“And twilight,” said the Dwarf, “has already passed away.  But fear nothing, there is ample time to protect thee.”

“And my father?” continued Isabella, in a suppliant tone.

“Thy father,” replied the Dwarf, “has been, and is, my most bitter enemy.  But fear not; thy virtue shall save him.  And now, begone; were I to keep thee longer by me, I might again fall into the stupid dreams concerning human worth from which I have been so fearfully awakened.  But fear nothing—­at the very foot of the altar I will redeem thee.  Adieu, time presses, and I must act!”

He led her to the door of the hut, which he opened for her departure.  She remounted her horse, which had been feeding in the outer enclosure, and pressed him forward by the light of the moon, which was now rising, to the spot where she had left Ratcliffe.

“Have you succeeded?” was his first eager question.

“I have obtained promises from him to whom you sent me; but how can he possibly accomplish them?”

“Thank God!” said Ratcliffe; “doubt not his power to fulfil his promise.”

At this moment a shrill whistle was heard to resound along the heath.

“Hark!” said Ratcliffe, “he calls me—­Miss Vere, return home, and leave unbolted the postern-door of the garden; to that which opens on the back-stairs I have a private key.”

A second whistle was heard, yet more shrill and prolonged than the first.

“I come, I come,” said Ratcliffe; and setting spurs to his horse, rode over the heath in the direction of the Recluse’s hut.  Miss Vere returned to the castle, the mettle of the animal on which she rode, and her own anxiety of mind, combining to accelerate her journey.

She obeyed Ratcliffe’s directions, though without well apprehending their purpose, and leaving her horse at large in a paddock near the garden, hurried to her own apartment, which she reached without observation.  She now unbolted her door, and rang her bell for lights.  Her father appeared along with the servant who answered her summons.

“He had been twice,” he said, “listening at her door during the two hours that had elapsed since he left her, and, not hearing her speak, had become apprehensive that she was taken ill.”

“And now, my dear father,” she said, “permit me to claim the promise you so kindly gave; let the last moments of freedom which I am to enjoy be mine without interruption; and protract to the last moment the respite which is allowed me.”

“I will,” said her father; “nor shall you be again interrupted.  But this disordered dress—­this dishevelled hair—­do not let me find you thus when I call on you again; the sacrifice, to be beneficial, must be voluntary.”

“Must it be so?” she replied; “then fear not, my father! the victim shall be adorned.”

CHAPTER XVII.

     This looks not like a nuptial.—­Much ado about nothing.