echoed mournfully upon the blast. Elinor rose upon her panting steed to gaze with eager eyes towards Belfont.
It was not the reflection of the kindling fires that spread so deathlike a hue over her lips and face. She was bleeding to death from her wounds, while her eye darted forth, as if intently watching, with alternate hope and terror, that which none but herself could see—it was a man and horse advancing with furious haste from the smoke and flames, in which he had appeared involved. He bore a lovely burthen in his arms, and shewing her Clare of Costolly as he passed. "I have fulfilled your desire, proud woman," he cried: "the castle shall burn to the earth: the blood of every enemy to his country shall be spilt. I have saved the son of Glenarvon; and when I have placed him in safety, shall de Ruthven be as dear?" "Take my thanks," said Elinor faintly, as the blood continued to flow from her wounds.
