Chapter XII…

Chapter XII

The Freaks of Love at Hailes Castle—The Tournament at Tarnawa announced.

The affliction which had so lately visited the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne had made him avoid company, and Hailes Castle had consequently been entirely without guests ever since his lady’s death. But it must not be imagined that the evening of the hunting day passed dully because the board was not filled. The sweet and soothing sorrow awakened by tender and melancholy reflections soon gave way before the joy arising from the return of Sir Patrick the younger. In those days letters could not pass as they do now, with the velocity of the winds, by posts and couriers, from one part of Europe to another; and, during Hepborne’s absence, his father had had no tidings of his son, except occasionally through the medium of those warriors or pilgrims who, having fought in foreign fields, or visited foreign shrines, had chanced during their travels to see or hear of him, and who came to Hailes Castle to receive the liberal guerdon of his hospitality for the good news they brought. The elder Sir Patrick, therefore, had much to ask, and the son much to answer; so that the ball of conversation was unremittingly kept up between them.

The Lady Isabelle was seated between her brother and his friend Sir John Assueton, in the most provoking position; for she was thus placed, as it were, between two magnets, so as to be equally attracted by both. Her affection for Sir Patrick made her anxious to catch all he said, and to gather all his adventures; whilst, on the other hand, Sir John Assueton’s conversation, made up, as it in a great measure was, of the praises of his friend, intermixed with many interesting notes on the accounts of battles and passages of arms her brother was narrating to her father, proved so seducing that she found it difficult to turn away her ear from him. Nor were Assueton’s illustrations the less gratifying that they often brought out the whole truth, where her brother’s modesty induced him to sink such parts of the tale as were the most glorious to himself. As for Assueton himself, he seemed to have become a new man in her company. He was naturally shrewd, excessively good-humoured, and often witty in his conversation, but he never in his life before bestowed more of it on a lady than barely what the courtesy of chivalry required. This night, however, he was animated and eloquent; and the result was, that the Lady Isabelle retired to her couch at an unusually late hour, and declared to her handmaiden, Mary Hay, as she was undressing her, that Sir John Assueton was certainly the most gallant, witty, and agreeable knight she had ever had the good fortune to meet with.

“But thou dost not think him so handsome as thy brother Sir Patrick, Lady?” said the sly Miss Mary Hay.

“Nay, as to that, Mary,” replied the Lady Isabelle, “they are both handsome, yet both very diverse in their beauty. Thou knowest that one is fair, and the other dark. My brother, Sir Patrick, and I, do take our fair tint from our poor mother. Is it not common for fair to affect dark, and dark fair? My father, thou seest, is dark, yet was my dear departed mother fair as the light of day. Is it unnatural, then, that I should esteem Sir John Assueton’s olive tint of countenance, his speaking black eyes, his nobly-arched jet eyebrows, and the raven curls of his finely-formed head, more than the pure red and white complexion, the blue eyes and the fair hair of my dear brother? Nay, nay, my brother is very handsome; but algate he be my brother, and though I love him, as sure never sister loved brother before, yet must I tell the truth, thou knowest, Mary; and, in good fay, I do think Sir John Assueton by much the properer man.”

Hepborne had been by no means blind to that of which neither his sister nor Sir John Assueton were, as yet, themselves aware. He saw the change on Assueton with extreme delight. He enjoyed the idea of this woman-hater being at last himself enslaved, and, above all, he rejoiced that the enslaver should be his sister, the Lady Isabelle. He longed to attack him on the subject; but, lest he might scare him away from the toils before he was fairly and irrecoverably meshed, he resolved to appear to shut his eyes to his friend’s incipient disease. As he went with Sir John, therefore, to see him comfortably accommodated for the night, he only indulged himself in a remark, natural enough in itself, upon his wounded arm.

“Assueton,” said he, “wilt thou not have thine arm dressed by some cunning leech ere thou goest to rest? Our chaplain is no mean proficient in leechcraft; better take that rag of a kerchief away, and have it properly bound up.”

“Nay, nay,” cried Assueton, hastily, “I thank thee, my good friend; but ’tis very well as it is. Thy sister, the Lady Isabelle, bound it up with exceeding care; and in these cases I have remarked that there is no salve equal in virtue to the bloody goutes of the wound itself. Good night, and St. Andrew be with thee.”

“And may St. Baldrid, our tutelary saint, be with you,” replied Hepborne, as he shut the door. “Poor Assueton,” said he then to himself, with a smile, “my sister has cured one wound for him, only to inflict another, which he will find it more difficult to salve.”

The next day being devoted to the gay amusement of hawking, was yet more decisive of the fate of poor Sir John Assueton. He rode by the side of the Lady Isabelle; and as the nature of the sport precluded the possibility of her using that attention necessary to make her palfrey avoid the obstacles lying in its way, or to keep it up when it stumbled, Sir John found a ready excuse for again acting the part of her knight; and, one-armed as he had been rendered by the bites of the wolf, he ran all manner of risks of his own neck to save hers. Hepborne was more occupied in regarding them than in the sport they were following. He rode after the pair, enjoying all he saw; for in the malicious pleasure he took in perceiving Assueton getting deeper and deeper entangled in the snares of love, and its fever mounting higher and higher into his brain, he almost forgot the toils he had himself been caught in, and found a palliative for his own heart’s disease, producing a temporary relaxation of its intensity. Thus then they rode. When the game was on wing, the fair Isabelle galloped fearlessly on, with her eyes sometimes following the flight of the falcon after its quarry, but much oftener with her head turned towards Sir John Assueton, whilst Sir John’s looks were fixed now with anxiety on the ground, to ensure safe riding to the lady, and now thrown with love-sick gaze of tenderness into the heaven of her eyes, for his had no wish to soar higher.

In the evening, the Lady Isabelle and her knight were again left to themselves by the father and son. Her brother’s tales were less interesting to her than they had been the previous night, and though Assueton talked less of his friend, yet she by no means found his conversation duller on that account; nay, she even listened much more intensely to it than before. The younger Sir Patrick, towards the close of the night, begged of his sister to sit down to her harp, and when she did so, Assueton hung over her with a rapture sufficiently marking the strength of his new-born passion, and the little art he had in concealing it.

Having been asked by her brother to sing, she accompanied her voice in the following canzonette:—

Why was celestial Music given, But of enchanting love to sing! Ethereal flame, that first from heaven Angels to this earth did bring.

What state was man’s till he received The genial blessing from the sky? What though in Paradise he lived? Yet still he pined, and knew not why.

But when his beauteous partner came, The scene, that dreary was and wild, Grew lovely as he felt the flame, And the luxuriant garden smiled.

Oh, Love!—of man thou second soul, What but a clod of earth is he Who never yet thy flame did thole, Who never felt thy witchery!

Assueton’s applauses were more energetic, and his approbation more eloquently expressed at the conclusion of this song, than Hepborne had ever heard them on any former occasion. Though the theme was wont to be so very unpalatable to him, yet he besought the Lady Isabelle again and again to repeat it, and it seemed to give him new and increased pleasure every time he heard it. At last the hour for retiring came, and Hepborne inwardly rejoiced to observe a certain trembling in the voices of both Assueton and his sister, as they touched each other’s hands to say good night.

Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger had no sooner accompanied his friend to his apartment than Assueton seated himself near the hearth, and put up his feet against the wall, where he fell into a kind of listless dream. Hepborne took a seat on the opposite side of the fire-place, and, after he had sat silently watching him for some time, in secret enjoyment of the state he beheld him reduced to, the following conversation took place between them:—

“Well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, first breaking silence, and assuming as melancholy a tone as the humour he was in would permit him to use, “Well, mon bel ami, so we must part to-morrow? The thought is most distressing. My heart would have urged me to press thee to a farther sojourn with us at Hailes; but thou wert too determined, and urged too many and too strong reasons for thy return home, when we last talked of the matter, to leave room for hope that I might succeed in shaking thy purpose. I see that of very needscost thou must go; nay, in good sooth, thy motives for departure are of a nature that, feeling as I have myself felt, I should inwardly blame thee were thy good nature to lead thee to yield to my importunate entreaty. Yea, albeit thou shouldst consent to stay with me, I should verily tine half the jovisaunce that mought otherwise spring from thy good company; since, from the all-perfect being I now hold thee to be, thou wouldst dwindle in my esteem, and be agrutched of half the attraction thou dost possess in mine eyes, by appearing to lose some deal of those strong feelings of attachment for thy home, and for the scenes and friends of thy boyhood, which thou hast hitherto so eminently displayed, and in which, I am led to think, we do so much resemble each other. Having now had mine somewhat satisfied, perdie, I could almost wish to boune me with thee, were it only to participate in thine—were it only to see thee approach the wide domains and the ancient castle of thine ancestors—to see thee meet thy beloved mother, now so long widowed, and panting to press her only child, her long absent son, to her bosom—to watch how thou mayst encounter with old friends—to behold the hearty shakes of loving souvenaunce, given by thy hand to those with whom thou hast wrestled, or held mimic tourney when thou wert yet but a stripling. Oh, ’twould be as a prolonging of mine own feelings of like sort to witness those that might arise to thee. But the journey is too long for me to take as yet; and besides, I cannot yet so soon leave my father and Isabelle. Moreover, thou knowest that my heart yet acheth severely from the wounds which it took at Norham. Heigh ho! But, gramercy, forgive me, I entreat thee, for touching unwittingly on the (by thee) hated subject of love, the which, I well know, is ever wont to erke thee.”

During this long address, Assueton remained with his heels up against the wall, his toes all the time beating that species of march that in more modern times has been called the devil’s tattoo, and with his eyes firmly fixed on the embers consuming on the hearth.

“I hope, however, my dearest friend,” continued Hepborne, “that thou mayest yet be able to return to me at Hailes. Thine affairs (though, perdie, thou must have much to settle after such a succession, and so long an absence), thine affairs, I say, cannot at the worst detain thee at home longer than a matter of twelve months or so; after which (that is, when thou shalt have visited thy friends in divers other parts) I may hope perchance to see thee again return hither.”

Assueton shifted his position two or three times during this second speech of Hepborne’s, always again commencing his devil’s tattoo on the wall; but when his friend ceased, he made no other reply than—

“Umph! Ay, ay, my dear Hepborne, thou shalt see me.”

“My dear Assueton,” continued Hepborne, “that is but a loose and vague reply, I ween. But, by St. Genevieve, I guess how it is. Thou hast thoughts (though as yet thou wouldst fain not effunde them to me) of returning to France in short space; and thou wouldst keep them sicker in thy breast for a time, lest peradventure I should grieve too deeply at thy so speedy abandonment of thy country.”

“Nay, nay,” said Assueton, hastily, “trust me I have no such emprize in head.”

“What then can make thee so little satisfactory in thy reply?” said Hepborne; “surely ’tis but a small matter to grant me; ’tis but a small boon to ask of thee to return to Hailes Castle some twelve months or year and half hence? I doubt me sore that thou hast been but half pleased with thy visit here; and truly, when I think on’t, it has been but a dull one.”

“Nay,” replied Assueton, eagerly interrupting him, “I do assure thee, Hepborne, thou art grievously mistaken in so supposing. On the contrary, my hours never passed so happily as they have done here; nor,” added he, with a deep sigh, “so swiftly, so very swiftly.”

“’Tis all well in thee, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “’tis all well in thee to use thy courtesy to say so; yet, I wot well, ’tis but to please thy friend. Thou knowest that my father hath been so voracious in his inquiries into the history of my life during my stay in France, that he hath never suffered me to leave him, so that thou hadst neither his good company nor my poor converse to cheer thee, but, much to my distress, thou hast been left to be erked by the silly prattle and trifling speech of that foolish pusel my sister Isabelle, worn out by the which, ’tis no marvel thou shouldst now be thus moody, as I see thou art; and to rid thyself of this dreriment of thine, it is natural enow that thou shouldst be right glad to escape hence, yea, and sore afraid ever to return here. But fear thee not, my friend; she shall not stand long in thy way. She hath had many offers of espousal, on the which my father and I are to sit in counsel anon, that is, when other weightier matters are despatched; and as soon as we shall have time to choose a fitting match for the maid, she shall forthwith be tochered off. She cannot, then, remain much longer at Hailes than some three or four weeks at farthest, to frighten from its hall my best and dearest friend. So that if she be the hindrance to thy return thither, make no account of her, and promise me at once that thou wilt come. By St. Baldrid, we shall have a houseful of jolly stalwart knights to meet thee there; and our talk shall be of deeds of arms, and tourneys, till thy heart be fully contented.”

This speech of Hepborne’s very much moved Assueton. He shifted his legs down from the wall and up again at least a dozen times, and his tattoo now became so rapid, that it would have troubled the legions for whom the march may have been originally composed to have kept their feet trotting in time to its measure.

“Nay, verily, Hepborne,” said he seriously, “thou dost thy sister but scrimp justice, methinks. The Lady Isabelle was anything but tiresome to me; nay, if I may adventure to say so much, she hath sense and judgment greatly beyond what might be looked for from her age and sex; there is something most truly pleasing in her converse—something, I would say, much superior to anything I have heretofore chanced to encounter in woman. But, methinks thou art rather hasty in thy disposal of her. The damosel is young enow, meseems, to be thrust forth of her father’s boure, perhaps to take upon her the weight of formal state that appertaineth to the Madame of some stiff and stern vavesoure. Perdie, I cannot think with patience of her being so bestowed already; ’twould be cruel, methinks—nay, ’twould, in good verity, be most unlike thee, Hepborne, to throw thy peerless sister away on some harsh lord, or silly gnoffe, merely to rid thy father’s castle of her for thine own convenience. Fie on thee; I weened not thou couldst have even thought of anything so selfish.”

“Nay, be not angry, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest that they have all a wish to wed them. But ’tis somewhat strange, methinks, to hear thee talk so; the poppet seems to have made more impression on thee than ever before was made by woman. What means this warmth? or why shouldst thou step forth to be her knight?”

“’Tis the part of a good knight,” replied Assueton hastily, “to aid and succour all damosels in distress.”

“Nay, but not against a distress of the knight’s own fancying, yea, and contrary to the wishes of the damosel herself,” replied Hepborne. “What! wouldst thou throw down the gauntlet of defiance against thy friend, only for being willing to give his sister the man of her own heart?”

“And hath she then such?” exclaimed Assueton, his face suddenly becoming the very emblem of woe-begone anxiety.

“Yea, in good truth hath she, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick. “I did but suspect the truth last night, but this day I have been confirmed in it.”

“Then am I the most wretched of knights,” cried Assueton, at once forgetting all his guards; and rising hastily from his seat, he struck his breast, and paced the room in a frenzy of despair.

Hepborne could carry on the farce no longer. He burst into a fit of laughter that seemed to threaten his immediate dissolution; then threw himself on the couch, that he might give full way to it without fear of falling on the floor, and there he tossed to and fro with the reiterated convulsions it occasioned him. Assueton stood in mute astonishment for some moments, but at last he began to perceive that his friend had discovered his weakness, and that he had been all this time playing on him. He resumed his seat and position at the hearth, and returned again to his tattoo.

“So,” said Hepborne—“so—ha, ha, ha!—so!—ha, ha!—so!—Oh, I shall never find breath to speak—ha, ha, ha! So, Sir John Assueton, the woman-hater, the knight of Adamant, he who was wont to be known in France by the surnoms of the Knight sans Amour, and the Chevalier cœur caillou—who, rather than submit to talk to a woman, would hie him to the stable, to hold grave converse with his horse—who railed roundly at every unfortunate man that, following the ensample of his great ancestor Adam, did but submit himself to the yoke of love—who could not bear to hear the very name of love—who sickened when it was mentioned—who had an absolute antipathy to it, as some, they knew not why, have to cats or cheese—who, though he liked music to admiration, would avoid the place if love but chanced to be the minstrel’s theme;—he, Sir John Assueton, is at last enslaved, has his wounds bound up by a woman, and wears her scarf—plays the lady’s knight, and leads her palfrey rein—rownes soft things in her ear, hangs o’er her harp, and drinks in the sweet love-verses she sings to him!”

“Nay, nay, Hepborne, my dearest friend,” said Assueton, starting up, and clasping his hands together in an imploring attitude, “I confess, I confess; but sith I do confess, have mercy on me, I entreat thee; ’tis cruel to sport with my sufferings, since thou knowest, alas, too surely that I must love in vain.”

“But, pr’ythee, ‘why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl?’” said Hepborne ironically, bringing up against him some of the very expressions he had used to himself at Norham. “‘A knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere picking up; let it not erke thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach.’” And then rising, and striding gravely up to Assueton, and shaking his head solemnly—“‘Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than the thorn.’ Ha, ha, ha! Oh, ’tis exquisite—by St. Dennis, ’tis the richest treat I ever enjoyed.”

“Nay, but bethink thee, my dear friend,” said Assueton, with an imploring look; “bethink thee, I beseech thee, what misery I am enduring, and reflect how much thou art augmenting it by thy raillery. Depardieux, I believe thou never didst suffer such pain from love as I do now.”

“‘No, thank my good stars,’” said Hepborne, returning to the charge, and again assuming a burlesque solemnity of air and tone, “‘and I hope, moreover, I never shall be so besotted: it makes a very fool of a man.’”

