led his steps astray, and instead of taking the avenue which led towards the village, he chose another, which, after he had pursued it for some time with a hasty and reckless step, conducted him to the other side of the demesne, where a postern-door opened through the wall, and led into the open country.
Tressilian paused an instant. It was indifferent to him by what road he left a spot now so odious to his recollections; but it was probable that the postern-door was locked, and his retreat by that pass rendered impossible.
“I must make the attempt, however,” he said to himself; “the only means of reclaiming this lost—this miserable—this still most lovely and most unhappy girl—must rest in her father’s appeal to the broken laws of his country—I must haste to apprise him of this heart-rending intelligence.”
As Tressilian, thus conversing with himself, approached to try some means of opening the door, or climbing over it, he perceived there was a key put into the lock from the outside. It turned round, the bolt revolved, and a cavalier, who entered, muffled in his riding-cloak, and wearing a slouched hat with a drooping feather, stood at once within four yards of him who was desirous of going out. They exclaimed at once, in tones of resentment and surprise, the one “Varney!” the other “Tressilian!”
“What make you here?” was the stern question put by the stranger to Tressilian, when the moment of surprise was past—“What make you here, where, your presence is neither expected nor desired?”
“Nay, Varney,” replied Tressilian, “what make
