Several days had now elapsed since their escape from the stag, when, one afternoon, Margaret and Ruth, found themselves in that portion of the forest where their fright had occurred. As it was some distance from the lodge, they felt fatigued by their walk, and sitting down on a shady knoll, naturally fell into a conversation on the stranger who had so opportunely come to their aid. But a few minutes had thus passed when a light step was heard approaching, and as the females hastily arose, the stranger stood before them.
“Be not alarmed, fair lady,” said he, lifting his cap, and addressing Margaret, “I said when we parted the other day that we might meet again. I redeem my word. But if my presence affrights you I retire.”
The maiden blushed deeply at this address, so unlike that of one in the speaker’s sphere of life. Her bosom was agitated, meanwhile, with contending emotions, which produced a momentary embarrassment and confusion in her countenance, only serving to heighten her beauty in the stranger’s eyes. At length she spoke.
“But, sir stranger, do you not run a risk by this? Believe me I would not have you come to ill, but I know that danger besets your footsteps. Then,” she added, more earnestly than the next moment she thought maidenly, “fly from the forest.”
“You think that the outlaw’s life is hazardous; but I have only to sound this,” and he lightly touched his bugle, “and a score of stout arms are around me.”
There was something so fascinating in the stranger’s manner that, despite her better judgment, Margaret felt chained to the spot. Nor did Ruth show any greater disposition to depart. Before five minutes had elapsed, Margaret found herself conversing with the gallant outlaw as freely as if she had known him for months. If, for a moment, she would think such conduct improper, the next reflection would be had he not saved her life? Besides was not Ruth at hand? Is it a wonder, therefore, that the grateful girl suffered the stranger to linger by her side for nearly an hour, or that after they had parted, she thought of him oftener than she would have been willing a week before to admit she could ever think of any one except her father? Is it a wonder that she often strolled into the forest with Ruth, and that she never returned without having seen the outlaw? In a word is it any wonder that she loved?