My own blood boiled now as tempestuously as his; and with a shout of reckless triumph, I rose him at the gate. Just at the instant two figures appeared before it,—the copse had concealed their approach hitherto,—but they stood now as if transfixed. The wild attitude of the horse, the not less wild cry of his rider, had deprived them for a time of all energy; and overcome by the sudden danger, they seemed rooted to the ground. What I said, spoke, begged, or imprecated, Heaven knows—not I. But they stirred not! One moment more and they must lie trampled beneath my horse’s hoofs,—he was already on his haunches for the bound,—when, wheeling half aside, I faced him at the wall. It was at least a foot higher and of solid stone masonry, and as I did so I felt that I was perilling my life to save theirs. One vigorous dash of the spur I gave him, as I lifted him to the leap. He bounded beneath it quick as lightning; still, with a spring like a rocket, he rose into the air, cleared the wall, and stood trembling and frightened on the road outside.
“Safe, by Jupiter! and splendidly done, too,” cried a voice near me, that I immediately recognized as Sir George Dashwood’s.
“Lucy, my love, look up,—Lucy, my dear, there’s no danger now. She has fainted! O’Malley, fetch some water,—fast. Poor fellow, your own nerves seem shaken. Why, you’ve let your horse go! Come here, for Heaven’s sake! Support her for an instant. I’ll fetch some water.”
It appeared to me like a dream; I leaned against the pillar of the gate; the cold and death-like features of Lucy Dashwood lay motionless upon my arm; her hand, falling heavily upon my shoulder, touched my cheek. The tramp of my horse, as he galloped onward, was the only sound that broke the silence, as I stood there, gazing steadfastly upon the pale brow and paler cheek, down which a solitary tear was slowly stealing. I knew not how the minutes passed; my memory took no note of time, but at length a gentle tremor thrilled her frame, a slight, scarce-perceptible blush colored her fair face, her lips slightly parted, and heaving a deep sigh, she looked around her. Gradually her eyes turned and met mine. Oh, the bliss unutterable of that moment! It was no longer the look of cold scorn she had given me last; the expression was one of soft and speaking gratitude. She seemed to read my very heart, and know its truth; there was a tone of deep and compassionate interest in the glance; and forgetting all,—everything that had passed,—all save my unaltered, unalterable love, I kneeled beside her, and in words burning as my own heart burned, poured out my tale of mingled sorrow and affection with all the eloquence of passion. I vindicated my unshaken faith,—reconciling the conflicting evidences with the proofs I proffered of my attachment. If my moments were measured, I spent them not idly. I called to witness how every action of my soldier’s life emanated from her; how her few and chance words had decided the character of my fate; if aught of fame or honor were my portion, to her I owed it. As, hurried onwards by my ardent hopes, I forgot Power and all about him, a step up the gravel walk came rapidly nearer, and I had but time to assume my former attitude beside Lucy as her father came up.
“Well, Charley, is she better? Oh, I see she is. Here, we have the whole household at our heels.” So saying, he pointed to a string of servants pressing eagerly forward with every species of restorative that Portuguese ingenuity has invented.
The next moment we were joined by the senhora, who, pale with fear, seemed scarcely less in need of assistance than her friend.
Amidst questions innumerable; explanations sought for on all sides; mistakes and misconceptions as to the whole occurrence,—we took our way towards the villa, Lucy walking between Sir George and Donna Inez, while I followed, leaning upon Power’s arm.
“They’ve caught him again, O’Malley,” said the general, turning half round to me; “he, too, seemed as much frightened as any of us.”