The sounds of Ratcliffe’s voice had died on Isabella’s ear; but as she frequently looked back, it was some encouragement to her to discern his form now darkening in the gloom.  Ere, however, she went much farther, she lost the object in the increasing shade.  The last glimmer of the twilight placed her before the hut of the Solitary.  She twice extended her hand to the door, and twice she withdrew it; and when she did at length make the effort, the knock did not equal in violence the throb of her own bosom.  Her next effort was louder; her third was reiterated, for the fear of not obtaining the protection from which Ratcliffe promised so much, began to overpower the terrors of his presence from whom she was to request it.  At length, as she still received no answer, she repeatedly called upon the Dwarf by his assumed name, and requested him to answer and open to her.

“What miserable being is reduced,” said the appalling voice of the Solitary, “to seek refuge here?  Go hence; when the heath-fowl need shelter, they seek it not in the nest of the night-raven.”

“I come to you, father,” said Isabella, “in my hour of adversity, even as you yourself commanded, when you promised your heart and your door should be open to my distress; but I fear—­”

“Ha!” said the Solitary, “then thou art Isabella Vere?  Give me a token that thou art she.”

“I have brought you back the rose which you gave me; it has not had time to fade ere the hard fate you foretold has come upon me!”

“And if thou hast thus redeemed thy pledge,” said the Dwarf, “I will not forfeit mine.  The heart and the door that are shut against every other earthly being, shall be open to thee and to thy sorrows.”

She heard him move in his hut, and presently afterwards strike a light.  One by one, bolt and bar were then withdrawn, the heart of Isabella throbbing higher as these obstacles to their meeting were successively removed.  The door opened, and the Solitary stood before her, his uncouth form and features illuminated by the iron lamp which he held in his hand.

“Enter, daughter of affliction,” he said,—­“enter the house of misery.”

She entered, and observed, with a precaution which increased her trepidation, that the Recluse’s first act, after setting the lamp upon the table, was to replace the numerous bolts which secured the door of his hut.  She shrunk as she heard the noise which accompanied this ominous operation, yet remembered Ratcliffe’s caution, and endeavoured to suppress all appearance of apprehension.  The light of the lamp was weak and uncertain; but the Solitary, without taking immediate notice of Isabella, otherwise than by motioning her to sit down on a small settle beside the fireplace, made haste to kindle some dry furze, which presently cast a blaze through the cottage.  Wooden shelves, which bore a few books, some bundles of dried herbs, and one or two wooden cups and platters, were on one side of the fire; on the other were placed some ordinary tools of field-labour, mingled with those used by mechanics.  Where the bed should have been, there was a wooden frame, strewed with withered moss and rushes, the couch of the ascetic.  The whole space of the cottage did not exceed ten feet by six within the walls; and its only furniture, besides what we have mentioned, was a table and two stools formed of rough deals.