“Well, well,” said Assueton, sighing deeply, “I see thou art determined to make my fatal disease thy sport; yet, by St. Andrew, it is but cruel and ungenerous of thee.”

“Grammercy, Assueton, I thought my innocent raillery could do thee no harm,” said Hepborne; “methought that ‘thou mightst be said to have no ears for such matters.’ But if thou in good truth hast really caught the fever, verily I shall not desert thee, ‘my friendship for thee shall make me listen to thy ravings;’ yea, and ‘compassion for thy disease shall make me watch the progress of its symptoms. Never fear that I shall be so little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when thy estate is so dangerous.’ But what, I pr’ythee, my friend, hath induced this so dangerous malady?”

“Hepborne,” replied Sir John, “thy angelic sister’s magnanimity, her matchless beauty, her enchanting converse, and her sweet syren voice.”

“Ay, ay,” said Hepborne roguishly; “so ’twas her voice, her warbles, and her virelays that gave thee the coup-de-grace? Nay, it must be soothly confessed, thou didst hang over her chair to-night in a most proper love-like fashion, as she harped it; yet her verses ‘were silly enough in conscience, methought’—and then, thou knowest, thou dost ‘rarely listen to music when love or follies are the theme.’”

“Hepborne,” said Assueton gravely, and with an air of entreaty, “it was not after this fashion that I did use thee in thine affliction at Norham. Think, I beseech thee, that my case is not less hopeless than thine. But who, I entreat thee, is the happy knight who is blessed by the favouring smile of thy divine sister, of the Lady Isabelle Hepborne, whom I now no longer blush to declare to be the most peerless damosel presently in existence?”

“He is a knight,” replied Hepborne, “whose peer thou shalt as rarely meet with, I trow, as thou canst encounter the make of my sister, the Lady Isabelle. He is a proper, tall, athletic, handsome man, of dark hair and olive complexion, with trim moustaches and comely beard—nay, the very man, in short, to take a woman’s eye. Though as yet but young in age, he is old in arms, and hath already done such doughty deeds as have made him renowned even in the very songs of the minstrels. Moreover, he is a beloved friend of mine, and one much approved of my father, and he shall gladly have our consent for the espousal of my sister.”

“Nay, then,” said Assueton, in the accents of utter hopelessness, “I am indeed but a lost knight, and must hie me to some barren wilderness to sigh my soul away. But lest my disease should drive me to madness, tell me, I entreat thee, the name of this most fortunate of men, that I may keep me from his path, lest, in my blind fury, I might destroy him in some ill-starred contecke, and through him wrack the happiness of the Lady Isabelle, now dearer to me than life.”

“Thou knowest him as well as thou dost thyself, my dear Assueton,” said Hepborne. “Trust me, he is one to whom thou dost wish much too well to do him harm. His name is—Sir John Assueton.”

“Nay, mock me not, Hepborne, drive me not mad with false hopes,” said Assueton; “certes, thy raillery doth now exceed the bounds that even friendship should permit.”

“Grammercy,” said Hepborne, “thou dost seem to me to be mad enough already. What! wouldst thou quarrel with me for giving thee assurance of that thou hast most panted for? By the honour of a knight, I swear that Isabelle loves thee. ’Tis true, I heard it not from her lips; but I read it in her eyes, the which, let me tell thee, inexperienced in the science, and all unlearned in the leden of love as thou art, do ever furnish by far the best and soothest evidence on this point that the riddle woman can yield. Never doubt me but she loves thee, Assueton. She drank up the words thou didst rowne in her ear with a thirst that showed the growing fever of her soul. And now,” continued he, as he observed the happy effects of the intelligence upon the countenance of his friend—“and now, Assueton, tell me, I pr’ythee, at what hour in the morning shall I order thine esquire and cortege to be ready for thy departure?”

“Hepborne,” said Assueton, running to embrace him, “thou hast made me the happiest of mortals. Go! nay, perdie, I shall stay at Hailes till thou dost turn me out.”

“But, my dearest Assueton,” cried Hepborne, smiling, “consider thy mother, and the friends and the scenes of thy boyhood—consider what thou——”

“Pshaw, my dear Hepborne,” cried Sir John, interrupting him, “no more on’t, I entreat thee. Leave me, I beseech thee, to dreams of delight. Good night, and may the blessed Virgin and St. Andrew be thy warison, for this ecstacy of jovinaunce thou hast poured into my soul.”

“Good night,” said Hepborne, with a more serious air—“good night, my dear and long-tried brother-in-arms; and good night, my yet dearer brother by alliance, as I hope soon to call thee.”

The meeting of the lovers on the next day was productive of more interesting conversation than any they had yet enjoyed; and although Assueton was, as his friend had said, a novice in the science and language of love, yet he caught up the knowledge of both with most marvellous expedition, and was listened to with blushing pleasure by the lovely Isabelle.

As the party was seated at breakfast, the sound of trumpets was heard followed by that of the trampling of horses in the court-yard, and immediately afterwards a herald, proudly arrayed, and followed by his pursuivants, was ushered into the hall.

“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “and you, Sirs Knights, I come to announce to you and to the world, that on the tenth day of the next month, the noble John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, will hold a splendid meeting of arms on the mead of St. John’s; and all princes, lords, barons, knights, and esquires, who intend to tilt at the tournament, are hereby ordained to lodge themselves within his Castle of Tarnawa, or in pavilions on the field, four days before the said tournament, to make due display of their armouries, on pain of not being received at the said tournament. And their arms shall be thus disposed: The crest shall be placed on a plate of copper large enough to contain the whole summit of the helmet, and the said plate shall be covered with a mantle, whereon shall be blazoned the arms of him who bears it; and on the said mantle at the top thereof shall the crest be placed, and around it shall be a wreath of colours, whatsoever it shall please him. God save King Robert!”

The herald having in this manner formally pronounced the proclamation entrusted to him, was kindly and honourably greeted by Sir Patrick Hepborne, and forthwith seated at the board and hospitably entertained, after which he arose and addressed the knight.

“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “myself and my people, being now refreshed, I may not waste my time here, having yet a large district to travel over. I drink this cup of wine to thee and to thy roof-tree, with a herald’s thanks for thy noble treatment. Say, shall the Lord of Moray look for thy presence at the tourney? I know it would be his wish to do thee and thine particular honour.”

“Of that I may judge by his sending thee to Hailes,” said Sir Patrick courteously. “But in truth I cannot go. I must leave it to thee to tell the noble Earl how sorely grieved I am to say so; but my heart ha’ been ill at ease of late.”

“Thine absence will sorely grieve the noble Earl, Sir Knight,” replied the herald, “but, natheless, I shall hope to see thy gallant son, and the renowned Sir John Assueton, chiefest flowers in the gay garland of Scottish knights, who shall that day assemble at St. John’s. Till then adieu, Sirs Knights, and may God and St. Andrew be with ye all.”

The trumpets again sounded, and the herald, being waited on by the knights to the court-yard, mounted his richly caparisoned steed, and rode forth from the castle, again attended by all the pomp of heraldry.

“Assueton,” said Hepborne, with a roguish air of seriousness, as they returned up stairs, “goest thou to this tourney?”

“Nay, of a truth,” replied Assueton, with his eyes on the ground. “I cannot just at present yede me so far. Besides, these wounds in my bridle-arm do still pain me grievously, rendering me all unfit for jousting.”

“Then, as I am resolved to go,” said Hepborne, “I do beseech thee make Hailes Castle thy home till my return, and play the part of son to my dear father in mine absence.”

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Chapter XIII

Sir Patrick Hepborne’s Departure for the North—Consternation at the Castle.

As the way was long, and the day of the tournament not very distant, Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger resolved to leave Hailes Castle next morning for the North, that he might save himself the necessity of forced marches. He accordingly made instant preparations for his journey; his father gave immediate orders for securing him a cortege as should not disgrace the name he bore; and his horses, arms, and appointments of every description were perfectly befitting his family and rank. When the morning of his departure arrived, he took an affectionate leave of his father and Assueton, who left the Castle with their attendants at an early hour, for the purpose of hunting together. The Lady Isabelle would gladly have made one of the party with her father and her lover, but, attached as she was to Sir John Assueton, her affection for her brother was too strong to permit her to leave the Castle till he should be gone. That he might enjoy her society in private till the last moment, Hepborne despatched his faithful esquire, Mr. Mortimer Sang, at the head of his people, to wait for him at a particular spot, which he indicated, at the distance of about a mile from the Castle; and he also sent forward the palfrey he meant to ride, for his noble destrier Beaufront was to be led by a groom during the whole march.

His fond Isabelle resolved to walk with him to the place where he was to meet his attendants, and accordingly the brother and sister set out together arm in arm.

Sir Patrick resolving to probe his sister’s heart, adroitly turned the conversation on Sir John Assueton, and, with extreme ingenuity, touched on those agrémens and virtues which his friend evidently possessed, as well as on a number of weak and faulty points, both in person and manner, which he chose, for certain purposes, to feign in him, or greatly to exaggerate. In praising the former, the Lady Isabelle very much surpassed her brother; for, however highly he might laud his friend, she always found something yet more powerful and eloquent to say in his favour; but whenever Sir Patrick ventured to hint at any thing like a fault or a blemish, the lady was instantly up in arms, and made as brave a defence for him against her brother as she had done for him some days before against the wolf. This light skirmishing went on between them until they reached a knoll covered with tall oaks, whence they beheld the party, about to take shelter in the appointed grove of trees, on the meadow by the river’s side, at a considerable distance below them.

“Isabelle,” said Hepborne, taking her hand tenderly, “thou hast walked far enough, my love; let us rest here for an instant, and then part. Our converse hath not been vain. My just praise of Assueton, as well as the faults I pretended to find in him, were neither of them without an object. I wished ere I left thee to satisfy myself of the true state of thy little heart; for I should have never forgiven myself had I discovered that I had been mistaken, and that I had told what was not true, when I assured Assueton, as I did last night, that thou lovest him.”

“Told Sir John Assueton that I love him?” exclaimed the Lady Isabelle, blushing with mingled surprise and confusion; “how couldst thou tell him so? and what dost thou know of my sentiments regarding him? Heavens! what will he think of me?”

“Why, well, passing well, my fair sister,” said Hepborne; “make thyself easy on that score. He loves thee, believe me, as much as thou lovest him; so I leave thee to measure the length, breadth, height, and depth of his attachment by the dimensions of thine own. But as to knowing the state of thy heart—tut! I could make out much more difficult cases than it presents; for well I wot its state is apparent enough, even from the little talk I have had with thee now, if I had never heard or seen more. But, my dear Isabelle, after my father, thou and he are the two beings on earth whom I do most love. Ye are both perfect in mine eyes. I could talk to thee of Assueton’s qualities and perfections for days together, and of virtues which as yet thou canst not have dreamt of; but I must leave thee to the delightful task of discovering them for thyself. All I can now say is, may heaven make ye both happy in each other—for I must be gone. And so, my love, farewell, and may the blessed Virgin protect thee.”

He then threw his arms about his sister’s neck, pressed her to his bosom, and, having kissed her repeatedly with the most tender affection, tore himself from her, ran down the hill, and, as she cleared her eyes from the tear-drops that swelled in them, she saw him disappear in the shade of the clump of trees where his party was stationed. A good deal of time seemed to be lost ere the whole were mounted and in motion; but at last she saw them emerging from the wood-shaw, and winding slowly, in single files, up the river-side. She sat on the bank straining her eyes after them until they were lost in the distant intricacies of the surface, and then turned her steps slowly homewards, ruminating agreeably on her brother’s last words, as well as on the events of the preceding days, which had given her a new and more powerful interest in life than she had ever before experienced.

“Oh, my dear brother,” said she to herself, “thou didst indeed say truly that I do love him; and if thou sayest as soothly that he doth love me, then am I blessed indeed.”

It was courtesy alone that induced Sir John Assueton to agree to Sir Patrick Hepborne’s proposal of going that morning to the woodlands to hunt the deer. He went with no very good will; nay, when his host talked of it, he felt more than once inclined, as he had done with his friend about the tournament, to plead his wounded arm as an excuse for remaining at home with the Lady Isabelle; and, perhaps, if it had not been for absolute shame, he might have yielded to the temptation. Hence he had but little pleasure in the sport that day, although it was unusually fine; and he was by no means gratified to find himself led on by the chase to a very unusual distance. But to leave Sir Patrick was impossible. He was therefore compelled, very much against his inclination, to ride all day like a lifeless trunk, whilst his spirit was hovering over the far-off towers of Hailes Castle. The deer was killed so far from home, that it was later than ordinary before the party returned.

“I am surprised Isabelle is not already here to receive us,” said Sir Patrick, as they entered the banquet hall; “I trowed she might have been impatient for our return ere this. Gabriel,” said he to the old seneschal, “go, I pr’ythee, to Mary Hay, and let her tell her lady that we are come home, and that we have brought good appetites with us.”

Gabriel went, and soon returned with Mary Hay herself, who appeared in great agitation.

“Where is thy lady?” demanded Sir Patrick, with an expression of considerable anxiety.

“My lady! my good lord,” said the terrified girl; “holy St. Baldrid! is she not with thee then?”

“No,” said Sir Patrick, with increasing amazement and alarm, “she went not with us. We left her here with my son, when he rode forth in the morning.”

“Nay, I knew that,” said the terrified Mary Hay, “but—good angels be about us—I weened that her pages and palfrey might have gone with thee, and that she might ha’ been to join thee in the woods, after having given her brother the convoy.”

“Merciful powers! did she leave the Castle with her brother?” “Good Heavens! hath she never been seen since morning?” exclaimed Sir Patrick and Assueton, both in the same breath, and looking eagerly in the faces of the people around them for something satisfactory; but no one had seen her since morning. Some of the domestics ran out to question those who had kept guard; but though she had been seen as she went out with her brother, neither warder or sentinel had observed her return. Meantime the whole Castle was searched over from garret to cellar by Assueton, Sir Patrick, and the servants, all without success.

The consternation and misery of the father and the lover were greater than language can describe. Broken sentences burst from them at short intervals, but altogether void of connection. A thousand conjectures were hazarded, and again abandoned as impossible. Plans of search without number were proposed, and then given up as hopeless; while all they said, thought, or did, was without concert, and only calculated to show their utter distraction. But matters did not long continue thus.

“My horse, my horse!” cried the agonized and frenzied father; and “My horse, my horse!” responded Assueton, in a state no less wild and despairing.

Both rushed down to the stable, and the horses which yet remained saddled from the chase being hurriedly brought out, they struck the spurs into their sweltering sides, and, almost without exchanging a word, galloped furiously from the gateway, each, as if by a species of instinct, taking a different way, and each followed by a handful of his people, who mounted in reeking haste to attend his master. They scoured the woodlands, lawns, and alleys, from side to side, and all around; they beat through the shaws and copses, and hollowed and shouted to the very cracking of their voices. By and by, to those who listened from the walls, their circles appeared to become wider, and their shouts were no longer heard. Forth rushed, one by one, as they could horse them in haste, or gird themselves for running, grooms, lacqueys, spearmen, billmen, bowmen, and foresters, until none were left within the place but the men on guard, the old, the feeble, and some of the women. Even Mary Hay ran out into the woods, beating her breast, tearing her hair, screaming like a maniac, and searching wildly among the bushes, even less rationally than those who had gone before her.

Sir Patrick, as he rode, began, in the midst of his affliction, to collect his scattered ideas, and, calling to mind what they had told him of Lady Isabelle having gone to convoy her brother, he immediately halted from the unprofitable search he was pursuing, and turned his horse’s head towards that direction which they must have necessarily taken. He rode on as far as the knoll where the brother and sister had bid adieu to each other, and there being a cluster of cottages at the bottom of the hill, he made towards one of them himself, and sent his attendants to all the others in search of information. From several of the churls, and from their wives, he learned that his son had been seen taking an affectionate leave of a lady whom they now supposed to have been the Lady Isabelle, among the oaks on the knoll, and that he had afterwards joined his party, waiting for him under the trees by the river’s side, whilst the lady seemed to turn back, as if to take the way to the Castle. With this new scent, Sir Patrick made his panting horse breast the hill, and, assisted by his men, beat the ground in close traverse, backwards and forwards, from one side to another, with so great care and minuteness that the smallest object could not have escaped their observation. They tried all the by-routes that might have been taken, but all without success; though they spent so much time in the search that darkness had already begun to descend over the earth ere they were compelled to desist from it as hopeless.

They returned towards the Castle, still catching at the frail chance, as they hurried thither, that though they had been unsuccessful, some one else might have been more fortunate, and that probably the Lady Isabelle had been already brought back in safety. But unhappily the guards, who crowded round them at the gate, and to whom both master and men all at once opened in accents of loud inquiry, had no such heart-healing tidings to give them. They obtained such intelligence, however, as had awakened a spark of hope. Sir John Assueton had returned a short time before Sir Patrick, with the horse he had ridden so exhausted that the wretched animal had dropped to the ground, and died instantly after his rider had quitted the saddle. He had called loudly for fresh horses and a party of spearmen, and had then rushed into the Castle to arm himself in haste; and a number of those who had gone to search independently having fortunately by this time come in one by one, some fifteen or twenty bowmen, spearmen, and billmen had been hastily got together, and provided with brisk and still unbreathed horses. Without taking time, however, to give the particulars of what he had gathered, or to say whither he was bound, Sir John had merely called out to the guard, as he was mounting, to tell Sir Patrick, if he should return before him, that he had heard some tidings of the Lady Isabelle, and that he would bring her safely back, or perish in the attempt; and after having said so, he had given the word to his men and scoured off at the head of them in a southern direction.

