on my breast.—­I felt no burthen, except the internal one of contrary and contending emotions.  Brimming delight now invested me.  Again her chill limbs touched me as a torpedo; and I shuddered in sympathy with her pain and fright.  Her head lay on my shoulder, her breath waved my hair, her heart beat near mine, transport made me tremble, blinded me, annihilated me—­till a suppressed groan, bursting from her lips, the chattering of her teeth, which she strove vainly to subdue, and all the signs of suffering she evinced, recalled me to the necessity of speed and succour.  At last I said to her, “There is Englefield Green; there the inn.  But, if you are seen thus strangely circumstanced, dear Idris, even now your enemies may learn your flight too soon:  were it not better that I hired the chaise alone?  I will put you in safety meanwhile, and return to you immediately.”

She answered that I was right, and might do with her as I pleased.  I observed the door of a small out-house a-jar.  I pushed it open; and, with some hay strewed about, I formed a couch for her, placing her exhausted frame on it, and covering her with my cloak.  I feared to leave her, she looked so wan and faint—­but in a moment she re-acquired animation, and, with that, fear; and again she implored me not to delay.  To call up the people of the inn, and obtain a conveyance and horses, even though I harnessed them myself, was the work of many minutes; minutes, each freighted with the weight of ages.  I caused the chaise to advance a little, waited till the people of the inn had retired, and then made the post-boy draw up the carriage to the spot where Idris, impatient, and now somewhat recovered, stood waiting for me.  I lifted her into the chaise; I assured her that with our four horses we should arrive in London before five o’clock, the hour when she would be sought and missed.  I besought her to calm herself; a kindly shower of tears relieved her, and by degrees she related her tale of fear and peril.

That same night after Adrian’s departure, her mother had warmly expostulated with her on the subject of her attachment to me.  Every motive, every threat, every angry taunt was urged in vain.  She seemed to consider that through me she had lost Raymond; I was the evil influence of her life; I was even accused of encreasing and confirming the mad and base apostacy of Adrian from all views of advancement and grandeur; and now this miserable mountaineer was to steal her daughter.  Never, Idris related, did the angry lady deign to recur to gentleness and persuasion; if she had, the task of resistance would have been exquisitely painful.  As it was, the sweet girl’s generous nature was roused to defend, and ally herself with, my despised cause.  Her mother ended with a look of contempt and covert triumph, which for a moment awakened the suspicions of Idris.  When they parted for the night, the Countess said, “To-morrow I trust your tone will be changed:  be composed; I have agitated you; go to rest; and I will send you a medicine I always take when unduly restless—­it will give you a quiet night.”