The sad face of Gabrielle had suddenly changed. Her eyes sparkled with tears of astonishment and joy; her cheeks flushed with crimson, her lips trembled.
"Ian!" she exclaimed, stretching her hands towards the window. "Ian—my cousin—come to me—save me, and take me to Ernestine!"
The surprise of Merodé at all this speedily became rage. He followed the direction of her eye from the window, and, gazing along the sandy beach towards the north, at an angle of the rock on which the outer-wall of the tower was built, he saw the imposing figure of a Scottish Highlander standing erect, as he coolly took a survey of the whole place. He wore a green tartan kilt, with a bright cuirass and helmet; the entire pinions of an eagle surmounted the cone of the latter; a round shield was on his left arm, and a drawn claymore glittered in his right hand. On seeing this bold fellow within musket-shot of the walls, Merodé could scarcely believe his senses; but the stranger was Ian, as the sequel will show.
"Der Teufel!" said the count, almost choking with rage; "I will notch that rascal's head for him. I knew not that any of these Scots were on this side of the Belt. Hallo! to your arms there," he cried, rushing down-stairs to the court-yard; "to your muskets there, the quarter-guard! Kaspar—Schwindler do you see that fellow, by the water-side?"
They did see him, and fired several shots, the report of which palsied Gabrielle with fear; and she fell upon her knees, but forgot to pray, for her heart had forgotten to beat; and, like one who had been stunned by a thunderbolt, she listened, as shot after shot rang from the tower battlement over her head; and then she saw the snow-white smoke curling away on the wind.
Ian had vanished before the first shot was fired.
"He has escaped," said Merodé, returning breathless, with knitted brows and a bitter smile; "are you rejoiced to hear it?"
Gabrielle did not reply; her thankfulness was too great for utterance.
"Ay, the tall Scot brandished his sword in defiance, and even while we saw the bullets knocking the sand about him, and whitening the trunks of the trees, he plunged into yonder thicket and disappeared. I have sent out Sergeant Swashbuckler, with a party, and hope to have him hanged as a spy before nightfall.
"And so yonder tall fellow is your lover, eh? Oh you need not deny it; I saw your eye say so. Never did a woman's eye light up as yours was lit, save for a lover or a husband. Now little one, tell me, what see you in that great swinging Scot, that you cannot see in me? Still no answer. Are we becoming sulky, passionate, and quarrelsome? 'Pon my soul, women are greater enigmas than those of the Sphynx I used to hear about at Gottingen. So we have got a lover, have we? oh—very well! I shall not break my heart, believe me."