The miserable father was more than ever perplexed by this information. From the preparations Sir John had so effectually though hastily made, it was evident that the scene of the enterprise he went on was distant; and that it was not without doubt or danger, appeared from the few words he had let fall. Could Sir Patrick have had any guess whither to go, he would have instantly armed himself, and such men as he could have got together, to follow and aid Sir John Assueton; but such a chase was evidently more wild and hopeless than the fruitless search he had just returned from; and the pitchy darkness which by this time prevailed was in itself an insurmountable obstacle to his discovering the route that Sir John had taken. He was compelled, therefore, most unwillingly and most sorrowfully, to give up all idea of further exertion for the present; but he resolved to start in the morning long ere the first lark had arisen from its nest, and, if he should hear nothing before then that might change his determination, to ride towards England. He accordingly gave orders to his esquires to have a body of armed horsemen ready equipped to accompany him, an hour before the first streak of red should tinge the eastern welkin.

Old Gabriel Lindsay, his dim eyes filled with tears, and altogether unable to take comfort to himself, came to make the vain attempt to administer it to his master, and to try to persuade him to take some rest. But all the efforts of the venerable seneschal were ineffectual, and the heartbroken father continued to pace the hall with agitated steps among his people, despatching them off by turns, and often running down to the gate, or to the ramparts, whenever his ear caught, or fancied it caught, a sound that might have indicated Assueton’s return.

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XIV. The Pursuit—Surprising the Camp

But it is now time to state the circumstances of Assueton’s search, as well as the cause of his abrupt departure. If Sir Patrick, on first starting from the Castle, had been so little master of himself as to lose time by galloping over ground where it was next to impossible his daughter could be found, it was not at all likely that Sir John and his people, strangers as they were to the neighbourhood, could make a better selection. But it not unfrequently happens that chance, or (which is a much better word for it) Providence, does more than human prudence in such cases. After making two or three wild and rapid circles through the woods in the immediate vicinity of the Castle, like a stone whirled round in a sling, he flew off at a tangent southwards, and accidentally hit upon a solitary cottage about a couple or more miles from the Castle, where he learned that a small body of English spearmen had halted that morning, and that the leader had made a number of inquiries about the late and future motions of his friend the younger Sir Patrick Hepborne, and himself. These were well enough known, for the arrival of their young lord had excited universal joy among the population of his father’s estate; the coming of the herald, with Hepborne’s departure, were also matters too interesting to escape circulation; and the churl of the cottage had told, without reservation, all the circumstances to the strangers. He also learned that the party had gone on to reconnoitre the Castle; and that afterwards, as the rustic was making faggots at some distance from his dwelling, he had seen them sweeping by towards England. Assueton could not elicit from the peasant whether it had appeared to him that the Lady Isabelle was with them, because the man had had but an indistinct view of them as they rode through the woodlands; but he and his people were agreed that these must have been the perpetrators of the outrage. His judgment, now that it had a defined object, began to come into full play. He saw that his own horse and the horses of his attendants were too much spent to enable him to pursue on the spur of the moment, and, had it not been so, that it would be vain to go on such an expedition so slenderly accoutred and accompanied. He therefore galloped back to the Castle as hard as the exhausted animal could carry him, followed at a distance by his straggling men; and there he made those rapid preparations and that hasty outset which we have already noticed.

The night became extremely dark before Assueton had gone many miles; but, luckily for him, Robert Lindsay, the head forester, happened to be one of his company, for without him, or some other guide equally well acquainted with the country he had to travel over, his expedition must have been rendered abortive. Even as it was, he found difficulty enough in threading the mazes of the Lammermoors; and although Lindsay knew every knoll, stone, bog, flow, and rivulet that diversified their surface, they made divers deviations from the proper line, and were much longer in crossing the ridge than they should have been if favoured by the light of the moon. Towards morning they judged it prudent to halt on the brow of the hills, ere they began to descend into the lower and more level country, that they might make observations by the first light, and determine both as to where they were and as to their future movements.

As objects below them began to grow somewhat distinct, they found that they had posted themselves immediately over the hollow mouth of a glen, opening on the flat country, where a rivulet wound through some green meadows; and they soon began to descry several tents, pitched together in a cluster, with a number of horses picquetted around them.

“By’r Lady,” said Assueton, “yonder lie the ravishers. Let’s down upon them, my brave men, ere they have time to be alarmed and fly.”

He gave his horse the spur, and galloped down the slope at a fearful pace, followed by his party, and having gained the level, they charged towards the little encampment with the swiftness of the wind. The morning’s mist that hung on the side of the hill, and the imperfect grey light, had prevented the sentinels who were on the watch from seeing the horsemen approaching until they had descended; but they no sooner observed them coming on at the pas de charge, than the alarm was given and a general commotion took place among them. Out they came pouring from the tents to the number of forty or fifty; and there was such a hasty putting on of morrions and skull-caps, and seizing of weapons, and loosing of halters, and mounting of the few that had time to get on horseback, and such a clamouring and shouting, and so much confusion, as assured Assueton an easy victory, though their numbers were so much greater than his. He came on them at the head of his small body like a whirlwind, and before half of them had time to turn out, he was already within a hundred yards of their position. A few of them, armed with spears, had formed in line before the tents, apparently with the resolution of standing his charge, and at the head of these was an old man, hastily armed in a cuirass. He stood boldly planted with a lance in his hand, though his head was bare, and his white hairs hung loosely about his determined countenance. Sir John Assueton was on the very eve of bearing him and his little phalanx down before the irresistible fury of his onset, when he suddenly pulled up his reins, and halted his men.

“Sir Walter de Selby!” exclaimed he with astonishment, and raising his visor, that he might the better behold him.

“Sir John Assueton!” cried Sir Walter, “I crave truce and parley.”

“Thou hast it, Sir Walter,” said Assueton, “but only on one condition, that I see not any one attempt to escape hence, or stir from the position he is now in, until all matters be explained betwixt us. Pledge me thine honour that this shall be so, and I shall parley with thee in friendship, till I shall see just cause for other acting. But, by the Rood of St. Andrew, if a single knave shall seek to steal him away, or to quit the spot of earth that now bears him, I will put every man to death, saving thee only, whose white hairs and recent hospitality are pledges for thy security. Advance, Sir Walter; I swear by my knighthood that thy person shall take no hurt from my hands, or from the hands of any of my people.”

“Thou comest, doubtless,” said Sir Walter, “to seek after the Lady Isabelle Hepborne, the fair sister of thy friend Sir Patrick Hepborne.”

“I do,” said Sir John Assueton, eagerly; “and, by the blessed Virgin, an she be not immediately delivered up scathless into my custody, I will put every man but thyself to instant death. Shame, foul shame on thee, Sir Walter, to be the leader in a foray so disgraceful as this. Is this thy requital to Sir Patrick Hepborne for——? But, hold—I will not in my friend’s name cast in thy teeth what he himself would scorn to throw at thee.”

“Nay, Sir John Assueton, judge not so hastily, I entreat thee. What didst thou see in my behaviour at Norham that should lead thee to suspect me of the foul deed thou art now so ready to charge me withal? Were I capable of any such, perdie, thou mightest well pour out all this wrath and wrekery on this old head of mine. Listen to me, I beseech thee, with temper, and thou shalt soon know that I have had no hand in this unknightly outrage, the which nobody can more deplore than I do. It was Sir Miers de Willoughby who carried off the lady—God pity me for being related to one who could so disgrace me! But on him be the sin and the shame of the act.”

“Nay, Sir Knight,” cried Assueton, hastily, “seeing that he did it in thy company, thou canst not, methinks, shake thyself free of a share of both. But where is the recreant, that I may forthwith chastise him? And where is the lady? By all the saints in the kalendar, if she is not instantly produced, I will make every man in thy troop breakfast upon cold steel.”

“As God is my judge, Sir Knight,” said Sir Walter, “as God is my judge, mine own afflictions weigh not more heavily on my old heart at this moment than does the thought that I have been in some sort, though innocently, the occasion of this outrage having been done against the sister of the very knight for whom, of all others, gratitude would make me think it matter of joy to sacrifice this hoary head to do him service. There are some honourable gentlemen here present who can vouch for me that, forgetful of mine own bereavement, and the direful consequences that may follow it, I had resolved to abandon my own quest, and to go forward this morning to Hailes Castle to inform Sir Patrick Hepborne in person of all I know of this ill-starred and wicked transaction; and if thou wilt but listen to me, I shall tell it thee in as few words as may be.”

“But the lady, Sir Knight, the lady?” cried Assueton, in a frenzy; “produce the lady instantly, else the parley holds not longer.”

“By mine honour as a knight,” cried the old man, “she is not here.”

“Not here!” exclaimed Sir John Assueton, “not here! What, hast thou sent her forward to Norham? By the blessed bones of my ancestors,” said he, digging his spurs through mere rage into his horse’s sides, and checking him again, till he sprang into the air with the pain, “I shall not leave a stone of it together. Its blaze shall serve to light up the Border to-night in such fashion that every crone on Tweedside shall see to go to bed by it.”

“She is not at Norham, Sir Knight,” said Sir Walter, calmly; “she is not in my keeping, I most solemnly protest unto thee.”

“Where is she then, in the name of St. Giles?” cried Assueton. “Tell me instantly, that I may fly to her rescue. Trifle no more with me, old man; thou dost wear out the precious minutes. Depardieux, my patience is none of the strongest e’en now; it won’t hold out much longer, I tell thee, for I am mad, stark mad; so tell me at once where she is, or my rage may overcome my better feelings.”

“Nay, Sir John Assueton,” said Sir Walter de Selby, with a forbearance and temper that, old as he was, he could never have exercised had it not been for the feeling of what he owed to Sir Patrick Hepborne and the consciousness that present appearances warranted the suspicion of his having been accessory to the outrage committed against the Lady Isabelle; “I beseech thee, Sir John Assueton, command thyself so far as to listen to me for but a very few minutes; hadst thou done so earlier, thou hadst ere this known everything. Interrupt me not, then, I implore thee, and thou shalt be the sooner satisfied. This is now the third morning since—unfortunate father that I am—I discovered the sad malure which hath befallen me, and that I was bereft of my daughter, the Lady Eleanore, who had been mysteriously carried off during the night. Certain circumstances———”

“Nay, but, Sir Knight,” said Assueton, interrupting him, “what is thy daughter to me? What is she to the Lady Isabelle Hepborne? Ay, indeed, wretch that I am, what is she in any way to the point?”

Sir Walter de Selby went on without noticing this fresh interruption.

“Certain circumstances led some of the people about me to believe that thy friend, Sir Patrick, had had some hand in the rapt, and that he, or some of his people, had returned at night, and, by some unexampled tapinage, found means unaccountable to withdraw my daughter from the Castle. In the frenzy I was thrown into by mine affliction, I was easily induced to believe anything that was suggested to me; and, getting together my people in a haste, I———”

“So,” cried Assueton, “I see how it is; a vile thrust of vengeance led thee to make captive of the Lady Isabelle. Oh, base and unworthy knight!”

“Nay, indeed, not so,” said Sir Walter, eager to exculpate himself; “I have already vowed I had no hand in anything so base. ’Tis true, I set out with the mad intent of besieging Hailes Castle, and demanding the restoration of my daughter. To this I was much encouraged by Sir Miers de Willoughby, who happened to be at Norham at the time, and who offered to accompany me. I got no farther than this place that night; and having had time to reflect by the way on the nature of the enterprise I was boune on, as well as on the great improbability of so foul suspicion being verified against a knight of thy friend Sir Patrick’s breeding and courtesy, I resolved to proceed with the utmost caution, lest I should even give cause of offence where no offence had been rendered. As the most prudent measure I could adopt, and as that least likely to excite alarm, I resolved to pitch my little camp in this retired spot, and to send forward Sir Miers de Willoughby, who readily volunteered the duty, towards Hailes Castle, to make such inquiry of the peasants as might satisfy me of the truth or falsehood of my suspicions; and this, thou must grant me, Sir John Assueton, was as much delicacy as could be observed by me, in the anguished and bleeding state of my heart for the loss of my only child, and the impatience which I did naturally feel to gain tidings of her.” Here the old man’s voice was for some moments choked by his tears; and Sir John Assueton was so much moved by them that he spake not a word. Sir Walter proceeded—

“De Willoughby returned here last night about sunset. He came to my tent alone, and he did tell me that, from all he could learn, he believed that my daughter had not been carried thither, either by Sir Patrick or any other person. ‘But,’ added he, ‘be Sir Patrick Hepborne guilty or innocent of this outrage against thee, I have made a capture that will be either paying off an old score, or scoring the first item of a new account against these Scots, for I have carried off the Lady Isabelle Hepborne.’ Struck with horror, and burning with rage to hear him tell this, I insisted on her being instantly brought to my tent, that I might forthwith calm her mind, and take immediate steps to return her in safety, with honourable escort, to her father. ‘Give thyself no trouble about her,’ said the libertine, treating all I said with contempt, ‘for ere this she bounes her over the Border, on a palfrey led by my people.’ I was thunderstruck,” continued the old man; “and ere I had time to recover myself so far as to be able to speak or act, de Willoughby sprang to the door of the tent, and I heard the clatter of his horse’s heels as he galloped off. I was infuriated; I felt that he had basely made me the scape-goat to his own caitiff plans, which I now began to suspect were not of recent hatching. I despatched parties in every direction after him, but all of them returned, one by one, without having gained even the least intelligence of him. And all this is true, on the word of an old knight. God wot how well I do know to feel for the father of the damosel, sith I do suffer the same affliction myself.”

The old knight was overpowered by his emotions; and Assueton, who had been at length prevailed on to hear his tale to an end, gave way at the conclusion of it to a paroxysm of rage and grief, which might have well warranted the bystanders in believing he was really bereft of reason. He threw himself from his horse to the ground, in despair. Roger Riddel, his esquire, a quiet, temperate, and, generally, a very silent man, did all he could to soothe his master; and even old Sir Walter de Selby, sorrowful as he himself was, seemed to forget his wretchedness in endeavouring to assuage that which so unmanned the Scottish knight.

After giving way for some time to ineffectual ravings, the offspring of intense feeling, and having then vented his rage in threats against Sir Miers de Willoughby, Assueton began by degrees to become more calm, and seeing the necessity of exerting his cool judgment, that he might determine how to act, he was at length persuaded by Sir Walter de Selby to go into his tent for a short time, till the horses and men could be refreshed. Sir Walter had no disposition to screen his unworthy relative from the wrath with which Assueton threatened him; or, if he had, he conceived himself bound to make it give way to a sense of justice. He therefore readily answered the Scottish knight’s hasty questions, and told him that it was more than likely that the lady had been carried to a certain castle belonging to de Willoughby, situated about the Cheviot hills.

Assueton’s impatience brooked no longer delay. Accordingly, with a soul agonized by the passions of love, grief, rage, and revenge, he summoned his party to horse, and set off at a furious pace on his anxious and uncertain quest.

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Chapter XV

Norham Castle again—The Ancient’s Divination—Sir Walter Bewitched—The Franciscan Friar to the Rescue.

Sir Walter de Selby, who was enduring all the bitterness of grief that a father could suffer, whose only child, a daughter too, on whose disposal hung a whole legion of superstitious hopes and fears, had been rent from him in a manner so mysterious, broke up his little camp with as much impatience as Assueton had exhibited. But age did not admit of his motions being so rapid as those of the younger knight. He moved, however, with all the celerity he could exert, for he remembered the warning flame which had appeared on the fatal shield; and the very thought of his daughter’s disappearance, with the frightful consequences which might result from her being thus beyond his control, filled his heart with horror and dismay. He was also exceedingly perplexed how the wizard, Master Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, could have so erred in his divination as to occasion him the fruitless and mortifying expedition into Scotland; for Sir Walter, in the first fever of distraction he was thrown into by the discovery of his daughter’s disappearance, had immediately made his way to the aerial den of the Ancient. The cunning diviner instantly recollected that he had seen Sir Patrick Hepborne going towards the rampart, where he had reason to know the Lady Eleanore de Selby had been walking, from which he was led to suspect an appointment between them. He was too artful to make Sir Walter aware of this circumstance, but, proceeding upon it, he enacted some hasty farce of conjuration, and then with all due solemnity boldly and confidently pronounced that Sir Patrick Hepborne had secretly returned, and, obtaining possession of the person of the Lady Eleanore, had carried her over the Border.

