In age she appeared about seventeen, and differed in the character of her beauty, as well as in the natural gracefulness of her carriage and demeanour, from all the persons he had seen in her humble sphere of life.  Her features were small, and of the utmost delicacy.  She had a charmingly-formed nose—­slightly retrousse—­a small mouth, garnished with pearl-like teeth, and lips as fresh and ruddy as the dew-steeped rose.  Her skin was as dark as a gipsy’s, but clear and transparent, and far more attractive than the fairest complexion.  Her eyes were luminous as the stars, and black as midnight; while her raven tresses, gathered beneath a spotted kerchief tied round her head, escaped in many a wanton curl down her shoulders.  Her figure was slight, but exquisitely proportioned; and she had the smallest foot and ankle that ever fell to the lot of woman.  Her attire was far from unbecoming, though of the coarsest material; and her fairy feet were set off by the daintiest shoes and hose.  Such was the singular and captivating creature that attracted the apprentice’s attention.

Her father, Mike Macascree, was upwards of sixty, but still in the full vigour of life, with features which, though not ill-looking, bore no particular resemblance to those of his daughter.  He had a good-humoured, jovial countenance, the mirthful expression of which even his sightless orbs could not destroy.  Long white locks descended upon his shoulders, and a patriarchal beard adorned his chin.  He was wrapped in a loose grey gown, patched with different coloured cloths, and supported himself with a staff.  His pipe was suspended from his neck by a green worsted cord.

“Lie down, Bell,” he cried to his dog; “what are you barking at thus?  Lie down, I say.”

“Something is the matter, father,” replied Nizza.  “The church is full of people.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed the piper.

“We are sorry to disturb you,” said Leonard; “but we are in search of a nobleman who has run away with a citizen’s daughter, and conveyed her to the cathedral, and we thought they might have taken refuge in this chapel.”

“No one is here except myself and daughter,” replied the piper.  “We are allowed this lodging by Mr. Quatremain, the minor canon.”

“All dogs are ordered to be destroyed by the Lord Mayor,” cried the smith, seizing Bell by the neck.  “This noisy animal must be silenced.”

“Oh, no! do not hurt her!” cried Nizza.  “My father loves poor Bell almost as well as he loves me.  She is necessary to his existence.  You must not—­will not destroy her!”

“Won’t I?” replied the smith, gruffly; “we’ll see that.”

“But we are not afraid of contagion, are we, father?” cried Nizza, appealing to the piper.

“Not in the least,” replied Mike, “and we will take care the poor beast touches no one else.  Do not harm her, sir—­for pity’s sake, do not.  I should miss her sadly.”