ill not
wait till some chance again shall throw us together, with an hundred
malignant eyes to watch, and wonder, and stare, and try in vain to
account for the expression of feelings which I might find it impossible
to suppress.--Hark--hark!--I hear the tread of a horse--No--it was the
changeful sound of the water rushing over the pebbles. Surely she cannot
have taken the other road to Shaws-Castle!--No--the sounds become
distinct--her figure is visible on the path, coming swiftly
forward.--Have I the courage to show myself?--I have--the hour is come,
and what must be shall be."

Yet this resolution was scarcely formed ere it began to fluctuate, when
he reflected upon the fittest manner of carrying it into execution. To
show himself at a distance, might give the lady an opportunity of
turning back and avoiding the interview which he had determined upon--to
hide himself till the moment when her horse, in rapid motion, should
pass his lurking-place, might be attended with danger to the rider--and
while he hesitated which course to pursue, there was some chance of his
missing the opportunity of presenting himself to Miss Mowbray at all. He
was himself sensible of this, formed a hasty and desperate resolution
not to suffer the present moment to escape, and, just as the ascent
induced the pony to slacken its pace, Tyrrel stood in the middle of the
defile, about six yards distant from the young lady.

She pulled up the reins, and stopped as if arrested by a
thunderbolt.--"Clara!"--"Tyrrel!" These were the only words which were
exchanged between them, until Tyrrel, moving his feet as slowly as if
they had been of lead, began gradually to diminish the distance which
lay betwixt them. It was then that, observing his closer approach, Miss
Mowbray called out with great eagerness,--"No nearer--no nearer!--So
long have I endured your presence, but if you approach me more closely,
I shall be mad indeed!"

"What do you fear?" said Tyrrel, in a hollow voice--"What can you fear?"
and he continued to draw nearer, until they were within a pace of each
other.

Clara, meanwhile, dropping her bridle, clasped her hands together, and
held them up towards Heaven, muttering, in a voice scarcely audible,
"Great God!--If this apparition be formed by my heated fancy, let it
pass away; if it be real, enable me to bear its presence!--Tell me, I
conjure you, are you Francis Tyrrel in blood and body, or is this but
one of those wandering visions,