e is mine," he almost muttered aloud--"mine by every right. Family
ties, family feuds, parent's commands, social conventionalities, they
are cobwebs under my hand. She has robbed me of my life; she must give
me herself in exchange. I would die for her; she must live for me. I
go to my home to feel myself a Trevethlan. I shall breathe the air of
my native halls; I shall catch the inspiration of my race; I shall
come forth to trample on form and rule, and to bear off my bride in
defiance of the world. Look to your house, Esther Pendarrel. The bars
are unbroken, the locks are unforced. Where is your child? In the
castle by the sea. Weep, proud woman--weep and rend your hair for her
who shall never return! Was it not enough to destroy the father, but
the son also must be crushed? But I am made of sterner stuff. The heel
will be bruised that tramples me. I will not play the game of my foe.
Look to your house. Did the watchman slumber? Who shall watch love?
The wind of midnight bore her the message, and she fled. The bird sang
on the house-top, and she heard the song. The stars of heaven, ay,
that star we looked upon last night, summoned her away. Fasten your
windows, muster your guards, note her downsitting and her uprising.
What! is her place empty? Search highest and lowest. Gone? Yes, she is
mine! she is mine!"

There was a softening influence in the conviction, wildly as it was
expressed. Randolph's exaltation subsided as he became intimately
persuaded that his passion must have a happy issue, in spite of the
difficulties which seemed to threaten its course, and he was calm and
collected when he arrived at his dwelling and joined his sister. But
he was anxious for action, motion--anything but repose--and it was
agreed that they should depart the very next day.

Rereworth came to them, according to his engagement, some time before
sun-set, and, as it was a fine genial evening, they strolled to the
fields above West End, and looked on the pleasant landscape, so
agreeably described by the author of the 'Sketch Book,' "with its soft
bosom of green pasturage lying open to the south, and dotted with
cattle; the steeple of Hampstead rising among rich groves on the brow
of the hill; and the learned height of Harrow in the distance." Even
at this dull season, though the trees were leafless and the hedges
bare, the prospect was not without its beauties; and Rereworth
discoursed of them to Helen in a manner which, to him at least,