s occasion should fall."

"Marthon!" exclaimed the Countess, looking at the veiled female with a
shriek of surprise, "is not this my kinswoman?"

"Only Marthon," said Hayraddin. "Excuse me that little piece of deceit.
I dared not carry off both the Ladies of Croye from the Wild Boar of
Ardennes."

"Wretch!" said Quentin, emphatically--"but it is not--shall not be too
late--I will back to rescue the Lady Hameline."

"Hameline," whispered the lady, in a disturbed voice, "hangs on thy arm,
to thank thee for her rescue."

"Ha! what!--How is this?" said Quentin, extricating himself from her
hold, and with less gentleness than he would at any other time have
used towards a female of any rank. "Is the Lady Isabelle then left
behind!--Farewell--farewell."

As he turned to hasten back to the castle, Hayraddin laid hold of
him.--"Nay, hear you--hear you--you run upon your death! What the foul
fiend did you wear the colours of the old one for?--I will never trust
blue and white silk again. But she has almost as large a dower--has
jewels and gold--hath pretensions, too, upon the earldom."

While he spoke thus, panting on in broken sentences, the Bohemian
struggled to detain Quentin, who at length laid his hand on his dagger,
in order to extricate himself.

"Nay, if that be the case," said Hayraddin, unloosing his hold, "go--and
the devil, if there be one, go along with you!"

And, soon as freed from his hold, the Scot shot back to the castle with
the speed of the wind.

Hayraddin then turned round to the Countess Hameline, who had sunk down
on the ground, between shame, fear, and disappointment.

"Here has been a mistake," he said, "up, lady, and come with me--I will
provide you, ere morning comes, a gallanter husband than this smock
faced boy, and if one will not serve, you shall have twenty."

The Lady Hameline was as violent in her passions, as she was vain and
weak in her understanding. Like many other persons, she went tolerably
well through the ordinary duties of life, but in a crisis like the
present, she was entirely incapable of doing aught, save pouring forth
unavailing lamentations, and accusing Hayraddin of being a thief, a base
slave, an impostor, a murderer.

"Call me Zingaro," returned he, composedly, "and you have said all at
once."

"Monster! you said the stars had decreed our union, and caused me to
write--Oh, wretch that I was!" exclaimed the unhappy lady.

"And so they had decreed your union,"