Mounting a horse that stood ready at the door, Sir Richard galloped off, and left Ellen to Bill's and Forbes' tender mercies, whilst he himself rode to the Towers with Archy Forbes; he reached it a few minutes after Mr. Ravensworth's arrival, and divesting himself of his disguise at the stables entered with the coolness of a thorough paced villain, joined in the conversation, and professed himself as surprised as any one. It was too dark for Ellen to see much beyond an old tower to which she was hurried, and dark woods around. Following the two gaolers, she passed through a low, strong door, clamped with brass, and entered the hall of the tower, and commenced ascending a winding stone staircase; there were now only these two men with her, and half way up the taller departed by a side door, leaving her alone with Stacy. "Kind hearts are sometimes hidden beneath a rough exterior, old man," said Ellen; "pity the distress of a wronged, helpless woman!" "You have mistook Bill's colours, my pretty little craft; Bill Stacy's not a kind heart, his heart is as rough as his phisog," answered the old man. "But many a rough heart has opened to a golden key--give me my liberty, send me to the Towers, and you shall have gold enough to gratify your highest wish; it shall be given with no grudging hand, take this ring as a pledge." "Bribe not, gal! and think not Bill will strike colours to gold--he has more than he wants, keep your ring--and here we are--go in there, and try not to corrupt my dochter--or gorramighty yer shall swing for it." With these words he pushed Ellen into a large room, and shut the door. Baffled a third time, Ellen gave herself up for lost--she staggered into the room, and threw herself on the first chair, and again gave way to hopeless grief. "Madam," said a soft voice, "do not distress yourself; bear up, things are not so bad as they appear." Ellen looked up to see the speaker! By her side stood a fair Spanish beauty, with braided hair, and large lustrous eyes. Ellen was not totally untinctured with some of the superstitions of her country, and for a moment she fancied she was an angel sent from heaven; her beauty--the strange situation she was in--the horrid remembrances of her arrest and drive--all worked on her mind, and she fancied it must be a vision, and not reality; but angels do not weep--and a tear stood in the young beauty's eye; she thought she knew the voice too--had heard it before--she was in a trance, surely--she would wake, and find it all a creation of her brain?