Some time after Sir Walter de Selby had gone into Scotland, however, a discovery was accidentally made that seemed to throw light on the disappearance of his daughter. The mantle she usually wore had been found by a patrole, at several miles’ distance to the south of Norham, lying by the way-side leading towards Alnwick—a circumstance which left no doubt remaining that she had been carried off in that direction. But ere this could be communicated to Sir Walter on his return, his impatience for an interview with his oracle was so great that, putting aside all obstructions, he hastened to climb to the den of the monster on the top of the keep.

“What sayest thou, Master Ancient Fenwick?” said the old man, as he entered the cap-house door, his breath gone with the steepness of the ascent and the anxiety of his mind; “for once thy skill seemeth to have failed thee.”

The Ancient was seated in his usual corner, immersed in his favourite study: a large circle was delineated on the floor, and in the centre of it lay the Lady Eleanore’s mantle.

“Blame, then, thine own impatience and haste,” said the Ancient. “The signs were drawn awry, and no wonder that the calculations were erroneous; but thou wert not gone half-a-day until I discovered the error; and now thou shalt thyself behold it remedied. Dost see there thy daughter’s mantle?”

The old man instantly recognized it; and, looking at it in silence for some moments, the feelings of a sorrowing and bereft parent came upon him with all the strength of nature; his heart and his eyes filled, and burst into a flood of tears. He stepped forward to lift it up and imprint kisses upon it; but the stern and unfeeling Ancient called out, in a harsh voice,—

“Touch it not, on thy life, else all my mystic labours have been in vain. Stand aloof there, and, if thou wilt, be a witness of the power I possess in diving into secrets that are hid from other men.”

Sir Walter obeyed. The Ancient arose and struck a light; and having darkened the loophole window, he lighted his lamp and put it into a corner. He then approached the circle, and squatting down, he with much labour and difficulty drew his unwieldy limbs within its compass, and, kneeling over the mantle, he proceeded to mutter to himself, from a book of necromancy which he held in his hand, turning the pages over with great rapidity, and making from time to time divers signs with his forefinger on his face and on the floor. After this he laid his head down on the pavement, covered it with the mantle, and continued to mutter uncouthly, and to writhe his body until he seemed to fall into a swoon. He lay motionless for a considerable time; but at length he appeared to recover gradually, the writhing and the muttering recommenced, and raising up his body with the mantle hanging over his head and shoulders, he exposed his horrid features to view. To the inexpressible terror of Sir Walter, the forehead blazed with the same appalling flame which he had seen it bear on the night of his long interview with the wizard.

“Seek thy daughter in the South,” said the Ancient, in a hollow voice; “seek her from Sir Rafe Piersie. Remember thy destinies. The balance now wavers—now it turns against thee and thy destinies. If but an atom of time be lost, they are sealed, irrecoverably sealed.”

Quick as the lightning of heaven did the ideas shoot through the old man’s mind, as the Ancient was solemnly pronouncing this terrific response. He remembered that Sir Rafe Piersie had left Norham, in a litter, the very day preceding the night his daughter had disappeared; and it flashed upon him that some of the grooms had remained behind their master, under pretence of one of his favourite horses having been taken ill, and had afterwards followed him during the night. That they must have found means to carry the Lady Eleanore off with them, was, he thought, but too manifest. The very name of Piersie, when uttered by the Ancient, had made Sir Walter’s blood run cold, from his superstitious belief of the impending fate that was connected with it; and the weight of his feelings operating on a body oppressed with fatigue and want of sleep, and on a mind worn out with the agitation and affliction it had undergone, became too much for nature to bear. He grew deadly pale. He made an effort to speak, but his tongue became dry and cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and his lips refused their office; an indistinct, mumbling, moaning sound was all that they could utter—his cheeks became rapidly convulsed—one corner of his mouth was drawn up to his ear, and he fell backwards on the floor in a state of perfect insensibility.

Fenwick became alarmed. He started up with the ghastly look of a newly-convicted felon, and the fear of being accused of the murder of Sir Walter came upon him. He crept towards the knight, and raising him up, made use of what means he could to endeavour to restore him to life; but all his efforts were unsuccessful. Trembling from the panic he was in, he then lifted the old knight in his arms, and with great difficulty conveyed him down the narrow stair to his own apartment. Horror was depicted in the faces of the domestics when they beheld the hated but dreaded monster bearing the bulky and apparently lifeless body of their beloved master. A wild cry of grief and apprehension burst from them. The Ancient laid Sir Walter on the bed, and, as the attendants stood aloof and aghast, he took up a small knife that lay near and pierced the veins of both temples with the point of it. The blood spouted forth, and the knight began to show faint symptoms of life. Never negligent of any circumstance that might raise his reputation for supernatural power, the Ancient now began to employ a number of strange necromantic signs, and to utter a jargon of unintelligible words in a low muttering tone, laying his hand at one time on the face, and at another on the breast, of the semi-animate body, that he might impress the bystanders with the idea of his magic having restored Sir Walter to life; for, seeing the blood flow so freely, he anticipated the immediate and perfect recovery of the patient. But he was mistaken in the extent of his hopes. Sir Walter opened his eyes, stared wildly about him, and moved his lips as if endeavouring to speak; but he continued to lie on his back, altogether motionless, and quite incapable of uttering a word.

The dismayed Ancient shuffled out of the apartment, and hastily retired to his lofty citadel. A murmur of disapprobation broke out among the domestics the moment he was supposed to be beyond hearing. They crowded about their master’s bedside, every one eager to do something. All manner of restoratives were tried with him, but in vain. He seemed to be perfectly unconscious of what they did, and he lay sunk in a lethargy, from which nothing could rouse him.

Sir Walter was the idol of his people and garrison. By degrees the melancholy news spread through the keep of the Castle, and thence into its courts, barracks, stables, guardhouses, and along its very ramparts, until every soldier and sentinel in the place became aware of the miserable condition of their beloved Governor, as well as of the immediate share which Master Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, the sorcerer, had had in producing it. General lamentations arose.

“Our good Governor is bewitched!”—“The monster Ancient hath bewitched him!”—“The villain Fenwick drew his very blood from him to help his sorcery!”—“What can be done?”—“What shall we do?”—“Let us send forthwith for some holy man.”—“Let us send for the pious clerk of Tilmouth Chapel; he hath good lore in sike cases.”

The suggestion was approved by all, and accordingly a horseman was instantly despatched to bring the clerk with all possible haste. The messenger speedily returned, unaccompanied, however, by the pious priest of Tilmouth, who chanced to be sick in bed, but who had sent them a wayfaring Franciscan monk, of whose potent power against magic he had largely spoken. The holy man was immediately ushered into the Governor’s apartment. Having previously taken care to inform himself of all the particulars of the case, from the horseman behind whom he had been brought, he approached the bed with a solemn air and surveyed Sir Walter for some time, as if in deep consideration of his state and appearance, with intent to discover his malady. He looked into his eyes, felt him carefully all over, and moved his helpless legs and arms to and fro. Meanwhile the officers of the garrison, the attendants, and even some of the soldiers, were awaiting anxiously in the room, about the door, on the stairs, and on the bridge below, all eager to learn the issue of his examination.

“Sir Walter de Selby is bewitched,” said the Franciscan at length, “and no human power can now restore him, so long as the wretch, whoever he may be, who hath done this foul work on him shall be permitted to live. If he be known, therefore, let him be forthwith seized and dragged to the flames.”

An indignant murmur of approbation followed this announcement, and soon spread to those on the stairs, and from them to the soldiers in the court-yard below. Fortified by the spiritual aid of a holy friar, the most superstitious of them lost half of their dread of the Ancient’s supernatural powers.

“Burn the Ancient!” cried one.—“Burn Haggerstone Fenwick!” cried another.—“Burn the Wizard Fenwick!” cried a third.—“Faggots there—faggots in the court-yard!”—“Raise a pile as high as the keep!”—“Faggots!”—“Fire!”—“Burn the Ancient!”—“Burn the Wizard!” flew from mouth to mouth. All was instant ferment. Some ran this way, and others that, to bring billets of wood, and to prepare the pile of expiation; so that, in a short time, it was built up to a height sufficient to have burnt the Ancient if his altitude had been double what it really was.

This being completed, the next cry was—“Seize the Ancient—seize him, and bring him down!” But this was altogether a different matter; for although every one most readily joined in the cry, no one seemed disposed to lead the way in carrying the general wish into effect. The friar assumed an air of command—

“Let no one move,” said he, “until I shall have communed with the wretch. I shall myself ascend to his den, and endeavour to bend his wicked heart to undo the evil he hath wrought on the good Sir Walter. But let some chosen and determined men be within call, for should I find him hardened and obdurate, he must forthwith be led out to suffer for his foul sorcery. Meanwhile let all be quiet, let no sound be uttered, until I shall be heard to pronounce, in a loud voice, this terrible malison, ‘Body and soul, to the flames I doom thee!’ Then let them up without delay on him, and he shall be straightway overcome.”

The Franciscan was listened to with the most profound deference, his commands were implicitly obeyed, and every sound, both within and without the Castle, was from that moment hushed.

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XVI. Raising the Devil—Delivered to the Flames

The Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick had been by no means comfortable in his thoughts after he had retreated to the solitude of his cap-house, and had in fact anticipated in some degree the effect which would result from the state of insensibility that Sir Walter had been thrown into. He was aware that the very mummery he had enacted over him, when he expected his immediate resuscitation, instead of operating, as in that event it would have done, to raise his fame as a healing magician, would now be the means of fixing on him the supposed crime of having produced his malady, and strengthened it by wicked sorcery. But he by no means expected that the irritation against him would be so speedy or so violent in its operation as it really proved, and he perhaps trusted for his safety from any sudden attack to the dread with which he well knew his very name inspired every one in the garrison.

He had crept into the farther corner of his den, where, in the present distracted state of his mind, it did not even occur to him to extinguish the lamp he had left burning, or to let in the daylight he had excluded. There he sat, brooding over the unfortunate issue of his divination, in very uneasy contemplation of the danger that threatened him in consequence, distant though he then thought it. A coward in his heart, he began to curse himself for having tried schemes which now seemed likely to end so fatally for himself. He turned over a variety of plans for securing his safety, but, after all his cogitation, flight alone seemed to be the only one that was likely to be really available. But then Sir Walter might recover; in which case he might still obtain the credit of his recovery, and his ambitious schemes be yet crowned with success. Thus the devil again tempted him; and he finally resolved to wait patiently until night, which was by this time at hand, and then steal quietly down to ascertain Sir Walter’s state, and act accordingly. Should he find him worse, or even no better than when he left him, he resolved to go secretly to the ramparts, there to undo some of the ropes of the warlike engines that defended the walls, and to let himself down by means of them at a part where he knew the height would be least formidable, and so effect his escape.

Occupied as the Ancient was with these thoughts, although he had heard the clamours and shouts rising from below, yet, buried in the farthest corner of his den, they came to his ear like the murmurs of a far-distant storm; and, accustomed to the every-day noise of a crowded garrison, they did not even strike him as at all extraordinary.

To divert these apprehensions which he could by no means allay, he opened one of his favourite books, and endeavoured to occupy himself in his usual study; but his mind wandered in spite of all his exertions to keep it fixed, and he turned the leaves, and traced the lines with his eyes without being in the least conscious of the meaning they conveyed. He roused himself, and began reading aloud, as if he could have talked himself into quiet by the very sound of his own voice. He went on without at first perceiving the particular nature of the passage he had stumbled on; but his attention being now called to it, he was somewhat horrified to observe that it contained the form of exorcism employed for raising the devil in person. By some unaccountable fatality, he went on with it, wishing all the while that he had never begun it, but yet more strangely afraid to stop; until at length, approaching the conclusion, he ended with these terrible words—“Sathanas, Sathanas, Sathanas, Sathanas, Prince of Darkness, appear!”

He stopped, and looked fearfully around him, as soon as they had passed his lips. The door of the place slowly opened, and the head of the very Franciscan monk who had formerly visited him, the face deeply shaded by the projecting cowl, was thrust within the doorway.

“I am here—what wouldst thou with me?” said he, in a deep and hollow voice.

The Ancient threw himself upon his knees, and drew back his body into the corner. His teeth chattered in his head, and he was deprived of speech. He covered his eyes with his hands, as if afraid to look upon the object of his dread. He now verily believed that he had been formerly visited by the Devil, and that the Arch-Fiend had again returned to carry him away. The Franciscan crouched, and glided forward into the middle of the place.

“What becomes of him, lossel,” said he, in a tremendous voice, “what becomes of him who takes the Devil’s wages, and doeth not his work? What becomes of him who vainly tries to deceive the Devil his master? Fool! didst thou not believe that I was the Prince of Darkness?”

The terrified Ancient had now no doubt that he was indeed the Devil; still he kept his hands over his eyes, and drew himself yet more up, in dread that every succeeding moment he should feel himself clutched by his fiery fangs.

“Hast thou not tried to cheat me, wretch—me, who cannot but know all things?” continued the Franciscan.

“Oh, spare me, spare me! I confess, I confess. Avaunt thee, Sathanas!—Spare!—Avaunt!—Spare me, Sathanas!” muttered the miserable wretch, altogether unconscious of what he uttered.

“Spare thee, thou vile slave!” cried the Franciscan with bitterness, “I never spared mortal that once roused my vengeance, and thou hast roused mine to red-hot fury. Answer me, and remember it is vain to attempt concealment with me. Didst thou not fail of thy promise to rouse Sir Walter de Selby to my purpose, as it affected Sir Rafe Piersie?”

“Oh, I did, I did—Oh, spare me, spare me, Sathanas!” cried the Ancient.

“Didst thou not rather stir him up to reject and spurn the noble knight?” demanded the Franciscan.

“Oh, yes, I did—Oh yes—Spare me, spare me!—Avaunt thee, Sathanas!—Spare me—Oh, spare me!”

“Spare thee!” cried the Franciscan, with a horrid laugh of contempt; “spare thee! What mercy canst thou hope from me? No, thou art given to my power, not to be spared, but to be punished. Thine acts of sorcery, which have murdered Sir Walter de Selby, have put thee beyond the pale of mercy, nor canst thou now look elsewhere for aid. Thou art fitting food for hell,” continued he, with a fiend-like grin of satisfaction; and retreating slowly out of the doorway, and raising his voice into a shriek, that re-echoed from every projection and turret of the building, he pronounced the last fatal words, “Body and soul, to the flames I doom thee!”

An instantaneous shout arose from the court-yard below, and a clamour of many voices came rapidly up the stairs in the interior of the keep.

It quickly swelled upon the ear, and the clattering noise of many feet was heard approaching. Out they came on the platform of the keep, one by one, as they could scramble forth; and as the stoutest spirits naturally mounted first, the Franciscan was instantly surrounded by a body of the most determined hearts in the garrison.

“In on the servant of Sathanas,” cried he; “in on the cruel sorcerer, who hath bewitched thine unhappy Governor, and who refuseth to sayne again; in on the monster, tear him from his den, and drag him to the flames. Fear him not; his supernatural powers are quenched. Behold!” and pulling a wooden crosslet from his bosom, he held it up to their view—“In on him, I say, and seize him.”

The door was instantly forced open, and one or two of the boldest entered first; then two or three more followed, to the number of half a dozen in all, for the place could hardly contain more. The Ancient had now become frantic from terror, and his reason so far forsook him that he saw not or knew not the faces of those who came in on him to attack him, though many of them were familiar to him; he was fully possessed with the idea that a legion of devils were about to assail him, to drag him down to eternal punishment. They sprang upon him at once by general concert. The Ancient was an arrant coward; but a coward so circumstanced will fight to the last, even against an infernal host; and so he did, with the desperation of a maniac. In the interior of the place, the scuffle was tremendous; the very walls and roof of it seemed to heave and labour with its tumultuous contents. The keep itself shook to its foundation, and the shrieks, groans, and curses that came from within appalled the bystanders.

“Pick-axes, crows, and hatchets!” cried the friar; and the implements were brought with the utmost expedition at his command.

“Unroof his den,” cried he again; and two or three of the stoutest mounted forthwith on the flags of the roof, and by means of the crows and pick-axes began to tear them up with so much expedition, that they very soon laid the wood bare, and following up their work of devastation with the same energy, speedily and entirely demolished the roof, letting in the little light that yet remained of day upon the combatants.

The ancient Fenwick was now discovered lying on his back, his jaws wide open, his huge tusks displayed, and his mouth covered with foam, while his opponents were clustered over him like ants employed in overpowering a huge beetle. All their efforts to drag him out at the door had been quite unavailing. Though there were no weapons of edge or point among the combatants, many severe wounds and blows had been given and received, and blood flowed on the pavement in abundance. The Ancient’s teeth seemed to have done him good service after his arms had been mastered and rendered ineffectual to him, for many of his assailants bore deep and lasting impressions of his jaws on their hands and faces.

“In on the savage wizard now, overwhelm and bind him,” cried the Franciscan, with a devilish laugh of triumph.

At his word they scaled the roofless walls, and jumped down on the miserable wretch in such numbers that the place was literally packed. But the more that came on him the more furiously the Ancient defended himself, kicking, and heaving, and tossing some of them, till one of their number, laying his hand on a huge folio, made use of his code of necromancy against himself, and gave him a knock on the head that stunned him, and rendered him for some time insensible. Taking advantage of this circumstance, cords were hastily employed to bind his arms behind him; and a set of ropes being passed under him, he was with great difficulty hoisted from his den, and laid out at length upon the platform of the keep. There he lay, breathing, to be sure, but in a temporary state of perfect insensibility.

