well as that of his daughter, whom he believed to
have been in a far more imminent peril than she really was,--for to tell
thee the truth, reader, the pistol of Tomlinson was rather calculated
for show than use, having a peculiarly long bright barrel with nothing
in it,--the squire was utterly at a loss how to express his gratitude;
and when he turned to Lucy to beg she would herself thank their gallant
deliverer, he found that, overpowered with various emotions, she had,
for the first time in her life, fainted away.

"Good heavens!" cried the alarmed father, "she is dead,--my Lucy, my
Lucy, they have killed her!"

To open the door nearest to Lucy, to bear her from the carriage in his
arms, was to Clifford the work of an instant. Utterly unconscious of the
presence of any one else,--unconscious even of what he said, he poured
forth a thousand wild, passionate, yet half-audible expressions; and as
he bore her to a bank by the roadside, and seating himself supported
her against his bosom, it would be difficult perhaps to say, whether
something of delight--of burning and thrilling delight--was not mingled
with his anxiety and terror. He chafed her small hands in his own; his
breath, all trembling and warm, glowed upon her cheek; and once, and but
once, his lips drew nearer, and breathing aside the dishevelled richness
of her tresses, clung in a long and silent kiss to her own.

Meanwhile, by the help of the footman, who had now somewhat recovered
his astonished senses, the squire descended from his carriage, and
approached with faltering steps the place where his daughter reclined.
At the instant that he took her hand, Lucy began to revive; and the
first action, in the bewildered unconsciousness of awaking, was to throw
her arm around the neck of her supporter.

Could all the hours and realities of hope, joy, pleasure, in Clifford's
previous life have been melted down and concentrated into a single
emotion, that emotion would have been but tame to the rapture of Lucy's
momentary and innocent caress! And at a later yet no distant period,
when in the felon's cell the grim visage of Death scowled upon him, it
may be questioned whether his thoughts dwelt not far more often on
the remembrance of that delightful moment than on the bitterness and
ignominy of an approaching doom.

"She breathes,--she moves,--she wakes!" cried the father; and Lucy,
attempting to rise, and recognizing the squire's voice, said faintly,--

"Than