She curtsied with respectful dignity to both mother and son as she concluded, and, turning on the beloved of her heart the glance of tender farewell she could not trust her quivering lips to speak, passively yielded to the impulse of the paternal arm that led her from their mansion.

The recent conflagration at New Hall having left Ralph Milbourne without a Norfolk residence, and Helen still expressing a wish to remain in that county, he placed her with her Uncle Ireton’s family, then occupying a spacious but dismal mansion in that neighbourhood, called Irmingland Hall. And there, in spite of danger and the precautions of her family to prevent these meetings, did the adventurous lover seek, and ofttimes succeed in obtaining, stolen interviews with his beloved; and in the last of these, that rupture took place between them which I have recorded in the commencement of my tale, and which left them both angry, but broken-hearted.

The fierce excitement of the perilous and active scenes in which he was engaged, and the increasing darkness that now overshadowed his cause, seemed at times to divert the thoughts of Colonel Dagworth from the regrets and sorrows of a love that nothing could obliterate; but Helen, in the deep retirement and unbroken gloom of Irmingland Hall, had no other employment for her thoughts than heart-corroding recollections of past happiness and wronged affection. From the haughty daughter of Cromwell, who had recently become the wife of her Uncle Ireton, she neither expected nor obtained sympathy for that oppressive anguish which preyed upon the springs of life. To this time brought no balm, but rather added a twofold cause of distress,—in the danger that threatened the still dear but estranged and distant object of her faithful affection; and in the uneasiness she endured in consequence of the solicitations of marriage which she now received from Sir Richard Warden, one of the Parliamentary leaders, and the chosen friend of her Uncle Ireton, by whom his cause was warmly espoused. It was also earnestly backed by her father; and could she have forgotten Colonel Dagworth, it is possible she might have yielded to the pressing instances of those near relatives in favour of one to whom she could not deny her esteem, and who possessed everything to recommend him to the regard of any one who had affections to bestow.

The fall of Colchester at length took place, and the besiegers, enraged at the obstinacy of its brave defenders, had long vowed a signal vengeance against the most distinguished of these, among whom Colonel Dagworth might be justly reckoned. His father had fallen in one of the desperate sorties that had been attempted by the cavaliers; and to all the other causes of animosity existing against this brave loyalist, was the circumstance of his being the beloved of the wealthy heiress of Ralph Milbourne, the suspected obstacle that prevented her marriage with a powerful Roundhead partisan. His death was therefore resolved upon, both as a matter of public and private expediency, by the council assembled at Colchester, soon after the surrender of that last stronghold of loyalty.

Helen Milbourne had scarcely recovered from the horror with which the ungenerous massacre of Sir John Lisle and Sir Charles Lucas had inspired her, when Lady Alice Dagworth, attired in her weeds of recent widowhood, rushed into the apartment where, with pale cheeks and tearful eyes, she had just perused the diurnal which detailed the last scene of those ill-fated heroes, and flinging her arms wildly about her, exclaimed, with a frantic shriek, “Save my son!”

“Your son!” echoed Helen, looking fearfully upon Lady Alice, and scarcely appearing to comprehend the nature of the very peril which she had so much dreaded.

“Yes, yes, my son, my only one, Edward Dagworth! The barbarous traitors who have slain Lucas and Lisle have vowed his death—the death of my beautiful, my valiant son! You loved him once, Helen Milbourne, and you can save him, if you will.”

Helen Milbourne, forgetful of past injury, insult, and scorn, clung to the bosom of Lady Alice with the fervent embrace of a child; and, mingling her tears with those with which the agonised mother was bedewing her features, sobbed out:

“Alas! Lady Alice, how can I save Colonel Dagworth—I who am so powerless?”