Availing themselves of the swoon into which he had fallen, the assailants began to hold counsel how they were to get his unwieldy and unmanageable carcase down to the court-yard. To have attempted to carry it by the stairs would have been hopeless; a week would have hardly sufficed to have manœuvred it through their narrow intricacies. The only possible mode, therefore, was to let him down by means of ropes, over the outside walls of the keep. Accordingly strong loops were passed around his legs and under his arm-pits; and by the united exertions of some dozen of men, he was lifted up and projected over the battlements.

As they were lowering him down slowly and with great care, the wretched Ancient, recovering from his swoon, found himself dreadfully suspended between sky and earth; and looking upwards, and beholding the grim faces of the men who managed the ropes scowling over the battlements, strongly illuminated by the light of the torches they held, he was more than ever convinced that they were demons, nor did he doubt that he was already in the very commencement of those torments of the nether world which he had been condemned to undergo for his iniquity. He shrieked and kicked, and made such exertions, that the very ropes cracked, so that he ran imminent risk of breaking them, and of tumbling headlong to the bottom. Afraid of this, the people above began to lower him away more quickly, and the darkness below not permitting them to see the ground, so as to know when he had nearly reached it, his head came so rudely in contact with it that he was again thrown into a state of insensibility.

The whole men of the garrison, both within and without the keep, having now assembled around him, a white sheet was brought out by order of the Franciscan, and he was clothed in it as with a loose robe. A black cross was then painted on the breast, and another on the back of it, from the charitable motive of saving his soul from the hands of the Devil, after it should be purified from its sins by the fire his body was destined to undergo. A parchment cap of considerable altitude, and also ornamented with crosses, was next tied upon his head; and two long flambeaux were bound firmly, one on each side, above his ears. He was then carried to the pile of wood, and extended at length upon the top of it. The torches attached to his head were lighted, and the Franciscan, approaching the pile with a variety of ceremonies, set fire to it with much solemnity—a grim smile of inward satisfaction lighting up his dark and stern features as he did so.

“Thus,” said he, “let all wizards and sorcerers perish, and thus let their cruel enchantments end with them.”

The anticipation of the horrific scene which was to ensue operated so powerfully on the vulgar crowd around, that a dead silence prevailed; and even those who, a few minutes before had shouted loudest and fought most furiously against the Ancient, now that they beheld the wretched victim laid upon the pile, and the fire slowly gaining strength, and rising more and more towards him—already hearing in fancy the piercing agony of his screams, and beholding in idea the horrible spectacle of his half-consumed limbs writhing with the torture of the flames—stood aloof, and, folding their sinewy arms and knitting their brows, half averted their eyes from the painful spectacle.

Up rose the curling smoke, until the whole summit of the broad and lofty keep was enveloped in its murky folds; while the flames, shooting in all directions through the crackling wood, began already to produce an intolerable heat under the wretched and devoted man, though they had not yet mounted so high as to catch the sheet he was wrapt in. Life began again to return to him. He stretched himself, and turned his head round first to the right, and then to the left; and, beholding the dense group of soldiers on all sides of him, their eyes glaring red on him, from the reflection of the flame that was bursting from beneath him, and being now sensible of the intolerable heat, and half suffocated with the gusts of smoke that blew about him, his belief that he was in the hands of demons, and that his eternal fiery punishment was begun, was more than ever confirmed. He bellowed, writhed, and struggled; and his bodily strength, which was at all times enormous, being now increased tenfold by the horrors that beset him, he made one furious exertion, and, snapping the cords which bound his arms behind, and which, fortunately for him, had been weaker than they otherwise would have been, had those who tied them not believed that he was already nearly exanimate, he sprang to his feet and rent open the front of the white robe they had put round him. Down came the immense and loosely-constructed pile of faggots, by the sheer force of his weight alone, and onward he rushed, with the force and fury of an enraged elephant, overturning all who ventured to oppose him, or who could not get out of his way, the flambeaux blazing at his head, and his long white robe streaming behind him, and exposing the close black frieze dress he usually wore. The guards and sentinels at the first gate, aware of what was going on, and conceiving it impossible for human power to escape, after the precautions which had been taken, when they saw the terrible figure advancing towards them, with what appeared to them to be a couple of fiery horns on his head, abandoned their posts and fled in terror. Those at the outer gate were no less frightened, and retreated with equal expedition. But the drawbridge was up. Luckily for the Ancient, however, he, like many other fortunate men, was on the right side for his own interest on this occasion. Without hesitation he put the enormous sole of one foot against it—down it rattled in an instant, chains and all, and he thundered along it.

By this time the panic-stricken soldiers of the garrison had recovered from their alarm, and started with shouts after the fugitive, being now again as eager to take him, and much more ready to sacrifice him when taken, than they had even been before. On they hurried after him, yelling like a pack of hounds, and cheered to the chase by the revengeful and bloodthirsty Franciscan, their pursuit being directed by the flaming torches at his head; and forward he strode down the hollow way to the mead of Norham, and, dreading capture worse than death itself, be darted across the flat ground, flaming like a meteor, and, dashing at once into the foaming stream of the Tweed, began wading across through a depth of water enough to have drowned any ordinary man; until at length, partly by swashing and partly by swimming, during which last operation the lights he bore on his head were extinguished, he made his way fairly into Scotland.

His pursuers halted in amazement. The whole time occupied in his escape seemed to have been but as a few minutes. Fear once more fell upon them, and they talked to one another in broken sentences and half-smothered voices.

“Surely,” said one, “the Devil, whose servant he was, must have aided him.”

“Ay, ay, that’s clear enow,” said another.

“He was stone-dead, and came miraculously alive again,” said a third.

“Nay,” said a fourth, “he came not alive again; ’twas but the Devil that took possession of his dead body.”

“In good troth thou hast hit it, Gregory,” said a fifth, with an expression of horror; “for no one but the Devil himself could have broken the cords that tied his hands, or kicked down the drawbridge after such a fashion.”

“Didst see how he walked on the water?” cried a sixth.

“Ay,” said a seventh, “and how he vanished in the middle o’ Tweed in a flash o’ fire that made the very water brenn again?”

Having thus wrought themselves into a belief that the spectre they had been following was no other than the Devil flying off with the already exanimate body of Ancient Fenwick, they trembled at the very idea of having pursued him; and they crept silently back to the garrison, the blood in their veins freezing with terror, and crossing themselves from time to time as they went.

As for the Franciscan, he disappeared, no one knew how.

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Chapter XVII

Sir John’s Pursuit in Quest of the Missing Lady—The Forester’s Hunting Camp—Sir Miers de Willoughby’s Border Keep.

Sir John Assueton’s fury and distraction carried him on with great rapidity, until he reached the banks of the Tweed, and his own horse, as well as the horses of his small troop of spearmen, were right glad to lave their smoking sides in its cool current, as he boldly swam them to the English shore. He tarried but short time by the way, to refresh either them or his men; and towards nightfall, found himself winding into a green glen, thickly wooded in some parts, opening in smooth pasture in others, and watered by one of those brisk streams that descend into Northumberland from the Cheviot hills.

The sight of those lofty elevations, now so near him, brought the object of his hasty march more freshly to his mind, too much agitated hitherto by the violence of the various passions that possessed it, to permit him to act or think coolly. But he began now to reflect that, although he had learned that the Castle of Burnstower, to which Sir Miers de Willoughby was supposed to have carried off the Lady Isabelle, lay somewhere among the intricacies of these hills, his rage and impatience had never allowed him to inquire farther, or to advert to the very obvious circumstance that the extent of the hilly range was so great that he might search for many days before he could discover the spot where it was situated. It was therefore absolutely necessary that he should avail himself of the very first opportunity which might occur of procuring information, both as to the Castle he was in search of, and the owner of it, of whom he had in reality as yet learned nothing. He rode slowly up the glen, therefore, in expectation of seeing some cottage, where he might halt for a short time to gain intelligence, or of meeting some peasant, from whom he might adroitly gather the information he wanted, without exciting suspicion as to the nature of his errand.

Fortune seemed to be so far favourable to him, that he had not ridden any great distance ere he descried a forester, standing under a wide-spreading oak, by the side of a glade, where the glen was narrowest. He had a cross-bow in his hand, and appeared to be on the watch for deer.

“Ho, forester,” cried Assueton to him, “methinks thou hast chosen a likely pass here for the game; hast thou sped to-day?”

“Not so far amiss as to that,” said the forester, carelessly leaving his stand, and lounging towards the party, as if to reconnoitre them.

“Dost thou hunt alone, my good fellow,” said the knight.

“N—nay,” said the forester, with hesitation; “there be more of us in company a short way off.”

“Hast thou any cottage or place of shelter hereabouts, where hungry travellers might have a mouthful of food, with provender, and an hour’s rest for our weary beasts?” demanded Assueton. “Here’s money for thee.”

“As to a cottage like,” replied the forester, “I trow there be not many of them in these wilds; but an thou wilt yede thee wi’ me, thou shalt share the supper my comrades must be cooking ere this time; and as for thy beasts, they canna be muckle to dole for, where the grass grows aneath their feet. Thy money we care not for.”

“Thine offer is fair and kind, good forester,” said Assueton; “we shall on with thee right gladly, and give thee good thanks for thy sylvan hospitality, such as it may be. Lead on then.”

The forester, without more words, walked cleverly on before Sir John Assueton, who followed him at the head of his party. As they advanced a little way, the wooding of the glen became much more dense, and rocks projecting themselves from the base of the hills on either side, rendered the passage in the bottom between them and the stream excessively narrow, so that the men of the party could only move on singly, and were more than once obliged to dismount and lead their horses. The way seemed to be very long, and night came on to increase its difficulties. Assueton’s impatience more than once tempted him to complain of it; but he restrained himself, lest his eagerness might excite suspicion that he had some secret and important hostile object in view, and that he might thus lose all chance of gaining the information he so much wanted. He kept as close as he possibly could to his guide, however, for he began to have strange doubts that he might be leading him into some ambush; and he had resolved within his own mind to seize and sacrifice him the instant he had reason to be convinced he had betrayed them.

After forcing their way through a very wild pass, where the rocks on both sides towered up their bold and lofty fronts, the glen widened, and the party entered a little gently-sloping glade or holme, bounded by the high and thickly-wooded banks, which here retired from the side of the stream, and swept irregularly around it. A blazing fire appeared among the trees.

“Ay,” said the forester, “these are my comrades: I reckon we come in good time, for yonder be the supper a-cooking.”

The party now crossed through the luxuriant pasture, that, moistened with the evening dew, was giving out a thousand mingled perfumes from the wild flowers that grew in it, and speedily came within view of about a dozen men, clad in the same woodland garb worn by their guide. Some of them were sitting about the fire, engaged in roasting and broiling fragments of venison; while others were loitering among the trees, or sitting under their shade. A number of cross-bows and long-bows hung from the branches, several spears rested against their stems; and these, with swords, daggers, and anelaces, seemed to compose the arms of this party of hunters. They appeared to have had good success, for six or eight fat bucks were hanging by the horns from the boughs overhead.

“Here is a gallant knight and his party,” said their guide to a man who seemed to be a leader among them, “who would be glad of a share of our supper.”

The person he addressed, and who came forward to receive Assueton, was a tall and uncommonly handsome man; and although his dress differed in no respect from that of the others, except that he wore a more gaudy plume in his hat, and that his baldrick, the sword suspended from it, his belt and dagger, and the bugle that hung from his shoulder, were all of more costly materials and rarer workmanship. But there was something in his appearance and mien that might have graced knighthood itself. He bowed courteously to Assueton.

“Sir Knight,” said he, “wilt thou deign to dismount from thy steed, and partake with us in our woodland cheer? Here,” said he, turning to the people around him, “let more carcases be cut up; there is no lack of provisions. Will it please thee to rest, Sir Knight?”

“I thank thee, good forester, for thy willing hospitality,” said Assueton, alighting, and giving his horse to his squire; “I will rest me on that green bank under the holly busket there, and talk with thee to wile away time and beguile my hunger. This is a merry occupation of thine,” added he, after they had sat down together.

“Ay,” replied the forester, “right merry in good sooth, were we left at freedom to enjoy it. But, by the mass, that is not our case here, for there wons in this vicinage a certain discourteous knight, who letteth no one kill a deer on his ground that he may know of; so we be forced to steal hither, at times when we may ween that he is absent, or least on the watch. The red and roe deer do much abound in these glens; and, by the Rood, ’tis hard, methinks, that the four-footed game should be given by nature for man’s food, and that he should be reft of his right to take it.”

“And who may this discourteous knight be?” said Assueton, wishing to feel his way with the stranger.

“His name,” said the forester, “is Sir Miers de Willoughby, of a truth a most cruel and lawless malfaitor, and as bold a Borderer as ever rode through a moss. He rules everything here, and gives honest folks the bit to champ, I promise thee. Would that some such gallant knight as your worship might meet with him and humble him, for verily he is a scourge to the country.”

Sir John Assueton inwardly congratulated himself upon his good luck in having thus so fortunately stumbled on a man, who, having himself suffered from de Willoughby’s oppression, was manifestly so inimical to him: he felt much inclined to speak out at once, but he checked himself, and thought it wiser to proceed with caution.

“Is he so very wicked, then, this Sir Miers de Willoughby of whom thou speakest?” said he to the forester.

“By the mass is he, Sir Knight,” replied the forester. “He will soar ye from his Border-keep like a falcon, and pounce on any prey that may come within his ken; and als he be so stark as to others using his lands for their honest and harmless occupation of hunting, by’r Lady, he minds not on what earth he stoops, if so be that there be anything to cluth from off its surface. ’Twas but some three days ago that he yode hence on some wicked emprise, for ’twas his absence that led us hither; and this morning, as we lay concealed in these wood shaws, we saw him and his men ride by this very spot, bearing home with him some worthy man’s gentle cosset he had stowne away.”

Assueton perfectly understood the forester to have used the word cosset—a pet lamb—in a metaphorical sense; but, to draw him on, he pretended to have taken him up literally.

“A cosset!” cried he, with feigned surprise. “A poor pet lamb was but a wretched prey indeed for so rapacious a lorrel as thou wouldst make this same Sir Miers to be, good forester.”

“Nay, nay, Sir Knight,” replied the forester, “I meant not in very simplicity a pet lamb, but a fair damosel, who looked, meseemed, as if she had been the gentle cosset of some fond father. ’Twas a damosel, Sir Knight, a right fair and beauteous damosel; and she shrieked from time to time in such piteous fashion, that, by the Rood, it was clear she went not with him willingly.”

Assueton’s blood boiled, so that it was with difficulty he could longer restrain his fury. He, however, kept it within such bounds as it might well enough pass for the indignation natural to a virtuous knight upon hearing of such foul outrage done to any damsel.

“Unworthy limb of knighthood,” said he, “thus to play the caitiff part of a vile lossel? Show me the way to his boure, and by the blessed bones of the holy St. Cuthbert, he shall dearly rue his traiterie.”

“Marry, ’tis no wonder to see a virtuous knight so enchafed at such actings,” said the forester; “yet can the damosel be little to thee; and ’twere scarce, methinks, worth thy while to step so far from thy path. Had she been thine own lady, indeed———”

“Nay,” said Assueton, hastily, but endeavouring to conceal his emotion, “thou knowest, good forester, that ’tis but my duty as a true knight to redress this foul wrong; and whosoever this lady may be, and wheresoever I may be bound, I must not scruple to step a little out of my way to punish so wicked a coulpe.”

“Right glad am I, Sir Knight,” said the forester, “to see thee so ready to do battle against this caitiff, Sir Miers, and full willing should I be to conduct thee to the sacking of his tower; but, in good verity, ’twere vain to go accoutred and attended as thou art. He keeps special good watch and ward, I promise thee, and he is too much wont to have his quarters beat up, not to be for ever on the alert. He hath scouts stationed all around him, in such a manner that no one may approach his stronghold of Burnstower by day or by night withouten ken, and he is straightway put on the alert long ere he can be reached. If those who come against him be strong and well armed, more than his force than overcome, then he hies him away to the fastnesses of his mosses and hills, where no one but the eagle may follow him, and leaves only his barren walls to the fury of the besiegers. But if the party be small, and such as his wiles may master, he is sure to lead them into some ambush, and to put every man of them to the sword. Trust me, were thou to go clad in steel, and with such a party of spearmen at thy back, he would take the alarm, and thou wouldst either have thy journey and thy trouble for thy guerdon, or thou and thy people might fall by cruel traiterie.”

“Then what, after all, may be the best means of coming at him?” said Assueton; “for thou hast but the more inflamed my desire to essay the adventure.”

The forester seemed to consider for a time—“In truth,” said he at length, “I see no other way than one, the which thou wouldst spurn, Sir Knight.”

“Name it,” said Assueton; “depend on’t, I shall not be over nice in this affair.”

