“Walter, what means this?  Come you to break the trusting heart which beats for you alone?  Come you to cancel your vows—­to say that we must part for ever?  Oh! better had you left me to the mercy of the wave, when its work of death was half achieved, if you reserved me only for the misery which waits upon a broken heart, and blighted and betrayed affections?”

“Sweet, dry these tears!” replied the soldier; “while I have life I am thine.  I come to warn thee of sure but unseen danger.  The walls of Hereford are strong, and the arms and hearts of her citizens firm and trusty; but her hour is come, and the path of the destroyer, although secret, is like the stream which hides itself for a time beneath the earth only to spring forth more strongly and irresistibly than ever.”

“Thy words are dark and dreadful; but I do not know of any cause for fear, or of any means of avoiding it, if it exists.”

“Fly with me, fly!—­with thy heart and hand reward my love, and think no more of those grim walls, and sullen citizens, with souls as iron as their beavers, and hearts as cold as the waters of their river.”

“Oh! no, no, no! my father’s head is grey, and but for me alone all his affections, all his hopes are buried in my mother’s grave.  He hates thee and thy cause.  When I told him a stranger had rescued his daughter from the wave, he raised his hands to heaven and blessed him.  I told him that that stranger was a follower of the Spensers’; he checked his unfinished benediction, and cursed him.  But if he knew thee, Walter, thy noble heart, thy constant love, methinks that time and entreaty would make him listen to his daughter’s prayer.”

“Alas! my Isabel, entreaty would be vain, and time is already flapping his wings, loaded with inevitable ruin, over yon devoted city and its inhabitants.  Thy father shall be safe—­trust that to me; and trust me, too, that what I promise I can perform.  But thou, my loved one, thou must not look upon the horrid face of war:  and though my power extends to save thy father from injury, it would be easier to save the wall-flowers on the ramparts of the city from the foot of the invader, than one so fair, so feeble, from his violence and lust.”

“Whoe’er thou art,” she said, “there is a spell upon my heart which love and gratitude have twined, and which makes it thine for ever:  but sooner would I lock my hand with that of the savage Spenser himself, when reeking with the best blood of Hereford’s citizens, than leave my father’s side when his gray hairs are in danger, and my native city, when treachery is in her streets and outrage is approaching her walls.”