Scarthe was standing by the stirrup, listening to some communication which the rider appeared to impart—in a haste that proclaimed its importance.
Despite his earnestness, the stranger spoke in a low tone; but his voice ascending to the window of Marion’s chamber, was sufficiently loud for her to catch the significant words—
“Prisoner—rescue—Uxbridge!”
On hearing them, Scarthe was seen to spring back from the side of the horseman, with as much alertness as if the latter had aimed a blow at him!
Next moment, and, without even staying to make reply to the communication which the messenger had made, he rushed on towards the gate of the courtyard, loudly vociferating, “To horse—every man to horse!”
With that promptitude to which he had trained his troop, the cuirassiers were almost instantly in their saddles; and before Marion Wade could recover from the shock of this new surprise—more gratifying than that which had preceded it—she beheld Scarthe himself—enveloped in his steel armour—ride forth at the head of his troop; and go off at a gallop along the avenue leading out towards Uxbridge.
“A rescue—Uxbridge!” were the words that continued to echo in her ears, long after the trampling of the troopers’ horses had died away upon the distant road.
“God grant it may be true!” was her murmured response to that echo.
The excited suppliant did not content herself with this simple formulary of speech. Nudely kneeling upon the floor, her white arms crossed over her bosom, she breathed forth a prayer—a fervent, passionate prayer—invoking the protection of the God she loved, for the man she adored!