Ormiston, waited to hear no more, but rushed precipitately down to the waters edge. The alarm has now reached the boats on the river, and many eyes within them were turned in the direction whence she had gone down. Soon she reappeared on the dark surface--something whiter than snow, whiter than death; shining like silver, shone the glittering dress and marble face of the bride. A small batteau lay close to where Ormiston stood; in two seconds he had sprang in, shoved it off, and was rowing vigorously toward that snow wreath in the inky river. But he was forestalled, two hands white and jeweled as her own, reached over the edge of a gilded barge, and, with the help of the boatmen, lifted her in. Before she could be properly established on the cushioned seats, the batteau was alongside, and Ormiston turned a very white and excited face toward the Earl of Rochester. “I know that lady, my lord! She is a friend of mine, and you must give her to me!” “Is it you, Ormiston? Why what brings you here alone on the river, at this hour?” “I have come for her,” said Ormiston, pressing over to lift the lady. “May I beg you to assist me, my lord, in transferring her to my boat?” “You must wait till I see her first,” said Rochester, partly raising her head, and holding a lamp close to her face, “as I have picked her out, I think I deserve it. Heavens! what an extraordinary likeness!” The earl had glanced at the lady, then at his page, again at the lady, and lastly at Ormiston, his handsome countenance full of the most unmitigated wonder. “To whom?” asked Ormiston, who had very little need to inquire. “To Hubert, yonder. Why, don't you see it yourself? She might be his twin-sister!” “She might be, but as she is not, you will have the goodness to let me take charge of her. She has escaped from her friends, and I must bring her back to them.” He half lifted her as he spoke; and the boatman, glad enough to get rid of one sick of the plague, helped her into the batteau. The lady was not insensible, as might be supposed, after her cold bath, but extremely wide-awake, and gazing around her with her great, black, shining eyes. But she made no resistance; either she was too faint or frightened for that, and suffered herself to be hoisted about, “passive to all changes.” Ormiston spread his cloak in the stern of the boat, and laid her tenderly upon it, and though the beautiful, wistful eyes were solemnly and unwinkingly fixed on his face, the pale, sweet lips parted not--uttered never a word. The wet bridal robes were drenched and dripping about her, the long dark hair hung in saturated masses over her neck and arms, and contrasted vividly with a face, Ormiston thought at once, the whitest, most beautiful, and most stonelike he had ever seen. “Thank you, my man; thank you, my lord,” said Ormiston, preparing to push off.