that--he--is brought carefully to the
house? I will"--he stopped, and drew a long, hard breath--"I will go and
break it to Isabel." His hand, that happened to touch mine as he spoke,
was damp and icy cold.

In his life Guy Livingstone had done and dared more than most men, but
he never ventured on any thing so thoroughly brave, and valiant, and
strong-hearted as when he left me, without another word, on that
errand. For myself, though weak both in body and nerve, I swear I would
rather have gone up the breach at Badajoz with the forlorn hope, than up
that bank with the certainty before me of what awaited him.

Trees overhanging, and high walls on either side, and the change from
the bright moonlight, made it so dark just as you approached the inn
that Guy scarcely saw a white figure crouching down a few paces from the
door till he was close upon it.

He threw his arm round Isabel Forrester's waist before she could pass
him. Half his task was done; there was nothing to break to her now. She
understood all when she saw him come back alone.

For a few moments, there they stood in the dark, no word passing between
them; the only sound was her quick panting, as she struggled in his
grasp, battling to get free.

"Isabel," he said, at last, gravely, "come in; I must speak to you."

No answer still, but the same desperate struggle to get loose. There was
a savage, supernatural power in her writhings that taxed even his
gigantic strength to hold her; as it was, he yielded unconsciously to
her impulse so as to recede some paces till they issued out into the
moonlight. He could scarcely recognize her features; they were all
working and contorted, the lips especially horribly drawn back and
tense. She bent her head down at last, and made her teeth meet in the
arm that detained her.

Guy never flinched nor stirred, but spoke again in the same slow,
deliberate tone.

"Isabel, come in. I swear that you shall see him when it is safe. They
are bringing him back now."

She ceased struggling and stood straight up, shaking all over, straining
her eyes forward to the turning in the path where the torches began to
gleam.

"Is he not dead, then?" she said, in a strange, harsh voice, utterly
unlike her own. Her cousin did not try to delude her; all the stern
outline of his face softening in an intense pity told her enough.

Such a scream--weird, long drawn out, and unearthly, such as we fancy the
Banchee's--as that which pierced