CHAPTER V.
Up! lady fair, and braid thy hair, And rouse thee in the breezy air, Up! quit thy bower, late wears the hour, Long have the rooks caw'd round the tower.
JOANNA BAILLIE.
Startled from her repose by the noise of the affray, the Fair Maid of Perth had listened in breathless terror to the sounds of violence and outcry which arose from the street.

She had sunk on her knees to pray for assistance, and when she distinguished the voices of neighbours and friends collected for her protection, she remained in the same posture to return thanks.

She was still kneeling when her father almost thrust her champion, Henry Smith, into her apartment; the bashful lover hanging back at first, as if afraid to give offence, and, on observing her posture, from respect to her devotion.
"Father," said the armourer, "she prays; I dare no more speak to her than to a bishop when he says mass." "Now, go thy ways, for a right valiant and courageous blockhead," said her father--and then speaking to his daughter, he added, "Heaven is best thanked, my daughter, by gratitude shown to our fellow creatures.

Here comes the instrument by whom God has rescued thee from death, or perhaps from dishonour worse than death.

Receive him, Catharine, as thy true Valentine, and him whom I desire to see my affectionate son." "Not thus--father," replied Catharine.