“Wert thou,” said the forester, “and, it might be, no more than two of thy people, to venture thither in disguise, with one or two of us to guide thee, thou mightest peradventure pass thither without begetting alarm, and be received into the Castle as lated and miswent travellers, lacking covert for the night. But then all that would be but of small avail, for what couldst thou do with thy single arm, and so small a force to aid it?”

“Nay, good forester,” said Assueton, “be it mine to see to that, and be it thine to bring me thither. Knights are but born to conquer difficulties, and, perdie, I have never yet seen that which did not, with me, give greater zest to the adventure I went upon. By the blessed Rood, I shall go with thee. Let us forthwith have our disguises, then, and these two men of my company,” pointing to Riddel and Lindsay, “shall share the glory of mine emprise. So let us, I pr’ythee, snatch a hasty meal, and set forward without delay.”

“By the mass, but thou art a brave knight,” said the forester; “yet it doth grieve me to see thee go on so hopeless an errand. Nathless, I shall not baulk thee nor back of thy word; verily I shall wend with thee, to show thee the way thither. But I would fain persuade thee even yet to leave this undertaking untried.”

“Nay,” said Assueton, “I have said it, and by God’s aid I will do it, let the peril be what it may; so let us use despatch if it so please thee.”

Seeing that the bold and dauntless knight was resolved, the forester ordered some of the venison, that was by this time cooked, to be set before Assueton, and some also to be served to those who were to accompany him; and after all had satisfied their hunger, Assueton doffed his armour, clad himself in a suit of plain Lincoln green, such as the foresters wore, and, unperceived by any one, slipped his dagger into his bosom. He then openly girt his trusty sword by his side, and leaving orders with his party to remain with the friendly foresters until they should see him, or hear from him, he and his two people, who were also disguised, mounted their horses, and set off under the guidance of the leader of the hunting party and two of his men, whom he took with them, as he said, to bear him company on his return.

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XVIII. The Horrors of the Dungeon

Their route lay up the glen, and the darkness of the night, with the roughness of the way, very much impeded their progress. At one time they were led along the very margin of the stream, and, at another, they climbed diagonally up the steep sides of the hills that bounded it, and wound over far above, to avoid some impediment which blocked all passage below. Now they penetrated extensive thickets of brushwood, and again wound up among the tall stems of luxuriant oaks, or passed, with greater ease to themselves and their weary horses, over small open glades among the woods. At length they began to rise over the sides of the hills, to a height so much beyond any that they had hitherto mounted, that Assueton thought the deviation strange and unaccountable, and was tempted to put some question to his guide.

“Whither dost thou lead us now, good forester?” said he; “thou seemest to have abandoned the glen altogether, and methinks thou art now resolved to soar to the very clouds. I much question whether garron of mosstrooper ever climbed such a house-wall as this.”

“Sir Knight,” replied the forester, “I but intend to lead thee over the ridge of a hill here, by a curter cast. The glen maketh a wicked wide courbe below, and goeth miles about. This gate will save us leagues twayne, at the very shortest reckoning. Trust me I am well up to all the hills and glens of these parts, by night as well as by day.”

“Nay, good forester,” said Assueton, “I doubt thee not; but, by our Lady, this seemeth to me to be a marvellous uncouth path.”

“T’other, indeed, is better, Sir Knight,” said the forester; “but bad as this may be, ’twill haine us a good hour’s time of travel.”

Assueton was satisfied with this explanation, and the ground getting more level as they advanced, he soon discovered that they were crossing a wild ridge of moorland, and hoped that the impediments to a speedier progress would be fewer. But the way seemed, if possible, to be even more puzzling and difficult than ever. They wound round in one direction, and then went zig-zag to the opposite point of the compass; then they wormed their way through bogs and mosses—then stretched away Heaven knew whither, and then, making a little detour, they (as it seemed to Assueton) returned again in a line nearly parallel to that which they had just pursued. Hours appeared to glide away in this wearisome and endless maze, and Assueton’s impatience became excessive.

“Good forester,” said he, “methinks we are never to get out of this enchanted labyrinth.”

“Nay, Sir Knight,” replied the forester, “’tis an enchanted labyrinth in good soberness; for, verily, full many a goodly steed hath been ygraven in the flows that surround us. There be quaking bogs here that would swallow a good-sized tower. Nay, halt thee, Sir Knight, thou must of needscost turn thee this gate again.”

“By St. Cuthbert,” said Assueton, “meseems it a miracle that thou shouldst have memory to help thee to thread the intricacies of so puzzling a path, maugre the darkness that yet prevails.”

“’Tis indeed mirk as a coal mine,” said the forester, “but I look for the moon anon.”

After better than half-an-hour more of such travelling as we have described, they at length wound down a very precipitous hill, where their necks were in considerable peril, and found themselves again in the glen, and by the side of its stream. As well as Assueton could guess, they had now travelled fully three or four hours, the greater part of which time they had spent on the high ground. The state of their horses, too, bore out his calculation, for they showed symptoms of great exhaustion, from this so large addition to the previous severe journey. They pushed them on, however, as fast as the nature of the ground would admit, the glen presenting the same variety of woods, glades, and thickets, as it had formerly done.

At length they came to a place where the hills approached on each side, and the glen narrowed to a wild gorge, where all passage was denied below, except for the stream, and they were consequently again compelled to ascend the abrupt banks by a diagonal path. But they had no sooner gained the summit than the moon arose, and threw its silver light full over the scene into which they were about to advance. Above the gorge, the valley was split into two distinct glens, or rather deep ravines, each pouring out its stream, and these, uniting together, formed that which they had so long traced upwards. Above the point of their union arose a green-headed eminence, swelling from among the rich woods that everywhere clothed it, and all the other lower parts of the space within their view. The round top of the eminence was crowned with a rude Border Tower; and the whole was backed, a good way behind, by a semi-circular range of hilly ridges. The moonlight shone powerfully on the building, the keep of which seemed to be of no great size, but very strong in itself; and the outworks, consisting of massive walls defended here and there by round towers, showed that it was a stronghold where determined men might make a powerful resistance.

“Yonder is the peel of Burnstower,” said the forester, pointing to it; “thou must ford the stream there below, under the hill whereon it stands, and so make thy way up through the woods by a narrow path, that will lead thee to the yett. I shall yet go with thee as far as the ford, to show thee the right gate through the water; but I must then bid thee farewell, nor canst thou lack mine aid any longer.”

“Good forester,” said Assueton, “certes thou hast merited the guerdon of my best thanks for thine obliging and toilsome convoy. When I join thee again, trust me they shall be cheerfully paid thee, together with what more solid warison thou mayest see fit to accept, in token of my gratitude. Meanwhile, I beseech thee to take good charge of my brave men.”

“Nay, fear me not in that, Sir Knight,” said the forester; “they shall be well looked after, I promise thee. My men have doubtless already taken good care of them, and of their steeds too.”

Having descended the hill, they pushed their way through the opposing brushwood, and reached the bank of one of the streams, immediately above the spot where it united itself to the other. The forester indicated the ford to Assueton, and then took an abrupt leave, diving into the thicket with his two followers.

Assueton stood for a moment on the brink of the stream before he entered, and took that opportunity of telling his two attendants to be particularly on their guard, to watch his eye, attend to his signals, and be ready to act as these might appear to suggest to them. They were also to bear in mind that for the present they were to pass as equals. He then cautiously entered the ford, and, followed by Riddel and Lindsay, soon reached the farther bank.

They now found themselves on a low grassy tongue of land, which shot out between the two streams from the woods at the base of the eminence the Castle stood on, and which, though of considerable length, was nowhere more than a few yards wide. Along this they pushed their horses, as fast as the weary animals could advance. A few trees struggled down over it at the farther extremity, where it united itself to the base of the hill; and just as they had entered among these, all their horses were at one and the same moment tumbled headlong on the ground. An instant shout arose from the thickets on either side, and about a dozen men sprang from them on the prostrate riders; and, after a short and ineffectual struggle on their part, Assueton and his two attendants were bound hand and foot, and blindfolded. All this time not a word was spoken; and excepting the shouts that were the signal of the onset, not a sound was heard. But the prey was no sooner fairly mastered, than a loud bugle blast was blown from the thickets near them, and it was immediately answered by another, that rang through the woods at some distance. The horses were then extricated from the toils of ropes which had been so treacherously though ingeniously employed to ensure their prostration, and on regaining their legs, their late riders were lifted up and laid across them like sacks, and they were led by the villains who had captured them up the steep and devious ascent, through the thick wood to the Castle. The party then entered the gateway, as Assueton judged from the noise made in raising the portcullis, and the prisoners being lifted from their horses, were carried each by two men into the main tower.

Whither they took his two attendants, Assueton had no means of guessing; but he was borne up a long and winding stair, as he supposed to the top of the building, and then through several passages. There he heard the withdrawing of rusty bolts, and the heavy creaking of hinges; and, being set down on the floor of his prison, his arms and legs were unbound, his eyes uncovered, and he was left in utter darkness and amazement.

After sitting for some moments to recover from the surprise occasioned by this sudden and unlooked for annihilation of all his plans and of all the hopes he had cherished from them, he arose, and, before yielding to despair, groped his way to the walls, and felt them anxiously all round. Not a crevice or aperture could he discover but the doorway, and that was blocked by an impregnable door, crossed and recrossed by powerful bars of iron, so that he saw no hope of its being moved by any strength of human arm, unassisted by levers or other such instruments. The walls and floor were of the most solid masonry in every part; yet he felt the balmy air of a soft night blow upon his face, and, on looking upwards, he could just descry a faint glimmer of light, that broke with difficulty through the enormous thickness of the building, by a narrow window immediately over where he then stood. This opening, however, was quite beyond his reach, being at least a dozen feet above him.

As he moved backwards to get from under the wall where the window was, that he might obtain a better view of it, his head came in contact with something hanging behind him. He turned round, but his eyes were not yet sufficiently accustomed to the obscurity, to enable him to discover anything more than that there was some dark object suspended from above. He put up his hands to ascertain what it was, and, to his inexpressible horror, felt the stiffened legs of a corpse, which swung backwards and forwards at his touch. Bold and firm as he was, Assueton started involuntarily back, and his heart revolted at the thought that he was to be so mated for the night. He retired to a corner, where he had discovered a heap of straw with a coarse blanket, and he sat him down on it; but it immediately occurred to him that this had probably been the bed of the unfortunate man who now dangled lifeless from the centre of the vault, and he could sit on it no longer. That the poor wretch had been put to death in the very chamber which had been his prison, seemed to argue a degree of hardened cruelty and summary vengeance in those in whose power he had now himself the misfortune to be, that left him little room to hope for much mercy at their hands.

Having moved to an opposite corner, nearly under the little window, he seated himself on the floor, and gave up his mind to the full bitterness of its thoughts. The first recollection that presented itself was that of the Lady Isabelle, torn from her home, her father, and himself, by an unprincipled and abandoned villain. His reflections on this painful theme banished every thought of his own captivity, as well as every speculation as to what its result might be, excepting, indeed, in so far as it might affect the fate of her who was now the idol of his heart. He ran over his past conduct, and seeing that he could now have no hope of being the instrument of her rescue, he blamed himself in a thousand ways. He accused himself bitterly for not having sent back a messenger from the place where he had met Sir Walter de Selby, to inform Sir Patrick Hepborne the elder of the intelligence he had obtained from the Captain of Norham; then unavailing regrets and self-accusations arose within him for having neglected to obtain more full information from Sir Walter, when he had it in his power to do so; but, above all, he cursed his folly for having abandoned his stout-hearted spearmen, who would have backed him against any foes to the last drop of their blood. He turned over the circumstances of his rencontre with the foresters, and, recalling the whole conduct of their leader, he now began to be more than half suspicious that they had played him false. This last reflection made him tremble for the fate of his people whom he had left with them; and remembering his guide’s parting assurance, “that they should be well looked after,” he felt disposed to interpret it in a very opposite sense to that he had put upon it the moment it was uttered.

He then again recurred to the Lady Isabelle. Why had he gone a-hunting on the day she was carried off, when he had been repeatedly warned, by something within his own breast, that he ought to stay at home with her? Alas! where was she now? The question was agony to him. Could she be within these walls? To know that she, indeed, really was so, would have been cheering to him even in his present state of desponding uncertainty, as it might have given him some frail hope of yet being of use to her. He listened for distant sounds. Faint female shrieks came from some part of the building far below. Again he heard them yet more distinctly; and, full of the maddening idea that they came from the Lady Isabelle, he started up, unconscious of what he was doing, flew like a madman to the door, and began beating it with his fists, screaming out, “Villains! murderers!” But his voice, and the noise of his furious knocking, returned on his ear with a deadened sound, and speedily convinced him that nothing could be heard from the lofty, solitary, and massive-walled prison in which he was immured.

With a heart torn and distracted, and almost bereft of reason, he paced the floor violently backwards and forwards. His ear then caught, from time to time, the distant and subdued shouts of merriment and laughter. These again stung him to fury.

“What!” cried he aloud, “do they make sport of her purity and her misery? Villains! demons! hell-hounds!” And he again raved about his prison with yet greater fury than before, a thousand horrible ideas arising to his heated and prolific imagination.

At length he flung himself on the floor, utterly exhausted both in body and mind by the intensity of his sufferings, and lay for some moments in a state of quiet, from absolute inability to give further way to the extravagance of action excited by his feelings. He had not been long in this state, however, when the distant and faint chanting of a female voice fell upon his ear. He started, and raising himself upon his elbow, listened anxiously that he might drink in the minutest portion of the sound which reached him. Though evidently coming from some far-off chamber below, he distinctly caught the notes, which he recognized to be those of a hymn to the Virgin, from the vesper service. The melody was sweet and soothing to his lacerated soul. Again it stole on him.

“The voice,” said he to himself, “that can so employ itself must come from one who may be unhappy, but who cannot suppose herself to be in any very immediate peril; nor, if her mind had been so lately suffering urgent alarm, could she have by this time composed it so far as to be able to lift it to Heaven in strains so gentle and placid.”

Though immediately afterwards convinced of the folly of such an idea, he, for a moment, almost persuaded himself that he recognized the voice of the Lady Isabelle Hepborne in that of the pious chantress. He threw himself upon his knees, and offered up his fervent orisons for help in his affliction. The voice came again upon him—and again he fancied he knew it to be that of her he loved; but although he found himself, in sound reason, obliged to discard all idea of the possibility of such a recognition, yet it clung to his broken spirit, and was as a healing balm to it, in despite of reason.

It produced one happy effect, however, by causing his agonizing thoughts to give way, at last, to the immense bodily and mental fatigue he had undergone. He dropped asleep on the bare pavement, notwithstanding the horrors that hung over him, the uncertain fate that awaited him, and the complication of misery by which he was oppressed.

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XIX. Dawn in the Dungeon—An Appalling Sight—Rough Visitors

Sir John Assueton’s sleep was deep and uninterrupted until the first dawn of morning, when he awoke and rubbed his eyelids, having, for a moment, forgotten where he was, and all that had befallen him. The first object that presented itself when he looked upwards was the figure and countenance of the dead man, hanging almost immediately over the spot where he lay. The features were horribly distorted and discoloured, by the last agonies of the violent death he had died; the tongue was thrust out, and the projected eyeballs were staring fearfully from their sockets. The sight was appalling and heart-sickening.

He could now observe that the dress of the unfortunate man was that of a forester. The arms were rudely tied behind the back, and the body was suspended from a huge iron ring, that hung loose in an enormous bolt of the same metal, strongly built in vertically between the keystones of the vault, the height of which was very considerable. It seemed as if the wretched man had been dragged from his couch of straw to instant punishment, or rather perhaps murder; for portions of the straw yet littered the floor as if dragged along with him in his ineffectual struggles, and some fragments of it still adhered between his ankles, to the rough woollen hose he wore, as if retained there by the last dying convulsion that had pressed and twisted the limbs unnaturally together. Then the fatal rope was not like one intended for such a use. It was thicker than seemed necessary, and looked as if it had been hastily taken, as the readiest instrument for the murderous deed. After passing through the ring, where it was fastened by two or three turns, it stretched down diagonally to one corner of the place, where it lost itself in an immense coil. It had manifestly been hastily brought there, to effect the destruction of the unfortunate wretch, and afterwards left on the floor uncut, that it might not be rendered unfit for the purpose to which it had been originally dedicated.

It may seem strange that Assueton should have derived anything like pleasure from a spectacle so truly appalling; but it is nevertheless true, that a faint gleam of hope broke upon the miserable despair that had possessed him. He saw that the coil of rope was of sufficient extent to give him good reason to believe that, when untwisted, it might reach to the base of the tower, at the top of which he was now confined, if he could only detach it from what went upwards, and conceal it until night. But how was he to sever it? He remembered that he had concealed his dagger in his bosom at the time he put on his disguise. Those who seized and bound him had immediately deprived him of his sword, but they had not suspected his being possessed of any other weapon, and his dagger, therefore, had escaped their notice. He drew it joyfully forth; but just as he was about to divide the rope, he paused, and observing that there were at least fourteen or sixteen feet stretching diagonally between the coil and the ring, he hesitated to cut it. To throw away so considerable a portion of it, when perhaps that very piece might be essential to the preservation of his life, would have been the height of imprudence; yet, to get at that portion, there was but one way, and this was so disgusting, and so repugnant to his feelings, that the very idea of it made him shudder.

