Lucy, whose senses were by this time more effectually collected, was naturally led to look at the stranger with attention.  There was nothing in his appearance which should have rendered him unwilling to offer his arm to a young lady who required support, or which could have induced her to refuse his assistance; and she could not help thinking, even in that moment, that he seemed cold and reluctant to offer it.  A shooting-dress of dark cloth intimated the rank of the wearer, though concealed in part by a large and loose cloak of a dark brown colour.  A montero cap and a black feather drooped over the wearer’s brow, and partly concealed his features, which, so far as seen, were dark, regular, adn full of majestic, though somewhat sullen, expression.  Some secret sorrow, or the brooding spirit of some moody passion, had quenched the light and ingenuous vivacity of youth in a countenance singularly fitted to display both, and it was not easy to gaze on the stranger without a secret impression either of pity or awe, or at least of doubt and curiosity allied to both.

The impression which we have necessarily been long in describing, Lucy felt in the glance of a moment, and had no sooner encountered the keen black eyes of the stranger than her own were bent on the ground with a mixture of bashful embarrassment and fear.  Yet there was a necessity to speak, or at last she thought so, and in a fluttered accent she began to mention her wonderful escape, in which she was sure that the stranger must, under Heaven, have been her father’s protector and her own.

He seemed to shrink from her expressions of gratitude, while he replied abruptly, “I leave you, madam,” the deep melody of his voice rendered powerful, but not harsh, by something like a severity of tone—­“I leave you to the protection of those to whom it is possible you may have this day been a guardian angel.”

Lucy was surprised at the ambiguity of his language, and, with a feeling of artless and unaffected gratitude, began to deprecate the idea of having intended to give her deliverer any offence, as if such a thing had been possible.  “I have been unfortunate,” she said, “in endeavouring to express my thanks—­I am sure it must be so, though I cannot recollect what I said; but would you but stay till my father—­till the Lord Keeper comes; would you only permit him to pay you his thanks, and to inquire your name?”

“My name is unnecessary,” answered the stranger; “your father—­I would rather say Sir William Ashton—­will learn it soon enough, for all the pleasure it is likely to afford him.”

“You mistake him,” said Lucy, earnestly; “he will be grateful for my sake and for his own.  You do not know my father, or you are deceiving me with a story of his safety, when he has already fallen a victim to the fury of that animal.”

When she had caught this idea, she started from the ground and endeavoured to press towards the avenue in which the accident had taken place, while the stranger, though he seemed to hesitate between the desire to assist and the wish to leave her, was obliged, in common humanity, to oppose her both by entreaty and action.