There was indeed a bustle below, and more than one light danced to and fro in confusion, while those who bore them called to each other, yet suppressing their voices as they spoke, as men who would only be heard by those they addressed. The individual who had fallen under the power of Bevis was most impatient in his situation, and called with least precaution—“Here, Lee,—Forester—take the dog off, else I must shoot him.” “If thou dost,” said Sir Henry, from the window, “I blow thy brains out on the spot. Thieves, Joceline, thieves! come up and secure this ruffian.—Bevis, hold on!” “Back, Bevis; down, sir!” cried Joceline. “I am coming, I am coming, Sir Henry—Saint Michael, I shall go distracted!” A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Alice; could Joceline have become unfaithful, that he was calling Bevis off the villain, instead of encouraging the trusty dog to secure him? Her father, meantime, moved perhaps by some suspicion of the same kind, hastily stepped aside out of the moonlight, and pulled Alice close to him, so as to be invisible from without, yet so placed as to hear what should pass. The scuffle between Bevis and his prisoner seemed to be ended by Joceline’s interference, and there was close whispering for an instant, as of people in consultation. “All is quiet now,” said one voice; “I will up and prepare the way for you.” And immediately a form presented itself on the outside of the window, pushed open the lattice, and sprung into the parlour. But almost ere his step was upon the floor, certainly before he had obtained any secure footing, the old knight, who stood ready with his rapier drawn, made a desperate pass, which bore the intruder to the ground. Joceline, who clambered up next with a dark lantern in his hand, uttered a dreadful exclamation, when he saw what had happened, crying out, “Lord in heaven, he has slain his own son!” “No, no—I tell you no,” said the fallen young man, who was indeed young Albert Lee, the only son of the old knight; “I am not hurt. No noise, on your lives; get lights instantly.” At the same time, he started from the floor as quickly as he could, under the embarrassment of a cloak and doublet skewered as it were together by the rapier of the old knight, whose pass, most fortunately, had been diverted from the body of Albert by the interruption of his cloak, the blade passing right across his back, piercing the clothes, while the hilt coming against his side with the whole force of the lunge, had borne him to the ground. Joceline all the while enjoined silence to every one, under the strictest conjurations. “Silence, as you would long live on earth—silence, as ye would have a place in heaven; be but silent for a few minutes—all our lives depend on it.” Meantime he procured lights with inexpressible dispatch, and they then beheld that Sir Henry, on hearing the fatal words, had sunk back on one of the large chairs, without either motion, colour, or sign of life.