But liberty, and perhaps life depended on it; and what will not the desire of liberty and life compel human nature to attempt? To him both were now more precious than ever, since they might yet be the means of saving her without whom he could value neither. He hesitated not a moment longer, but screwing up his resolution to the revolting alternative, he laid hold of the legs of the dead man, swung himself up from the ground, and, catching at his clothes, at last got the rope within his gripe, and thus continued to climb, hand over hand, until he reached the fatal ring. Holding by one sinewy arm, he drew forth his dagger, and was again on the eve of cutting the rope close to the ring when prudence once more stopped him. He had been from the first aware that it was absolutely necessary to leave the dead body hanging, lest, when his jailors should visit him, they might have their suspicions awakened by its removal. What made him hesitate then, whilst hanging by one arm to the ring and bolt to the arch in the vault, was the idea, that by loosening the turns that were made in it, he might be enabled to hoist up the body a few feet higher, then to fasten the turns of the rope again, and thus gain so many more feet of rope. All this, with immense fatigue of arm, he effected, and then dividing the rope with his dagger, and descending to the floor, he lifted up the large coil, and removing the straw of the bed, he hid it underneath, covering it up with the greatest care. He was fully aware of the possibility of its being missed from its place, sought for, and removed from the concealment he had put it into; but it was also possible that the wretches who had done the deed might not be among those who should come to visit him, in which case its absence could never attract their observation.

He now sat down to consider and arrange his plans. He at once saw that it would be useless to attempt his descent while daylight remained, or, indeed, while the people in the Castle might be supposed to be still stirring, as, if he did try it then, he must do so with hardly a chance of escaping detection. To lessen the risk of being observed and seized, therefore, it was absolutely essential that he should postpone his enterprise until night. But then the risk of his rope being discovered before night crossed his mind: his judgment wavered, and he was filled with the most cruel and perplexing doubts. He remembered that the state of the moon, which left the earlier part of the night excessively dark, made that by far the most favourable time to risk his fate; and he at length determined that, a descent in day-light being perfectly hopeless, he must be content to take his chance of the other alternative. But what was he to do if the rope should be missed, sought for, and detected? After some consideration, he resolved that in that event he would draw his dagger, spring unawares on those who might visit him, and so make a desperate endeavour to effect his escape, by striking down all that might oppose him.

But another and a different thought now occurred to him. What if the very first visit that might be paid him should be for the purpose of taking down the murdered body from the ring, only to hang him up in its place? Brave as he was he shuddered at the contemplation of such a fate. He had already often faced death in bloody field, led on by glory and the laudable thirst of fame; but to be hung up like a dog by the hands of murderous ruffians in this lone chamber, far from every human ear or eye but those of his clownish and unfeeling executioners, who would take so small account of him, after witnessing his passing agonies, as perhaps to leave him, as they had done the wretch who had gone before him, till his place was wanted for a successor, and then throw his half consumed body into some unholy spot, over which his perturbed ghost might hover, seeking in vain for repose, this was to strip death of the fascinating drapery which men have contrived to throw over him, and to unveil all his terrors, But he steeled himself for the worst, and, resolving to wait firmly, and to act as circumstances might suggest, he determined that, happen what might, he would sell his life dearly, should he be reduced to the unhappy alternative of doing so.

With his mind thus wound up, he sat him down on the couch of straw, that he might appear unconcerned to any one who might enter; and there he remained, waiting patiently for the issue. He had been seated in this way about a couple of hours, when he heard the heavy tread of feet approaching along the passages. The key was inserted in the lock of the door, and considerable force exerted before it could be turned.

“Be quick with you, old churl,” cried an impatient voice; “thou wilt be all day working at it.”

The door half opened, and two or three heads were thrust in at once. Seeing their prisoner calmly seated on the straw at the farther wall, four men entered. One of these, a thick, squat, large-headed old man, with a rough, cloddish, unfeeling countenance, and long, thick, grizzled hair hanging about it, was clad in a close woollen jerkin and hauselines, appeared to be the jailor, for several enormous keys hung from divers straps attached to his leathern belt. He stationed himself with his back at the door. The other three men were younger, but the expression of their features betrayed such depraved and lawless spirits, as might make them ready instruments to perpetrate any cruelty or crime at the mere nod of a master. Their dress was similar to that in which the murdered body was clothed. Two of them, armed with short swords in their hands, placed themselves at the door, in front of the old jailor, while the third, with a pewter-covered dish under his left arm, an earthen jug of ale in his left hand, and his naked sword in his right, advanced a little way, and deposited the provisions on the pavement. Turning his eyes round, he beheld the dead body hanging.

“Heyday, Daniel Throckle,” said he, with a careless laugh, to the jailor, “how camest thou to leave our comrade Tim Ord here, to keep watch over this young man all night? By the mass, methinks he was but a triste companion for him.”

“’Twas none o’ my doing, Master Ralpho Proudfoot; ’twas Wat Withe that did the deed himsell. He got the key from me, and thou knowest he doth not ever care overmuch, so he gets his job done, whether the workshop be cleaned out or no. He thinks that be none o’ his business.”

“Nay, but, fine fellow as he thinks himself, he may come and take down his own rubbish for me,” said Ralpho Proudfoot; “I clean out after no sike cattle, I promise thee. An thou likest to do his dirty work thou mayest, seeing thou art custodier of the place.” Then, turning to Assueton, who had sat quite still all this time, “Here, sir,” said he, “is thy morning’s meal—better eat it whiles it be hot—thou mayest not have a many deal of sike like;” and as he said so, he threw his eye sideways up towards the dead man. “Thou seest we be sometimes rather more curt than courteous; thou canst not tell when it may be thy turn.”

“Young man,” said Assueton, composedly, and still without rising from his sitting posture, “canst thou tell me why I have been so traitorously seized and conveyed hither, and why I am thus immured, and treated like a foul felon?”

“Nay, as to being treated like a felon, young man,” replied Ralpho Proudfoot, evading his question, and laying particular emphasis on the words in italics, “meseems ’tis but ungrateful of thee to say so, seeing I have brought thee a dish of hot steaks, cut from the rump of a good Scottish ront; and then for ale, never was better brewed about the roots of the Cheviots, as well thou knowest, honest Daniel Throckle.”

The jailor replied by a significant chuckle, indicating his perfect acknowledgment of Proudfoot’s assertion.

“Well,” continued Proudfoot, “we may e’en leave thee, young man, to the full enjoyment of this pleasing sunshiny day, such as thou mayest have on’t through yonder window on high, for thou mayest see even less on’t to-morrow.” And, wheeling round, he was on the eve of departure, when he suddenly stopped—“But hold,” said he, “had we not better ripe him, to see that he hath nothing of weapon sort about him? Come forward, young man; and do thou, old Daniel, approach, and feel his hide all over, as thou wouldst do a fat sheep fed for the slaughter. And who knows how soon it may be his lot? Approach, I say: we shall stand by here, and see that he doeth thee no harm.”

Assueton perceived that resistance would be vain, and he also knew that it was unnecessary. Before they entered, he had taken the precaution to remove his dagger from his bosom, and conceal it among the straw near where he sat, yet in such a manner as he could have easily seized it had he seen any necessity for using it. He arose indignantly, and then, with assumed carelessness, submitted to be searched; not, however, without considerable inward alarm that they might not be contented with the mere examination of his person, but proceed to rummage the straw also. Should they do so, all his hopes were gone; but his heart kept firm, and he stood with so easy and indifferent an air, that the villains were soon satisfied.

“No, no,” cried Proudfoot, “I see all is sicker. So a jolly morning to thee, young man. Come, lads, let us be trooping. We have work before us, as ye well know.”

“Had I not better shake up his straw for him?” said one of the others; “he may not be used to make his own bed.”

“Nay, nay,” said Proudfoot, “he may learn to make it, then; he can never learn younger, I ween. Besides, hath he not Tim Ord there to help him?—ha! ha! ha! By St. Roque, but they will have pleasant chat together.”

“Nay, Daniel Throckle,” said the other man, “but thee shouldst come back ere long, and remove this grim mate from his dorture.”

“Umph,” said Throckle, as if in doubt; “it’s a plaguey long stair to climb, and I may not get hands to help me. But, nathless, I’ll see what may be done. Wat Withe may peraunter——”

“Come, come,” cried Proudfoot, impatiently, “we are wanted ere this. Off, I say—off;” and with these words they all four left the prison; the door was bolted and barred with the utmost precaution, and their heavy lumbering steps were heard retreating along the passages.

It was strange perhaps, but it was most true, that the shutting of the rusty bolts sounded almost as sweetly in Assueton’s ear as if they had been opened to give him liberty. The relief he felt at the retreat of the four men was so great, that, like a pious knight, he knelt down and offered up his heartfelt gratitude, in fervent thanksgivings to Heaven, that his plans were as yet unfrustrated. He took up the food that had been left with him, and made a hearty and cheerful meal. He then began turning in his mind the circumstances that were likely to occur to him before night, and again some cruel anticipations obtruded themselves. Were Throckle to return to remove the body, perhaps it might be of little consequence; but if, as he seemed to hint at when he was interrupted—if he should call in the aid of Wat Withe, as they had nicknamed the executioner, then all his schemes for escape must be ruined. Nay, what if the coil of rope, the villain had so hastily taken, should happen to be wanted before night for the purpose it had been originally intended for? The thought was most alarming. Assueton immediately removed the straw from it, that he might examine it narrowly, and his mind was very much relieved when he discovered that it was everywhere quite rough and new, as if it had never been used. But still nothing presented itself to him, to rid him of the apprehension of the return of Wat Withe, who could not fail to mark the disappearance of the coil. A thousand times during the day he fancied he heard steps approaching, and more than once he grasped his dagger to prepare for bloody work. But it was all fancy. The only sound he heard was that of the trampling of horses, the jingling of bridles, and the clattering of weapons, mingled with the voices of men, as if some party was riding forth.

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XX. A Dreadful Situation—Daniel Throckle the old Jailor

The time passed slowly and heavily until within about an hour of nightfall, when steps were again distinctly heard approaching Assueton’s prison. Much to his relief, however, they seemed to be those of a single person; something was put down on the pavement on the outside; the bolts were tardily withdrawn, and the great head of Daniel Throckle alone appeared through the partially opened door, as if to ascertain in what part of the chamber his prisoner was, ere he should venture farther. Seeing Assueton seated as formerly, on the straw, he hastily pushed within the door-way vessels containing food and drink, as before, and instantly retreating, turned the bolts behind him, and departed without uttering a word.

Now Assueton’s hopes beat high, and again on his knees he returned his fervent thanks to Heaven. He then determined to avail himself of the small portion of day-light which yet remained, to make everything ready for his escape.

Disgusting and revolting as it had been to him, on the first discovery of the murdered body, that it should have been left as his nightly and daily companion, he had now good reason to be glad that it had been so; for even if its removal had not occasioned the discovery of his appropriation of the coil of rope, without it he could have had no means of reaching the ring in the centre of the vault, the only thing within it to which he could have attached the end of his rope, and it would have been there only to have mocked his hopes.

After he had succeeded in making it fast, he had still an appalling difficulty before him; for the window was so high above the floor of the vault that it was quite beyond all reach. There was, to be sure, a small fragment of rusty iron, that projected an inch or two from the centre of the sole of it, like the decayed remains of a stanchion, that had once divided the space vertically within; but it was little better than a knob. It yet remained to be proved, therefore, whether he should succeed in throwing a part of his rope over this frail pin of iron, so as to furnish him with the means of pulling himself up to the window; and he lost no time in making the experiment. But this, so absolutely essential part of his operations, he found most difficult to effect. He threw, cast, and jerked the rope, trying every possible way he could think of; but the piece of iron was so short that, although he often succeeded in throwing the rope over it, he could never manage to make it hold. The day-light ebbed away fast, and still he laboured, but without success. At length he grew desperate, and threw the rope up time after time with mad and senseless rapidity. It became darker and darker till pitchy night closed in, yet still he persevered in throwing furiously and at random; but it was the perseverance of despair, all attempt at skill being utterly abandoned. At length, when he had almost become frantic, it caught as he pulled back after an accidental throw; he felt it hold against him, and keeping it down to the floor tight with one foot, to prevent it from slipping, he laid the whole weight of the coil upon it, and then, dropping on his knees, returned thanks to Heaven for his success. It was but a small matter throwing a coil of rope over a projecting fragment of iron; yet on that trifle depended all his hopes, for by means of that small piece of iron alone could he escape.

He now sat him down on the coil to wait patiently for the hour when he might think it safe to make his bold attempt.

Judging at length that the night was sufficiently far advanced for his purpose, he offered up a prayer for divine aid and protection, and tying the blanket of the bed around him in case of need, laid hold of the rope and hoisted himself up by his arms, until he had reached the window. Having lodged himself fairly in its aperture, he discovered that the wall was at least six or eight feet thick. He now laid himself on his side, with his feet hanging inwards, and by slow degrees pulled up the rope, until he got the whole coil deposited safely within the small area of the window. The space was barely sufficient to admit of his creeping easily through. Altering his position, therefore, and advancing his feet, he wormed himself forward, when, just as he expected to thrust them into the open air, he felt them suddenly arrested by a vertical bar of iron. His heart was chilled by its touch. He tried the width of the vacancies on either side of it, but neither afforded space enough to admit of the passage of his body.

Much disheartened by this unexpected obstruction, he withdrew himself, and with great difficulty again changed his position, and advanced head foremost until he brought his hands near enough the bar to feel it all over. It was much decayed by rust, but yet by far too strong to be broken by the mere force of his arm. After a little consideration, he drew his dagger, and making use of its point, worked away the lead and the stone where the lower end of the stanchion was inserted; and after labouring unceasingly for a considerable time, he found he had weakened the stone and removed the lead so much that he had some hopes of assailing it successfully with his feet. He was now, therefore, obliged to retreat again and change his position, so that he again projected his feet till they came in contact with the bar. Having fixed himself firmly in the place by means of his arms, that he might bring all his force to bear against it, he was about to strike violently at it with the soles of his feet when he remembered that the sound might be heard below. His situation made him fertile in expedients. He slipped forward a part of the blanket, and, adjusting two or three folds of it over the bar, he began to drive his feet furiously against it. It gradually gave way before them, and then it suddenly yielded entirely. He ceased working for an instant, and, to his no small alarm, heard a piece of the stone he had driven off fall in the court-yard below. He listened anxiously for a time, but no alarm seemed to have been excited. He again felt at the bar with his feet, and recommencing his attack upon it, after a succession of hard blows, he bent it so far outwards as to leave no doubt that he could pass himself through the aperture.

Commending himself to God, then, he slipped himself forward, and, committing his weight gently to the rope, he began his descent by shifting his hands alternately and slowly one below the other, always pulling out more and more of the coil of rope as he wanted it, until, the end of it being unwound, it fell perpendicularly below him. Still he went on descending till, to his no small dismay, he found that he had reached the last foot of his length. For an instant he hung in awful doubt. He cast his eyes below, but the night was so dark that the ground beneath was invisible, and he could not possibly calculate the height that yet remained. He thought for a few moments; and finally, resigning himself to the care of Providence, he loosened his grasp of the rope and fell. His fall was dreadful, and his death would have been certain had not his descent been interrupted by a fortunate circumstance. The blanket he had wrapped round him caught in the branches of a yew tree growing close to the wall, and although it did not keep its hold, yet the force of the fall was so much broken that he escaped comparatively uninjured.

He lay stunned for some moments under the tree; and then, recovering himself, he was about to rise, when, reflecting that he must proceed with caution, he crept silently forth from his covert, and listened to hear if there was any one stirring. All was quiet. He then moved forward, and dark as the night was, he could yet perceive the outer walls and towers of the building rising against the pale glimmer of the sky. His first step was to steal around the base of the keep, that he might reconnoitre it in all directions; and, as he did so, he passed by its entrance, which he found open. Wishing to examine farther, he went on listening, but all was silent around. At length, as he moved onwards to another side of the building, he descried a light breaking from a loop-hole window near the foundation of the keep, and heard the sound of human voices, with now and then a peal of boisterous laughter. He approached with extreme caution and silence, until he was near enough to see and hear all that passed within.

The place he looked down into appeared to be a sort of cellar, being surrounded with huge barrels placed against the walls, near one of which, on an inverted tub, sat the old jailor, Daniel Throckle, with a great wooden stoup of ale on his knee, and with no small quantity of the fumes of the same fluid in his brain, as was evident from the manner in which his eyes ogled in his head. Almost close by him stood a good-looking wench in conversation with him; and the group was lighted by a clumsy iron lamp placed on the top of one of the largest of the tuns.

“Coum, coum, Daeniel Throckle,” said the girl, “thee hast had enow o’ that strong stuff; that stoup but accloyeth thee. Blessed Mary! but thine eyes do look most fearsome askaunce already.”

