than by your destruction? Hearken for a moment, if it be
possible for you, to one note of reason, ere it is sounded into your ear
by the death shut of ruin. The Liegeois are up--William de la Marck with
his band leads them.--Were there means of resistance, their numbers and
his fury would overcome them, but there are next to none. If you would
save the Countess and your own hopes, follow me, in the name of her who
sent you a table diamond, with three leopards engraved on it."

"Lead the way," said Quentin, hastily. "In that name I dare every
danger."

"As I shall manage it," said the Bohemian, "there is no danger, if you
can but withhold your hand from strife which does not concern you,
for, after all, what is it to you whether the Bishop, as they call him,
slaughters his flock, or the flock slaughters the shepherd?--Ha! ha! ha!
Follow me, but with caution and patience, subdue your own courage, and
confide in my prudence and my debt of thankfulness is paid, and you have
a Countess for your spouse.--Follow me."

"I follow," said Quentin, drawing his sword, "but the moment in which
I detect the least sign of treachery, thy head and body are three yards
separate!"

Without more conversation the Bohemian, seeing that Quentin was now
fully armed and ready, ran down the stairs before him, and winded
hastily through various side passages, until they gained the little
garden. Scarce a light was to be seen on that side, scarce any bustle
was to be heard, but no sooner had Quentin entered the open space,
than the noise on the opposite side of the castle became ten times more
stunningly audible, and he could hear the various war cries of "Liege!
Liege! Sanglier! Sanglier! [the Wild Boar: a name given to William de
la Marck]" shouted by the assailants, while the feebler cry of "Our
Lady for the Prince Bishop!" was raised in a faint and faltering tone by
those of the prelate's soldiers who had hastened, though surprised and
at disadvantage, to the defence of the walls.

But the interest of the fight, notwithstanding the martial character of
Quentin Durward, was indifferent to him, in comparison with the fate
of Isabelle of Croye, which, he had reason to fear, would be a dreadful
one, unless rescued from the power of the dissolute and cruel freebooter
who was now, as it seemed, bursting the gates of the castle. He
reconciled himself to the aid of the Bohemian, as men in a desperate
illness refuse not the remedy prescribed by qua