'We will die together!' she exclaimed, as she hid her face in his
breast.

Lord Branchimont placed himself against a tree, and drew his mighty
sword.

'Seize him!' shouted a voice, instantly recognised by Imogene; 'seize
the robber!' shouted her father.

'At your peril!' answered Lothair to his surrounding foes.

They stood at bay--an awful group! The father and his murdering minions,
alike fearful of encountering Branchimont and slaying their chieftain's
daughter; the red and streaming torches blending with the silver
moonlight that fell full upon the fixed countenance of their entrapped
victim and the distracted form of his devoted mistress.

There was a dead, still pause. It was broken by the denouncing tone of
the father, 'Cowards! do you fear a single arm? Strike him dead! spare
not the traitress!'

But still the vassals would not move; deep as was their feudal devotion,
they loved the Lady Imogene, and dared to disobey.

'Let me, then, teach you your duty!' exclaimed the exasperated father.
He advanced, but a wild shriek arrested his extended sword; and as thus
they stood, all alike prepared for combat, yet all motionless, an arrow
glanced over the shoulder of the Count and pierced Lord Branchimont to
the heart. His sword fell from his grasp, and he died without a groan.

Yes! the same bow that had for ever arrested the airy course of Mignon,
had now, as fatally and as suddenly, terminated the career of the master
of the carrier-pigeon. Vile Rufus, the huntsman, the murderous aim was
thine!

CHAPTER VII.

_The Dove Returns to Imogene_

THE bell of the shrine of Charolois is again sounding; but how different
its tone from the musical and inspiring chime that summoned the weary
vassals to their grateful vespers! The bell of the shrine of Charolois
is again sounding. Alas! it tolls a gloomy knell. Oh! valley of sweet
waters, still are thy skies as pure as when she wandered by thy banks
and mused over her beloved! Still sets thy glowing sun; and quivering
and bright, like the ascending soul of a hero, still Hesperus rises from
thy dying glory! But she, the maiden fairer than the fairest eve--no
more shall her light step trip among the fragrance of its flowers; no
more shall her lighter voice emulate the music of thy melodious birds.
Oh, yes! she is dead--the beautiful Imogene is dead! Three days of
misery heralded her decease. But comfort is there in all things; for
the good priest who had o