"Misery," said Isabella, firmly, "is superior to fear."
"Hast thou not heard it said in thy mortal world, that I have

leagued myself with other powers, deformed to the eye and
malevolent to the human race as myself? Hast thou not heard

this--And dost thou seek my cell at midnight?"
"The Being I worship supports me against such idle fears," said

Isabella; but the increasing agitation of her bosom belied the
affected courage which her words expressed.

"Ho! ho!" said the Dwarf, "thou vauntest thyself a philosopher?
Yet, shouldst thou not have thought of the danger of intrusting

thyself, young and beautiful, in the power of one so spited
against humanity, as to place his chief pleasure in defacing,

destroying, and degrading her fairest works?"
Isabella, much alarmed, continued to answer with firmness,

"Whatever injuries you may have sustained in the world, you are
incapable of revenging them on one who never wronged you,

nor,wilfully, any other."
"Ay, but, maiden," he continued, his dark eyes flashing with an

expression of malignity which communicated itself to his wild and
distorted features, "revenge is the hungry wolf, which asks only

to tear flesh and lap blood. Think you the lamb's plea of
innocence would be listened to by him?"

"Man!" said Isabella, rising, and expressing herself with much
dignity, "I fear not the horrible ideas with which you would

impress me. I cast them from me with disdain. Be you mortal or
fiend, you would not offer injury to one who sought you as a

suppliant in her utmost need. You would not--you durst not."
"Thou say'st truly, maiden," rejoined the Solitary; "I dare not

--I would not. Begone to thy dwelling. Fear nothing with which
they threaten thee. Thou hast asked my protection--thou shalt

find it effectual."
"But, father, this very night I have consented to wed the man

that I abhor, or I must put the seal to my father's ruin."
"This night?--at what hour?"

"Ere midnight."
"And twilight," said the Dwarf, "has already passed away. But

fear nothing, there is ample time to protect thee."
"And my father?" continued Isabella, in a suppliant tone.

"Thy father," replied the Dwarf, "has been, and is, my most
bitter enemy. But fear not; thy virtue shall save him. And now,

begone; were I to keep thee longer by me, I might again fall into
the stupid dreams concerning human worth from which I have been

so fearfully awakened. But fear nothing--at the very foot of the
altar I will redeem thee. Adieu, time presses, and I must act!"

He led her to the door of the hut, which he opened for her
departure. She remounted her horse, which had been feeding in

the outer enclosure, and pressed him forward by the light of the
moon, which was now rising, to the spot where she had left

Ratcliffe.
"Have you succeeded?" was his first eager question.

"I have obtained promises from him to whom you sent me; but how
can he possibly accomplish them?"

"Thank God!" said Ratcliffe; "doubt not his power to fulfil his
promise."

At this moment a shrillwhistle was heard to resound along the
heath.

"Hark!" said Ratcliffe, "he calls me--Miss Vere, return home,
and leave unbolted the postern-door of the garden; to that which

opens on the back-stairs I have a private key."
A second whistle was heard, yet more shrill and prolonged than

the first.
"I come, I come," said Ratcliffe; and setting spurs to his horse,

rode over the heath in the direction of the Recluse's hut. Miss
Vere returned to the castle, the mettle of the animal on which

she rode, and her own anxiety of mind, combining to accelerate
her journey.

She obeyed Ratcliffe's directions, though without well
apprehending their purpose, and leaving her horse at large in a

paddock near the garden, hurried to her own apartment, which she
reached without observation. She now unbolted her door, and rang

her bell for lights. Her father appeared along with the servant
who answered her summons.

"He had been twice," he said, "listening at her door during the
two hours that had elapsed since he left her, and, not hearing

her speak, had become apprehensive that she was taken ill."
"And now, my dear father," she said, "permit me to claim the

promise you so kindly gave; let the last moments of freedom which
I am to enjoy be mine without interruption; and protract to the

last moment the respite which is allowed me."
"I will," said her father; "nor shall you be again interrupted.

But this disordered dress--this dishevelled hair--do not let me
find you thus when I call on you again; the sacrifice, to be

beneficial, must be voluntary."
"Must it be so?" she replied; "then fear not, my father! the

victim shall be adorned."
CHAPTER XVII.

This looks not like a nuptial. MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.
The chapel in the castle of Ellieslaw, destined to be the scene

of this ill-omened union, was a building of much older date than
the castle itself, though that claimed considerable antiquity.

Before the wars between England and Scotland had become so common
and of such long duration, that the buildings along both sides of

the Border were chiefly dedicated to warlike purposes, there had
been a small settlement of monks at Ellieslaw, a dependency, it

is believed by antiquaries, on the rich Abbey of Jedburgh. Their
possessions had long passed away under the changes introduced by

war and mutualravage. A feudal castle had arisen on the ruin of
their cells, and their chapel was included in its precincts.

The edifice, in its round arches and massive pillars, the
simplicity of which referred their date to what has been called

the Saxon architecture, presented at all times a dark and sombre
appearance, and had been frequently used as the cemetery of the

family of the feudal lords, as well as formerly of the monastic
brethren. But it looked doublygloomy by the effect of the few

and smoky torches which were used to enlighten it on the present
occasion, and which, spreading a glare of yellow light in their

immediate vicinity, were surrounded beyond by a red and purple
halo reflected from their own smoke, and beyond that again by a

zone of darkness which magnified the extent of the chapel, while
it rendered it impossible for the eye to ascertain its limits.

Some injudicious ornaments, adopted in haste for the occasion,
rather added to the dreariness of the scene. Old fragments of

tapestry, torn from the walls of other apartments, had been
hastily and partially disposed around those of the chapel, and

mingled inconsistently with scutcheons and funeral emblems of the
dead, which they elsewhere exhibited. On each side of the stone

altar was a monument, the appearance of which formed an equally
strange contrast. On the one was the figure, in stone, of some

grim hermit, or monk, who had died in the odour of sanctity; he
was represented as recumbent, in his cowl and scapulaire, with

his face turned upward as in the act of devotion, and his hands
folded, from which his string of beads was dependent. On the

other side was a tomb, in the Italian taste, composed of the most
beautiful statuary marble, and accounted a model of modern art.

It was erected to the memory of Isabella's mother, the late Mrs.
Vere of Ellieslaw, who was represented as in a dying posture,

while a weepingcherub, with eyes averted, seemed in the act of
extinguishing a dying lamp as emblematic of her speedy

dissolution. It was, indeed, a masterpiece of art, but misplaced
in the rude vault to which it had been consigned. Many were

surprised, and even scandalized, that Ellieslaw, not remarkable
for attention to his lady while alive, should erect after her