whole self a hundred times more beautiful in
this heightened aspect than ever she had been before--vainly strove to
comfort Emma Haredale, and to impart to her the consolation of which she
stood in so much need herself. The soldiers were sure to come; they must
be rescued; it would be impossible to convey them through the streets
of London when they set the threats of their guards at defiance, and
shrieked to the passengers for help. If they did this when they
came into the more frequented ways, she was certain--she was quite
certain--they must be released. So poor Dolly said, and so poor Dolly
tried to think; but the invariable conclusion of all such arguments was,
that Dolly burst into tears; cried, as she wrung her hands, what would
they do or think, or who would comfort them, at home, at the Golden Key;
and sobbed most piteously.

Miss Haredale, whose feelings were usually of a quieter kind than
Dolly's, and not so much upon the surface, was dreadfully alarmed, and
indeed had only just recovered from a swoon. She was very pale, and the
hand which Dolly held was quite cold; but she bade her, nevertheless,
remember that, under Providence, much must depend upon their own
discretion; that if they remained quiet and lulled the vigilance of the
ruffians into whose hands they had fallen, the chances of their being
able to procure assistance when they reached the town, were very much
increased; that unless society were quite unhinged, a hot pursuit must
be immediately commenced; and that her uncle, she might be sure, would
never rest until he had found them out and rescued them. But as she said
these latter words, the idea that he had fallen in a general massacre of
the Catholics that night--no very wild or improbable supposition after
what they had seen and undergone--struck her dumb; and, lost in the
horrors they had witnessed, and those they might be yet reserved for,
she sat incapable of thought, or speech, or outward show of grief: as
rigid, and almost as white and cold, as marble.

Oh, how many, many times, in that long ride, did Dolly think of her old
lover,--poor, fond, slighted Joe! How many, many times, did she recall
that night when she ran into his arms from the very man now projecting
his hateful gaze into the darkness where she sat, and leering through
the glass in monstrous admiration! And when she thought of Joe, and what
a brave fellow he was, and how he would have rode boldly up, and
dashed in among these