Ferrand started at the unexpected apparition, but drew his sword, perceiving the point of Harland's already at his breast; whilst Louise, with a scream of mingled joy and terror, attempted to throw herself into the protecting arms of her lover; but was withheld by one of Ferrand's attendants, who, recalling to mind his master's assailant, endeavoured to force her to the interior part of the cottage. In this he was prevented by Sir Henry, who had followed Harland, and who now sprung to the rescue of his sister. A few minutes would have decided the conflict in favour of the adventurers, but the domestics, alarmed by the tumult and the screams of Louise, hastened to the assistance of their master. They were, therefore, obliged to act on the defensive; and, to add to their distress, Louise, after vainly struggling for emancipation, sunk senseless at the feet of Ferrand. Another moment and she had been torn from their sight; when Ferrand, thrown off his guard by her fall, received a wound from Harland: he staggered—and the servant, who was raising the fair cause of the contention, extended his arm to save his master. It was a moment granted by fortune. Quick as lightning Sir Henry tore her from him, and, defended by Harland, conveyed her out of the cottage. By the time they had passed the gate, Ferrand, however, was sufficiently recovered to order the servants, who had officiously attended to him, to pursue them, and force Louise back. They hastened to execute his commands, but the narrowness of the path prevented their passing to impede the flight of the fugitives. The sword of Harland was opposed to those who first presented themselves; but fearing they would force their way through the underwood, and thus surround them, he hastily bade Sir Henry—save Louise! Sir Henry, accordingly, after an anxious but vain look for the old negro, and desiring the Lieutenant to follow him, entered the nearly trackless path by which they had been conducted to the cottage.
Louise soon revived; and, after a few incoherent exclamations of joy, and thankfulness at her deliverance, anxiously inquired after Harland. "I hope in a few minutes he will join us," answered Sir Henry. But scarcely were the words pronounced when they heard a violent tumult, and immediately after distinguished the voice of Ferrand, commanding his people to pursue Louise. His anxiety for George was instantly absorbed in apprehension for the safety of his sister, and, supporting her on his arm, they again fled.
Night soon concealed them from farther danger, and the hapless Harland retook possession of their imaginations. The timid Louise, with tearful eyes, endeavoured to pierce through the gloom, or entreated Sir Henry to stop and listen if perchance his distant footfall, or voice, could be heard. But all was silent—and busy fancy quickly portrayed him as sinking beneath the vengeance of his furious rival. Sir Henry's thoughts did not present a more cheerful picture; he entertained not a doubt but Ferrand had overpowered the Lieutenant; and an idea of assassination presented itself to his imagination, which the ferocious character of the East-Indian but too justly authorised. Could he have left Louise, he would instantly have retraced his way to the cottage, but no friendly roof presented itself which might have afforded shelter for the lovely maid; he had therefore no alternative but to proceed, though every nerve trembling with anxiety to return and aid the unfortunate Lieutenant.
It was nearly the hour of midnight when they arrived at the Marchioness's, where Louise had again the satisfaction of being folded to the bosom of her generous benefactress. An inquiry after Harland followed the embrace. The tears of Louise informed her some accident had happened; and, on her applying to Sir Henry for an explanation, he gave a concise relation of the evening's adventures; at the same time declaring his intention of instantly returning. The Marchioness could not oppose his determination, but applied herself to console Louise, who appeared nearly overpowered by her emotions.
Sir Henry advanced to her, and tenderly taking her hand—"Indulge not this immoderate grief, my dear girl, which can only add to our present distress. Summon your fortitude. George may be wounded—he may be overpowered; or, which is most probable, he may have missed his way in the plantations. I yesterday, my dear girl, despaired of ever beholding you again; yet, when least expected, Providence conducted us to you. Hope, then, for the best. I will proceed, with the utmost expedition, to his assistance, if he need it: and if our fears are prophetic—but you must not indulge the idea.—Harland shall live, and live to bless my Louise!"
The enthusiasm with which Sir Henry pronounced the last sentence, imparted a hope to the heart of Louise, he dared not himself indulge. She faintly smiled through her tears: Sir Henry again repeated—"Hope for the best!" and was hastening out of the room, when a loud peal at the outward door arrested his steps, and, the minute after, Harland, with breathless impatience, rushed into the room, followed by the old Negro.
"My dearest, loveliest girl!" he exclaimed, clasping the delighted Louise to his bosom; "am I again so blessed as to behold you?—Nor will I part from you again, my Louise, till the Church's sanction has placed it beyond the power of aught but death to separate us!"
"But you are wounded, Harland," said the Marchioness anxiously; "let me procure you some assistance."
Harland, indeed, had forgotten his wounds, and the joy Louise at first experienced on seeing him, prevented her observing his pallid countenance, or the blood which had stained his clothes. She now with trembling lips joined in the Marchioness's request, that a surgeon might be sent for. Harland complied,—"though the hurts I have received," he continued, "are not such as to require a moment's consideration. But the dastardly villain, Sir Henry, who inflicted them, shall yet feel the power of my arm!"
The last words were uttered with a vehemence which declared Ferrand not only the man alluded to, but that he had been guilty of some atrocity they were as yet unacquainted with.