ing coiled up in a corner, like a human
form in the attitude of repose. It was the prisoner Egerton, fast
asleep. Nature, worn out with suffering, was unconsciously enjoying
for a season the bliss of oblivion. He heard not the intruders, until
Marian gently touched him, when, starting up, he cried--

"Is mine hour come? so soon! I thought"--

"Here be victuals; thy grave's not ready yet," said the maniac.

Soon the soft voice of the maiden fell calmly and quietly on his
bosom: and in that hour Egerton felt how noble, how self-denying, was
the spirit guiding the hand that ministered to him in the hour of
danger and distress. Her disinterestedness was now manifest. Of
another creed, and fully aware, perhaps, that he had been one of the
most zealous persecutors of those who aforetime were hunted like the
wild roe upon the mountains; he found that she had knowledge of him,
generally, as belonging to the Royalist party, though not individually
as to his rank and character.

If she had set herself to win his favour by draughts and
love-philtres, she could not have compassed her design more
effectually. His impetuous nature was alike impatient of restraint
either in love or in war; but in the latter instance the flame had
burnt so rapidly that it was nigh extinguished. This maiden being
renowned through the whole neighbourhood for her beauty, as well as
the natural and engaging simplicity and gentleness of her manners,
appertaining to one of high birth, nurtured in courts, rather than in
so humble a station, the cavalier had beforetime looked on her with a
favourable glance, but not with eyes at which the god Hymen would have
lighted his torch. Now, so strange and wayward is that capricious
passion which men call love, that when beset with dangers, his life in
jeopardy, and threatened with death on every hand, he seemed to cling
even to this lowly one as though his soul were bound to hers. Love,
that mighty leveller, for a season threw down every barrier--the pride
of birth, and the rank and sphere which were his birthright--nor did a
licentious thought find a resting-place in his bosom. Young and
ardent, he had spoken to her beforetime, though not explicitly, on the
subject; and Marian, knowing none other but that he was a wayfaring
man, of little note--so he represented himself--regarded his handsome
person, his kindness, and his attentions, with still less appearance
of disfavour.

"Thou shouldest be mine, Marian," sa