ed how they were situated, and retired into their lurking-places
masters of the arms and horses.

All this was over and done when Edgar heard a piercing scream from the
densest part of the thicket. He made haste to the spot, and found a
little man struggling with a Frenchman, and holding the bridle of the
mule he was in charge of in his teeth. Just as Edgar came on the scene
the Frenchman struck down the little man with a dagger, which he seemed
to have taken from him, and was trying to drive the mule further into
the thicket. Edgar gave a loud shout; the Frenchman fired at him,
missed him, and Edgar ran him through with his bayonet. The little
fellow was whimpering. Edgar raised him up, undid with some difficulty
the bridle, which he had been convulsively biting, and noticed for the
first time as he was helping him on to the mule that there was a
shrouded form upon it already clinging to the creature's neck with its
arms, and softly lamenting. Behind this girl, for such, judging by her
voice, was the shrouded form, Edgar deposited the little wounded man,
took the mule by the bridle, and thus made his way back to the little
Place d'Armes, where, as no more of the enemy was visible, Isidor Mirr
and his men had again taken up their positions.

The little man, who had fainted from loss of blood, though his wounds
did not seem to be dangerous, and the girl, were lifted from the mule.
At this moment Don Rafaele in a state of the most wild excitement
darted forward with cries of "My child, my sweet child!" and was in the
act to clasp the young creature, who did not seem to be more than about
eight or ten in years, in his arms, when, suddenly seeing the bright
torchlight shining on Edgar's face, he threw himself at his feet,
crying, "Oh Don Edgar, Don Edgar! this knee has never bent to mortal
man till now; but you are no mortal--you are an angel of light sent to
save me from deadly anxiety and inconsolable despair! Oh, Don Edgar,
fiendish mistrust was deeply rooted in my bosom, ever brooding upon
evil. It was an undertaking deserving the bitterest execration to plan
the destruction of one such as you with your true heart all honour
and valour---to devote you to a shameful death. Strike me down, Don
Edgar--execute a bloody vengeance upon me, vile wretch that I am! Never
can you forgive what I have done."

Edgar, fully conscious that he had done nothing more than his duty and
honour demanded of him, was pained by Don Rafaele's