Clermistonlee, on whose bent-down cheek her soft breath came, started at these words as if a serpent had stung him. One of those fierce, malicious, and scornful smiles, which so often imparted to his handsome features a fiendish expression, contracted them but for a moment; another of intense sadness and languor replaced it. At that instant, unable longer to restrain himself, he clasped her in his arms. "Lilian!" he exclaimed, "dear Lilian, be not alarmed--it is I." A piercing shriek, that startled the furthest recesses of the old and desolate tower, burst from the lips of Lilian; it was one of those deep and wailing cries of pain and horror which, when once heard, are never forgot. "Villain, unhand me! Oh! spare me, my Lord--spare me for the love of God!" "Be calm, Lilian--why should you fear me? Do I not adore you? Yes; I prize your love beyond the possession of life. Dear girl, look not on me thus. I am the most devoted of lovers, and by this kiss, dearest----d--nation!" He attempted to kiss her; but, endued with new strength by rage and fear, her little hands clutched fiercely his thick mustachios, and twisted his head aside, as she had done once before so effectually. "Hear me!" he continued, "hear me, sweet Lilian; I came but to say that I loved thee----." "Love me! oh! horror!--leave me, or I shall expire--leave me!" At that moment a loud explosion, followed by the fanfare of trumpets and the ruffling of kettle-drums beneath the walls of the tower arrested all the faculties of Clermistonlee, and by throwing his thoughts into another channel, covered him with shame; and he started back, the image of astonishment and irresolution. Not so Lilian; her presence of mind was instantly restored. Springing to a window, and fearlessly dashing her hands through the panes of glass, she cried in agonized accents-- "Help! help! for the love of the blessed God! Help me, or I perish!" "Lilian! Lilian!" cried a voice that filled her with transport. It was that of Walter Fenton. A glance sufficed to show her a gallant troop of horse halted beneath the tower in the grey morning twilight. Again she would have spoken, but the strong hand of Clermistonlee dragged her furiously back into the apartment. CHAPTER VI. EDINBURGH--THE NIGHT OF THE REVOLUTION. Meanwhile, regardless of the royal cause, His sword for James no brother sov'raign draws. The Pope himself, surrounded with alarms, To France his bulls, to Corfu sends his arms; And though he hears his darling son's complaint, Can hardly spare one tutelary saint. TICKELL, Edit. 1749.