A dubious expression of countenance, which Anthony but too well understood, accompanied these words; and villain was expressed by indications too unequivocal to be easily mistaken through every change and inflection of his visage.  Anthony, though not of the most unsullied reputation, and probably habituated to crimes at which humanity might shudder, pressed the little victim closer to his breast.  The prattle of the babe had won his heart:  and the morning scene with Alice had softened his spirit so that he could have wept when he thought of the remorseless nature of his comrade, to whose care the children were entrusted.

The roar of the torrent grew louder.  Suddenly they entered upon a sort of irregular amphitheatre—­woods rising above each other to the very summit of the hills by which they were surrounded.  A swollen waterfall was visible, below which a bare and flattened trunk, whose boughs had apparently been but just lopped, was thrown across the torrent.  A ruined keep or donjon was seen above a line of dark firs, crowning the summit of a steep crag that rose abruptly from the river.

“This is our halfway-house,” said Michael, pointing to the grim fortress:  “the children are tired, and have need of refreshment.  Tarry here with the horses whilst I carry them over the bridge.”

“We have refreshments in the wallet—­what need we to loiter yonder?” replied Anthony, eyeing the other with an expression of distrust.

“The children want rest,” said Michael, “and we shall there find shelter from the heat.”

“If rest be needful,” was the reply, “surely this dry sward and these overhanging leaves will afford both rest and shelter.”

“The children are in my keeping,” said Michael, fiercely, “and I am not to account with thee for my proceedings.  Alight, and give me the child.”

“I will not!—­Michael, I have watched thee, and I know that thou art a villain.  Ay, draw, I have weapons too, comrade.”

Fast and furious grew the combat, during which the terrified children made the woods echo with their shrieks.  The result was not long doubtful.  Michael soon proved himself the better swordsman; and his antagonist, stumbling from fatigue, broke his own weapon in the fall.  Defenceless and exposed, the uplifted sword of his adversary was raised for his destruction, when suddenly the arm of the ruffian was arrested, the weapon snatched from his grasp, and a female figure habited in a dark and coarse vestment stood between the combatants.  Her brow was bare, and her dark full eye beamed on them with a look of pity and of anger.  Her naturally pale cheek was flushed; but it betrayed not the agitation she endured.  Erect and unbending she stood before them, and the quailing miscreant crouched at her feet.

“Away to thy master!—­thy blood, too worthless even for thine own steel”——­

She hurled away the weapon as she spoke.