?" said the youth; "I am neither footpad nor assassin,--let that satisfy you. What do you in this place? Cannot even conscience make you wiser? Methinks, there is not a rock or a bush in this dark den,--there should not be a rustle of the leaf or a clash of the waters, but should tell you what you should expect, when treading the soil of a Gilbert."