“All that I could procure without exciting suspicion—and enough,” replied the Bohemian. “You two must ride for Tongres ere the way becomes unsafe—Marthon will abide with the women of our horde, with whom she is an old acquaintance. Know she is a daughter of our tribe, and only dwelt among you to serve our purpose as occasion should fall.”
“Marthon!” exclaimed the Countess, looking at the veiled female with a shriek of surprise, “is not this my kinswoman?”
“Only Marthon,” said Hayraddin. “Excuse me that little piece of deceit. I dared not carry off both the Ladies of Croye from the Wild Boar of Ardennes.”
“Wretch!” said Quentin, emphatically—“but it is not—shall not be too late—I will back to rescue the Lady Hameline.”
“Hameline,” whispered the lady, in a disturbed voice, “hangs on thy arm, to thank thee for her rescue.”
“Ha! what!—How is this?” said Quentin, extricating himself from her hold, and with less gentleness than he would at any other time have used towards a female of any rank. “Is the Lady Isabelle then left behind!—Farewell—farewell.”
As he turned to hasten back to the castle, Hayraddin laid hold of him.—“Nay, hear you—hear you—you run upon your death! What the foul fiend did you wear the colours of the old one for?—I will never trust blue and white silk again. But she has almost as large a dower—has jewels and gold—hath pretensions, too, upon the earldom.”
While he spoke thus, panting on in broken sentences, the Bohemian struggled to detain Quentin, who at length laid his hand on his dagger, in order to extricate himself.
“Nay, if that be the case,” said Hayraddin, unloosing his hold, “go—and the devil, if there be one, go along with you!”
And, soon as freed from his hold, the Scot shot back to the castle with the speed of the wind.