e alarm. "Hast thou
forgotten me, my child? But it matters not now. Say only thou wilt
trust me, and safety lies before us. The fiends hold not their hellish
court to-night; and the arch-fiend himself is far distant, on a sudden
summons from the King, which, though the grand Inquisitor might scorn,
Don Luis will obey. Wilt come with me, my child?"

"Ay, any where! That voice could not deceive: but 'tis all vain," she
continued, the first accents of awakened hope lost in despondency--"I
cannot rise."

"It needs not. Do thou hold the lantern, Marie; utter not a
word--check even thy breath--and the God of thy fathers shall save
thee yet."

He raised her gently in his arms; and the hope of liberty, of rescue
from Don Luis, gave her strength to grasp the light to guide them. She
could not trace their way, but she felt they left the dungeon, and
traversed many long, damp, and narrow passages, seemingly excavated in
the solid earth. All was silent, and dark as the tomb; now and then
her guide paused, as if to listen; but there was no sound. He knew
well the secret paths he trod.

The rapid motion, even the sudden change, almost deprived Marie of
consciousness. She was only sensible, by a sudden change from the
close, damp, passages to the free breezes of night, that she was in
the open air, and apparently a much freer path; that still her guide
pressed swiftly onwards, apparently scarcely feeling her light weight;
that, after a lengthened interval, she was laid tenderly on a soft,
luxurious couch--at least, so it seemed, compared with the cold floor
of her cell; that the blessed words of thanksgiving that she was
safe broke from that strangely familiar voice; and she asked no
more--seemed even to wish no more--so completely was all physical
power prostrated. She lay calm and still, conscious only that she was
saved. Her guide himself for some time disturbed her not; but after
changing his dress, and preparing a draught of cooling herbs, he knelt
down, raised her head on his knee with almost woman's tenderness, and,
holding the draught to her lips, said, gently--

"Drink, beloved child of my sainted sister; there is life and health
in the draught."

Hastily swallowing it, Marie gazed wildly in his face.--The
habiliments of the familiar had been changed for those of a
Benedictine monk; his cowl thrown back, and the now well remembered
countenance of her uncle Julien was beaming over her. In an instant,
the arm she could