Isabella Foster was, on this occasion, accompanied by her father and her acknowledged lover—a young man of considerable property, but who was, nevertheless, much better known in the country by the familiar, Border-like soubriquet of “Jock o’ the Syde,” than by his real name, which was Armstrong. Isabella herself marked, and she did so with fear and trembling, the ominous gaze of the unprincipled Lord of Hermitage; and she clung closer and closer to her father and her lover, both of whom were also aware of the circumstance at which she was so much alarmed. Her father saw it with a feeling of dread and horror; for he knew well the infamous character of the man, and he knew, too, that he would perpetrate any villany, and have recourse, without the smallest hesitation or compunction, to any measures, however violent or atrocious, to accomplish the gratification of his passions; and he felt how vain would be all his precautions, how unavailing all the means he could employ, to defeat the designs of a man at once so determined, so unprincipled, and so powerful. On her lover, however, the discovery that his Isabella had attracted the special notice of the Lord of Hermitage had a different effect. It roused his young blood; and in the look with which he contemplated him, as he gazed upon her, there was plainly to be read a proud defiance at once of his personal prowess and his power. Armstrong felt, at that moment, that his single arm, furnished with his own good sword, was alone sufficient to protect his lover from all the Lords of Hermitage that ever existed, although they all came upon him in a bundle. With more experience of the world, Isabella’s father, as we have shown, thought and reasoned differently. He feared the worst; and these fears were much increased when, on the dismissal of the congregation, the Lord of Hermitage rode up to him, complimented him on the beauty of his daughter, and he told him that he meant to do himself the pleasure of paying him a visit soon, when he hoped, he said—at the same time turning towards and bowing to Isabella—that the fair Lily of Liddisdale would not be absent. Isabella’s father made no further reply to this remark, than by bowing politely, and saying, with equivocal hospitality, that his house should always be open to the Lord of Hermitage. Isabella’s lover, who was also of the party on this occasion, mechanically felt for the hilt of his sword, while this conversation was passing—a motion which did not escape the notice of him who had excited such an evidence of hostile feeling; neither did the stern look, with which he contemplated the speaker, pass unobserved. “What chafes thee so much, young man?” said the Lord of Hermitage, turning to the person whom he addressed, with a contemptuous smile. “Is yon fair maiden your sweetheart, my flint-spark; and are you afraid I shall run away with her?”