“Ah!  I understand,” answered Ratcliffe; “and you have sacrificed yourself to save him who—­But let the virtue of the child atone for the faults of the father it is no time to rake them up.—­What can be done?  Time presses—­I know but one remedy—­with four-and-twenty hours I might find many—­Miss Vere, you must implore the protection of the only human being who has it in his power to control the course of events which threatens to hurry you before it.”

“And what human being,” answered Miss Vere, “has such power?”

“Start not when I name him,” said Ratcliffe, coming near her, and speaking in a low but distinct voice.  “It is he who is called Elshender the Recluse of Mucklestane-Moor.”

“You are mad, Mr. Ratcliffe, or you mean to insult my misery by an ill-timed jest!”

“I am as much in my senses, young lady,” answered her adviser, “as you are; and I am no idle jester, far less with misery, least of all with your misery.  I swear to you that this being (who is other far than what he seems) actually possesses the means of redeeming you from this hateful union.”

“And of insuring my father’s safety?”

“Yes! even that,” said Ratcliffe, “if you plead his cause with him—­yet how to obtain admittance to the Recluse!”

“Fear not that,” said Miss Vere, suddenly recollecting the incident of the rose; “I remember he desired me to call upon him for aid in my extremity, and gave me this flower as a token.  Ere it faded away entirely, I would need, he said, his assistance:  is it possible his words can have been aught but the ravings of insanity?”

“Doubt it not fear it not—­but above all,” said Ratcliffe, “let us lose no time—­are you at liberty, and unwatched?”

“I believe so,” said Isabella:  “but what would you have me to do?”

“Leave the castle instantly,” said Ratcliffe, “and throw yourself at the feet of this extraordinary man, who in circumstances that seem to argue the extremity of the most contemptible poverty, possesses yet an almost absolute influence over your fate.—­Guests and servants are deep in their carouse—­the leaders sitting in conclave on their treasonable schemes—­my horse stands ready in the stable—­I will saddle one for you, and meet you at the little garden-gate—­O, let no doubt of my prudence or fidelity prevent your taking the only step in your power to escape the dreadful fate which must attend the wife of Sir Frederick Langley!”

“Mr. Ratcliffe,” said Miss Vere, “you have always been esteemed a man of honour and probity, and a drowning wretch will always catch at the feeblest twig,—­I will trust you—­I will follow your advice—­I will meet you at the garden-gate.”

She bolted the outer-door of her apartment as soon as Mr. Ratcliffe left her, and descended to the garden by a separate stair of communication which opened to her dressing-room.  On the way she felt inclined to retract the consent she had so hastily given to a plan so hopeless and extravagant.  But as she passed in her descent a private door which entered into the chapel from the back-stair, she heard the voice of the female-servants as they were employed in the task of cleaning it.