The limbs of the unconscious sufferer were pinioned:—­the fiend-like mercy of her tormentors prevented her own hands from becoming the instruments of her release.  De Poininges restored her to freedom; but alas! she knew it not.  The thick veil which Heaven’s mercy drew upon her spirit rendered her insensible to outward impressions.  He raised her in his arms, bearing her forth from that loathed scene of darkness and disgrace; and when the pure breath of the skies once more blew upon her, it seemed as though it awakened up a faint glimmer in the dying lamp.  She looked round with eagerness, and De Poininges thought some ray of intelligence began to brighten, as objects again appeared to develop their hidden trains of association on the memory; but the light was mercifully extinguished ere she could discover the fearful realities of her despair, and she again relapsed into hopeless and utter inanity.

They were still loitering in the little shed, the clerk groaning out a sad and mournful chant.  De Poininges appeared unable to arouse himself to the exigencies of the moment, when Isabel, wildly waving her torch towards the entrance, cried—­

“To horse—­to horse!  They will be here presently.  Already has the raven snuffed your carcase—­

    “’But the bolt whistled through
      The heavens blue,
    And Sir Lionel lay on the battle-field.’”

She seemed to hearken, as though in apprehension of approaching footsteps.  De Poininges, roused from this dangerous stupor, prepared to escape ere the prior’s emissaries had intelligence of her removal.

They had passed the rivulet in safety, and had just gained the wood near to where the attendants lay in wait with the horses, when an arrow whizzed past De Poininges.  For him the shaft was intended, but its destiny was otherwise—­the unfortunate chanter lay stretched on the ground in his last agony.  De Poininges flew on with redoubled speed.

“Treachery!” he cried.  His men knew the signal, and galloped towards him; but their aid was too late.  A shack-bolt, aimed with a sure hand, pierced him at this moment.

“Take her—­Margaret de la Bech!  The prior—­a murderer—­ravisher!  Fly to”—­

The remaining words fell unuttered.  His faithful attendants bore off the lifeless body, together with the hapless Margaret, who was soon placed in safety, far from the relentless fangs of the Prior of Burscough.

Fearful and undeniable was the testimony and accusation they brought, but in vain.  No effort was spared to bring upon this monster the just recompense of his crime; yet, from the great scandal which a public execution must have drawn upon the Church, but more especially from the great influence he possessed amongst the nobles and chief dignitaries of the land, not only did he escape unpunished, but he received the king’s most gracious pardon, in the twenty-first year of Edward the Third:  so true are the following words from an historian of that reign:—­