Scarcely had the last solemn supplication been uttered, when the latch of the chamber was raised.  The door flew open, and the outlaw, in his dark grey cap and cloak, stood before them.  Constance was too much alarmed to utter a word.  She clung to her companion with the agony of one grasping at the most fragile support for life and safety.

“Nay, maiden, I would not harm thee,” said the intruder, in a voice so musical and sad, that it seemed to drop into the listener’s ear like a gush of harmony, or a sweet and melancholy chime wakening up the heart’s most endeared and hallowed associations.  His features were nobly formed.  His eye, large and bright, of the purest grey; the lashes, like a cloud, covering and tempering their lustre.  A touch of sadness rested on his lips.  They seemed to speak of suffering and endurance, as if the soul’s deepest agony would not have cast a word across their barriers.  Constance for a moment raised her eyes, but they were suddenly withdrawn, overflowing with some powerful emotion.  He still gazed, but one proud effort broke the fixed intensity of his glance, and his tongue resumed its office.

“Maiden, I am pursued.  The foe are on my track.  My retreat is discovered, and unless thou wilt vouchsafe to me a hiding-place, I am in their power.  The Earl of Tyrone—­nay, I scorn the title—­’tis the King of Ulster that stands before thee.  I would not crouch thus for my own life, were it not for my country.  Her stay, her sustenance, is in thy keeping.”

Never did wretchedness and misfortune sue in vain to woman’s ear.  Constance forgot her weakness and timidity.  She saw not her own danger.  A fellow-being craved help and succour; all other feelings gave place, and she seemed animated with a new impulse.  She looked on the minstrel, as if to ascertain his fidelity.  It was evident, however, that no apprehension need be entertained, this personage seeming to manifest no slight solicitude for the safety of the unfortunate chief.

“The old lead mine, in the Cleuch,” whispered he.

“Nay, it must be in the house,” replied Constance, with a glance of forethought beyond her years.  “The pursuers will not search this loyal house for treason!”

As was the case in most mansions belonging to families of rank and importance, a room was contrived for purposes of special concealment, where persons or property could be stowed in case of danger.  A heavy stack of chimneys was enlarged so as to admit of a small apartment, inconvenient enough in other respects, yet well adapted as a temporary hiding-place.

Hither, through secluded passages, the careful Constance conducted her guest, who had so strangely thrown himself, with unhesitating confidence, upon her generosity and protection.  The proud representative of a kingly race was rescued by a woman from ignominy and death.  Some feeling of this nature probably overpowered him.  As he bade her good night, his voice faltered, and he passed his hand suddenly athwart his brow.  Constance, having fulfilled this sacred duty, shrank from any further intercourse, and hastened to her chamber.  It was long ere she could sleep; portentous dreams then brooded over her slumbers.  The terrible vision was repeated, and she awoke, but not to her wonted cheerfulness.