CHAPTER XIV.
The Pentland Hills.
Helen listened with astonishment and grief to this too probable story of her step-mother's ill-judged tenderness or cruel treachery; and remembering the threats which had escaped that lady in their last conversation, she saw no reason to doubt what so clearly explained the before inexplicable seizure of her father, the betraying of Wallace, and her own present calamity.
"You do not answer me," rejoined the woman; "but if you think I don't say true, Lord Soulis himself will assure you of the fact." "Alas, no!" returned Helen, profoundly sighing, "I believe it too well.
I see the depth of the misery into which I am plunged.

And yet," cried she, recollecting the imposition the men had put upon her:-"yet, I shall not be wholly so, if my father lives, and was not in the extremity they told me of!" "If that thought gives you comfort, retain it," returned the woman; "the whole story of the earl's illness was an invention to bring you at so short notice from the protection of the prior." "I thank thee, gracious Providence, for this comfort!" exclaimed Helen; "it inspires me with redoubled trust in thee." Margery shook her head.

"Ah, poor victim (thought she), how vain is thy devotion!" But she had not time to say so, for her husband and the deserter from Cressingham re-entered the cave.

Helen, afraid that it was Soulis, started up.

The stranger proceeded to lift her in his arms; she struggled, and in the evidence of her action, struck his beaver; it opened, and discovered a pale and stern countenance, with a large scar across his jaw; this mark of contest, and the gloomy scowl of his eyes, made Helen rush toward the woman for protection.