Every eye was turned in the direction of the pursuers, and there, not half the distance they had been before, were the dragoons, thundering along with fiery haste. The sight gave new energy to the fugitives, who urged on their steeds with redoubled vigor. For a while now the result seemed doubtful. During this interval of suspense the feelings of the fugitives were of the most conflicting character—the instinctive love of life alternating with a holy resignation to whatever fate might be assigned them. Now, as they gained on the troopers, the former prevailed, and now, as they saw their pursuers drawing nigher, the latter won the mastery. The emotions of each, meanwhile, were different. The old pastor, with eyes uplifted, seemed rapturously awaiting martyrdom—the aunt and cousin of Helen were pale and red by turns as their fear or faith rose triumphant, while the serving men frowned darkly as they looked behind, and appeared to wish for a chance to exchange passes with their steel-clad oppressors. But the feelings of Helen were most difficult to analyze, though perhaps they had less of earth in them than those of any except the pastor. Subdued by the day’s sacrifice of herself, and all glowing with divine faith and energy, what had she to fear from death? Yet, even with this perfect resignation, she could not avoid looking back on their pursuers, while her heart heat quicker as the distance increased between the troopers and themselves.
“We gain—we gain—press on, we shall escape,” shouted the leader of the little party, “the Lord will yet deliver us from our enemies.”
“Nay, nay,” said the pastor suddenly, “the hour has come—see ye not that we are cut off in front, lo! the horses and the men-of-war.”
A cry—almost a shriek—broke from Helen’s two female companions as they looked ahead, and saw, emerging from a narrow ravine, another party of dragoons, led by a tall, dark man far in advance of the rest, and all riding with tumultuous haste. Helen spoke not, but only raised her eyes to heaven, for escape was now impossible. The ravine ahead was the only feasible outlet in that direction, from the glen up which the fugitives had fled, and to turn back would be to fall on the swords of their pursuers. The serving men looked aghast, and drew in their reins, which example the rest of the party immediately followed. For a minute there was a profound silence. At length the leader again spoke.
“Why stand we here? Escape is impossible, unless we can cut our way through. Let us charge the party behind, for that is the smaller. Form a circle around the women—wheel—trot.”
There was no time for consultation, and the proposal seemed to point out the only feasible plan. With the words they wheeled their horses, and dashed to the desperate attack. The dragoons seemed for an instant astonished by the movement, but did not slacken their pace. Their leader waved his sword, and turning to his men, led the onset in person, shouting “God save the king and bishops,” while the Covenanters, unsheathing their blades, raised the cry of “The sword of the Lord and Gideon.” And thus, borne in the midst of those armed men as in the embrace of a whirlwind, Helen was hurried toward the dragoons. And as they galloped along, the heavenly girl, with heart uplifted, prayed, while her countenance shone with a glory as of the cherubim.
And who was it that dashed so frantically up the glen, as if fearful that he might not arrive to whet his blade in the blood of the fugitives? Who, but Sir Roland Græme, flying to save his daughter, and even now almost maddened with the thought that he had come too late, for the instant that he emerged from the ravine he recognized his child, and now, when he saw her turned back to the pursuers, and his practiced eye told him that he could not reach her until the two parties should be engaged in deadly combat, the same sickening sensation of horror which had attacked him at the Brae came over him again. With a sharp cry of agony he ploughed his spurs into the already bloody sides of his horse, and sprang forward at a pace even more frantic than that which he had before led; but swift as was his progress it seemed to him only that of a snail. On—on—he urged his gallant beast, and nearer and nearer the fugitives and their first pursuers drew to each other. What though he gained on the group!—he saw that the hostile parties would meet while he would yet be far away. Oh! what were his feelings as this conviction forced itself on him. If only another mile, in which to overtake them, had been given him, he might perhaps have succeeded; but now hope was in vain! Cold drops of sweat stood on his brow, while his heart throbbed almost to bursting against his corselet. Did none recognize him, and could they not understand his frantic signs? He shouted—again—again—again. The dead might as well be expected to hear. He waved his plumed hat on high, but, at that instant, with the shock of an earthquake, the opponents met. A dizziness came over his eyes, but with a mighty effort he rallied his reeling faculties, and looked at the fight. Was his child yet alive? He saw the gleam of the broadswords, the blaze of firearms, and all the tumult of the conflict, but his daughter was not visible. Suddenly a sharp, quick, female shriek, rising shrill over the uproar, met his ear. God of heaven, had his Helen fallen! Another leap of his frantic steed, and he was near enough to hear the shouts of the combatants and distinguish particular persons. He trembled with eagerness, but lo! his daughter was still unharmed, girt around as with a wall of steel, by the broadswords of her defenders. He rose in his stirrups at the sight, and waving his hat around his head, shouted with the voice of a Titan. Joy—joy! they recognize him, and his child extends her arms toward him. She is saved. But no! for at this very instant, when at length they understood by their leader’s gestures that they were to desist, one of the dragoons, availing himself of the confusion of the moment and thirsting for vengeance for a wound he had received, aimed a pistol at the pastor’s bosom, and though a fellow soldier struck aside his arm, it was only to wing the deadly ball to another heart, even that of Helen, who all along had been nestled by the side of the holy man. She fell back into his arms, the blood gushing from her bosom, and for an instant they thought her gone. But when the pastor called on her name she faintly opened her eyes, pressed his hand, smiled sweetly, and murmuring of heaven, sank away apparently into a slumber.
One wild cry of horror had risen, at her fall, from those immediately around her, telling the tale of her murder; but the father needed not this confirmation of his worst fears, for he had seen the shot and beheld her fall. Galloping wildly forward, with a few gigantic leaps he reached the offender, whom he smote to the earth with a single blow of his broadsword. The next instant he was by his daughter’s side, the group opening awe-struck to let him pass. He spoke not, but oh! the terrible agony of his countenance. Putting them aside with arms extended, he approached and gazed down into the face of his child—gazed as Sapphira did when the apostle told her doom, and she saw the bearers returning from her husband’s burial. And for a minute of profound silence he continued gazing thus, into that fair sweet face, on which, though now stilled as in death, there yet lingered a smile of heavenly joy. He shuddered as he looked, and his countenance became livid as that of a corpse. He essayed to speak, but though his lips moved, no sound proceeded from them. At length slowly, almost reluctantly, he stooped down and took her hand.
“Helen—Helen,” he said, in a choking voice, “you are not dead. Say so—tell me I am not your murderer. Oh! speak, and forgive me.”
The dying girl faintly opened her eyes, and gazed vacantly into her father’s face. Her senses were fast deserting her. She did not recognize him.