aiden, I am pursued. The foe are on my track. My retreat is
discovered, and unless thou wilt vouchsafe to me a hiding-place, I am in
their power. The Earl of Tyrone--nay, I scorn the title--'tis the King
of Ulster that stands before thee. I would not crouch thus for my own
life, were it not for my country. Her stay, her sustenance, is in thy
keeping."

Never did wretchedness and misfortune sue in vain to woman's ear.
Constance forgot her weakness and timidity. She saw not her own danger.
A fellow-being craved help and succour; all other feelings gave place,
and she seemed animated with a new impulse. She looked on the minstrel,
as if to ascertain his fidelity. It was evident, however, that no
apprehension need be entertained, this personage seeming to manifest no
slight solicitude for the safety of the unfortunate chief.

"The old lead mine, in the Cleuch," whispered he.

"Nay, it must be in the house," replied Constance, with a glance of
forethought beyond her years. "The pursuers will not search this loyal
house for treason!"

As was the case in most mansions belonging to families of rank and
importance, a room was contrived for purposes of special concealment,
where persons or property could be stowed in case of danger. A heavy
stack of chimneys was enlarged so as to admit of a small apartment,
inconvenient enough in other respects, yet well adapted as a temporary
hiding-place.

Hither, through secluded passages, the careful Constance conducted her
guest, who had so strangely thrown himself, with unhesitating
confidence, upon her generosity and protection. The proud representative
of a kingly race was rescued by a woman from ignominy and death. Some
feeling of this nature probably overpowered him. As he bade her good
night, his voice faltered, and he passed his hand suddenly athwart his
brow. Constance, having fulfilled this sacred duty, shrank from any
further intercourse, and hastened to her chamber. It was long ere she
could sleep; portentous dreams then brooded over her slumbers. The
terrible vision was repeated, and she awoke, but not to her wonted
cheerfulness.

How strange, how mysterious, the mechanism of the human heart! The
feelings glide insensibly into each other, changing their hue and
character imperceptibly, as the colours on the evening cloud. Protection
awakens kindness, kindness pity, and pity love. Love, the more
dangerous, too, the process being unperceived, insidiously disguised
under oth