“Nay, nay, my bellebone,” replied Throckle, “I mun ha’ a wee drop more yet. Coum, now, do sit thee down, and be buxom a bit—a—a—. Thee knawest—a—that I loves thee dearly—he! he! he! Sit thee down, I say—a—a; sit thee down, my soft, my soote virginal!—By St. Cuthbert, there be not a he that yalt the gate through sun and weet—a—a—that—a—a—he! he! he!—that loveth thee more than I do.—Sit thee down, I say—a—a—and troll a roundel with me. Here ye, now, do but—a—a—do but join thy sweet voice with mine.—Nay then, an thou wont, I mun e’en—a—a—sing by mysell—a—a—

O I am the man That can empty a can, And fill it again and again, ah! A—a—And empty and fill, And the barley-juice swill, Till a tun of the liquor I drain, ah!

A—a—Then it lightens mine eye, And my liard jokes fly, And warms my old blood into pleasure, A—a—Then out comes my song, Trolling glibly a—along, And merrily clinks in the measure.

Oh—a—a—a—And then should I see A sweet pusell like thee, She catches mine eye, as I cock it; And then at her, gadzooks! I throw such winning looks, As soon turn both of hers in the socket.

A murrain on’t! how should I forget the rest on’t!

So then I—a—a—then—a

The red fiend catch, it, for I can’t!—So, my bonnie mistress, Betty Burrel, do thee—a—do thee sit thee down here, whiles I but drink this single can of double ale; and, sin’ we canna sing the rest o’ the stave—a—a—sit thee down, and let me kiss thee.”

“Na, na, Daeniel Throckle,” said the girl; “thee knawest thou’rt ower auld for me—thou’rt ower auld to be mate o’ mine”———

“Ower auld!—a—a—thou scoffing—thou scoffing giglet thou!” cried Throckle; “thou’ll find me—a—kinder—a—thou’lt find me kinder at least than that cross-grained, haughty knave, Ralpho Proudfoot. A pestilent rascal!—Thou knawest—a—a—a—thou knawest, I say, how ill he used thee—a—but last night—no farther gone. Did he not beat thee—a—yestreen—a—till he made thee rout out like any Laverdale cow, when—a—she hath been driven—a—across the Border—a—and hath left her calf behind her?”

“In troth, Daeniel Throckle,” said the wench, “he did use me hard enow, that’s certain, now when a’s done. But rise thee up, Daeniel. Bethink thee, thou’rt a’ that be left to guard the Castle, and it be na mysel, and auld Harry Haddon standing sentry at the yett. Ise warrant he’s asleep or this time:—And what ’ud coum o’ us an the prisoners were to break out?”

“Phoo!” said Daniel, sticking one arm akimbo, and assuming the most ridiculous air of importance—“Phoo! I would not care that—a—a—snap of my finger, look you now, for—a—a—for the whole bunch of ’em. A stout, able-bodied—a—courageous—a—warlikesome—a—Southron like me—well fortified and charged with potent double ale—against three lousy Scottish louns! Phoo! I’d put ’em all down with my thumb. But—a—a—but look ye here, my bonnie Betty Burrel; here they are—a—a—all safe at my girdle. This mockel knave here,” continued he, laying hold of the keys that hung from his belt, “this mockel knave—a—I call Goliath; he—a—a—he locks me up and maketh me sicker—a—the tall dark wight—a—that hath been put in durance in the hanging vault at the top o’ the keep: he’s—a—he’s fast enow, I warrant thee, and, ha! ha! ha! hath got jolly company with him, I wot. Poor Tim Ord, thou knawest—a—was strung up for traiterie; and ha! ha! ha!—sure I canna help loffen to but think on’t; ha! ha! ha! ha! he hangs yonder aside the poor Scottish Knight they took yestreen—a bonnie jolly comrade for him to spend the night wi’, I trow.”

“Poor Tim Ord!” said the girl, “thou gar’st mine heart creep to think hoo hasty they waur wi’ ’im.”

“Hasty,” cried Throckle, “ay, I trow, he lay not among his straw an hour—a—till Wat Withe and his mates broke his dreams, to send him to a sounder sleep, ha! ha! ha! But—a—a—’tis the gate, wench—a—’tis the gate that a’ sike traitorous faitours should yede them.”

“But what key is that other wi’ the queer courbed handle?” inquired the curious Betty Burrel.

“Wilt thou—a—a—wilt thou gie me a buss, then, and I’ll tell thee?” said Throckle.

Betty Burrel advanced her head within his reach. Old Throckle kissed her, and endeavoured to detain her, but, after some little romping, she escaped.

“Tell me now,” said she, “sin I gied thee the kiss.”

“That courbe—hafted key,” said Throckle, lifting it up; “that—a—a—I call—a—a—a—I call Crooked-hold-him-fast: he locks the donjon vault at the end of the passage—a—the passage aneath the stair. There—a—there lies the tway rogues wha were cotched i’ the same trap wi’ the wight in the hanging vault. This third key—a—this here is called Nicholas-nimble-touch: he—a—he openeth the range of vaults on the north side. They are tenantless; but an the Knight and his bandon have good luck, they may be filled ere the morn’s night. This—a—this other key—a—I call Will-whirl-i’-the-wards—a: he opens—a—opens the dark vault i’ the middle, in which—a—in which is the mouth o’ the donjon pit.”

“An’ what be that sma’ tiny key?” said Betty Burrel.

“That,” said Trockle, “that—a—a—that is merry Mrs. Margery-of-the-mousetrap, though—a—a—that is but an ill-bestowed name, seeing that—a—a—it be’s more of a bird-cage, I wot. But—a—a—Mrs. Margery keeps—she—a—she keeps the door—a—the door of the ladies’ room—the ladies’ room off the passage—a—the passage leading to the hall, them knawest—a—thou knawest there be’s a linnet bird there encaged. The Knight—a—the Knight can’t at no rate make her warble—a—warble as he would ha’ her. But she’s but new caught—a—and she may sing another measure—a—ay, ay, and dance too, when he comes back again. Nay, but now I ha’ told thee all—a—sweet Mistress Betty Burrel—a—sweet Betty, sit thee down—a—a—a—and sing—a—a—sing one roundel. Coum! here’s to thy health, my—a—a—my bonny blossom.”

He put the wooden stoup to his head, and drained it to the bottom.

“A—a—” said he then, attempting to rise and lay hold of Betty; “a—a—coum—a—a—sit thee—a—a—a—sit thee down—sit thee down—a—one roundel—one kiss—a—a—.”

“Nay, nay,” cried Betty Burrel, moving off; “I maun to my bed i’ the kitchen, Master Throckle; I be wearisome tired and sleepy.”

“Now, see,” cried Throckle, standing up, “now see—a—see what it is—a—see what it is to be between liquor and love—a. Wise as thou art, Master Daniel Throckle, thou be’st but as the ass i’ the fable between the tway haycocks—a.—Shalt thou after the Rownsyvall jade now?—or shalt thou—a—shalt thou have one stoup more—ay—one stoup more?—Daniel, one stoup more will make thee—a—will make thee—a—one stoup the stouter. Coum, then—a.”

He opened the spigot, and, holding the stoup with both hands, tried to catch the ale as it spouted forth, gallons of it spilling on the floor for the drops that entered the mouth of the vessel.

“A murrain—a—a—a murrain on it, I say—a. May I die—a—die of thirst—a—if the barrel be not dronkelew—a. It canna—a—a—it canna stand fast—a—a—stand fast only till I—a—a—till I fill mine stoup—a—a. But hold!—a—a—hold, I say—it runs over now—a—a—over now like a fountain. Oh! I am the man—a—a—to empty a can—a—a—and fill it—a—a—(hiccup)—fill it again and again—ah!—a—a—so here goes.”

And, leaving the spigot to run as it might, he put the stoup to his head, and drinking it out, staggered forward a step or two towards the door, and, losing his feet and his balance at the same moment, fell backwards with a tremendous crash on the pavement, where he lay senseless in a sea of ale that deluged the floor.

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XXI. Crooked-hold-him-fast—Making a Lantern of Burnstower Castle

Assueton had no sooner witnessed the prostration of Master Daniel Throckle than he hastened round to the door of the keep; and, having noted the part of the building where the cellar lay, he slipped down a stair, and, groping along a passage, was soon led to it by the light of the lamp. He entered hastily, and, unbinding the belt from the drunken beast’s body, made himself master of the keys. He then seized the lamp, stole silently out by the door, and, taking the directions Throckle had so gratuitously given him, explored a passage at the end of which he found a stair leading upwards. Beneath it was the strongly-barred door of a vault. Having singled out the key called Crooked-hold-him-fast, he applied it to the door, and found it answer perfectly to the lock. He turned the bolt, and, to his no small delight his lamp showed him his esquire Roger Riddel and Robert Lindsay, both sound asleep on separate heaps of straw. He gently waked first one, and then the other; and, laying his finger on his lips, he cautioned them to be perfectly silent. The poor fellows were so confounded by their unexpected deliverance, that they rubbed their eyes, and could hardly believe that they were really awake.

“Bestir thee, but not a word,” said the knight to them; “the Castle is all our own. There are but two men within the walls. One I have left in a cellar, senseless as a hog, rucking and wallowing in his ale; from him we have nothing to fear, but the other yet standeth sentinel at the outward gate. So we must approach him cautiously; and, when I whistle, pounce on him like falcons. But there is yet a woman in the place, whom we must first secure, to prevent all chance of alarm.”

“Yea,” said Roger Riddel gravely, “woman’s tongue be’s a wicked weapon.”

The knight and his followers hastened to find out the kitchen, and, having peeped in, they descried Betty Burrel either asleep or pretending to be so; and, remarking that the windows were strongly barred, so that she could not escape that way, they gently shut the door, and turned the key in the lock.

They now ascended the stair, and having set down the lamp, Assueton, to guard against all possibility of accident, took the large key from the door of the keep, as they passed out. They then stole towards the gateway, where, after prying about for some time, they discovered the watchful warder of the garrison, lying within a doorway, sound asleep, on the steps of the stair leading up to a barbican that overlooked the gate. Assueton immediately sprang on him, and threw the blanket over his head; and, having taken the keys of the gate from him, they muffled him so completely up as to stop his utterance, and, crossing his arms behind his back, bound all tightly together with Master Throckle’s leathern belt. They then hoisted the knave on the broad back of Roger Riddel, who marched merrily away with his burden, and deposited him in the vault, on the very straw from which he had himself so lately risen. Proceeding next to the cellar, they lifted up the drunken jailor, who, being perfectly senseless, had run no small risk of being drowned externally, as well as internally, by a flood of ale; and, having carried him also to the vault, and put him among the straw that had been Robert Lindsay’s bed, they turned Crooked-hold-him fast upon both of them.

Lighting another lamp, which they had found extinguished, the two squires then went to the stables to look for horses. Meanwhile Assueton ascended the stairs alone, to discover the ladies’ chamber of which Throckle had spoken, and by attending to the description the jailor had given, soon discovered it. He tapped gently at the door;—a deep sigh came from within;—he tapped again.

“Who knocks there at this hour?” said a female voice.

The voice made Assueton’s heart bound with joy, for it was the voice of the Lady Isabelle Hepborne.

“Who knocks there?—who comes thus to break the hour of rest, the only one I have been blest with since I entered these wicked and impure walls? If it be thou, false and traitorous knight, know thou mayest kill, but thou canst never subdue me.”

“Lady Isabelle,” cried Assueton, in transport, “it is no traitor; it is I, who will dare to call myself thy true and humble slave, thine own humble slave, thine own faithful knight, who, by God’s blessing, has come to undo the bars of thy prison and to set thee free.

“Sir John Assueton,” cried the fair Isabelle, overpowered by amazement and joy—“Sir John Assueton!—Blessed Virgin!—and how camest thou here?—But thou art in dreadful danger. For mercy’s sake—for my sake—I entreat thee not to speak so loud,” continued she, tripping lightly towards the door, and whispering softly through the keyhole; “speak not so loud, lest thou shouldst be overheard and surprised by some of the caitiff knight’s cruel followers. I will brave all danger to fly with thee.”

“Nay, fairest lady,” said Assueton, “thou hast now but little cause of dread. The Castle, and everything in it, is in my power; but I am rather meagrely attended, and ’twere better we should lose as little time as may be. I shall unlock thy door, and keep watch for thee in the hall hard by, until thou art ready to wend with me.”

The knight accordingly passed into the hall, where he found a long board, covered with the wrecks of feast and wassail, everything in the apartment betokening the riotous and reckless life that was led by the libertine owner of the place. The walls were hung round with arms of various kinds, and, to his great surprise, he perceived the very armour he had worn, and which he had left with his people when he changed his dress, together with his shield, lance, and trusty sword, all forming a grand trophy, at one end. He soon removed them from their place, and speedily equipped himself like a knight as he was; and he had hardly done so, when his eye caught the very baldrick and bugle worn by the leader of the foresters who had acted as his guide. He took them also down, and hung them from his own neck, in memorial of the treachery he had suffered. He then stood anxiously listening, nor did he wait long until he heard the light step of the Lady Isabelle dancing merrily along the passage. He flew to meet her, and the joy of both was too great to be controlled. Yet they trifled not long to give way to their feelings. Assueton gave his arm to the fair prisoner, and they descended the stair together. On reaching the courtyard, he found Riddel and Lindsay busy in the stable. His squire was employed in putting the furniture and harness on the very steed the knight had ridden from Hailes; but what gave rise to most unpleasant speculation in the mind of Assueton, was the discovery that the horses and equipments of his whole party were there. As he looked at the steeds and trappings of his brave spearmen, his heart sank within him at the thought of the cruel death that treachery had probably wrought on the gallant fellows who had used them. A palfrey was soon selected and prepared for the Lady Isabelle; and the other three horses being ready, Assueton ordered them to be led out. Before they mounted, however, Roger Riddel, who never gave himself the trouble of speaking except when he had something of importance that compelled him to use his tongue, addressed his master.

“Methinks, your worship,” said he, “we should be the better of a lantern to light us on our way till the moon rises.”

“Go seek one then,” said Assueton; “but do not lose time, for it is but a chance thou shalt find one.”

“Fasten the horses to that hook, then, Bob,” said Riddel to Lindsay; “I shall want thee to help me to light it.”

The two men went into the keep-tower together, where they remained some time, and at length they came out, each bearing a burden on his back.

“What, in the name of St. Andrew, bearest thou there?” demanded Assueton.

“’Tis but the dronkelew jailor and the watchful warden,” said Riddel; “methinks they will lie better in the stable.”

“Tut!” said Assueton peevishly, “why waste our time with them?”

But Roger and his comrade deposited their burdens quietly in the stable, and then returned again into the keep-tower, where they remained so very long that Assueton lost all patience. By and by female shrieks were heard from within. They became louder, and seemed to approach the door of the keep, when out stalked Roger Riddel with much composure, carrying Betty Burrel like any infant in his arms. The damsel, who was in her night attire, was wrapped in a blanket, and was screaming, kicking, and tearing the squire’s face with her nails, like any wild cat. But the sedate Roger minded her not, nor did her scratching in the least derange the gravity of his walk.

“This is too much, Riddel,” said Assueton, losing temper: “What absurd whim is this? Is the Lady Isabelle Hepborne to be kept standing here all night, till thou shalt find a new bed for Betty Burrel?”

Roger turned gravely about, with the kicking and scratching Betty Burrel still in his arms———

“Surely,” said he, “Sir Knight, thou hast too much Christian charity in thee to see the poor pusell burnt alive?”

“Burnt!” cried Assueton with astonishment; “what mean ye?”

But now came the explanation of all Roger had said and done; for volumes of smoke began to burst from the different open loop-holes of the keep, and to roll out at the door, sufficiently explaining what Roger Riddel had meant by a lantern. The squire hastily deposited the kicking and screaming Betty Burrel in the stable, to which there was no risk of the fire communicating, and locking the door, put the key quietly into his pocket. The Lady Isabelle and Assueton mounted, while the squire and Lindsay went before them, to raise the portcullis and open the gates; and the whole party sallied forth from the walls, right glad to bid adieu to Burnstower. Their two attendants went before them, leading their own horses down the hill, and along the narrow tongue of land, towards the ford, lest there might have been any such trap in their way as they formerly fell into. But all was clear, and they got through the ford with perfect safety.

From the summit of the rising ground above the ford, that is, from the same spot where the moon had given Assueton the first and only view of Burnstower, on the night of his approach, they now looked back, and beheld the keep involved in flames, that broke forth from every opening in its sides, and forced their way through various parts of its roof. The reader is already aware of the grandeur of the surrounding scene, closely shut in all around by high backing hills, and the two deep glens with their streams uniting under the green-headed eminence, that arose from the luxuriant forest, which everywhere covered the lower grounds: let him conceive all this, then, lighted up as it was by Roger Riddel’s glorious lantern, which, as they continued to look, began to shoot up jets of flame from its summit, so high into the air that it seemed as if the welkin itself was in some danger from its contact, and he will have in his imagination one of the most sublime spectacles that human eye could well behold.

The party, however, stopped not long to look at it, but urged onwards through the thickets and sideling paths of the glen, now losing all sight of the burning tower, and now recovering a view of it, as they occasionally climbed upwards to avoid some impassable obstruction below. At length a turn of the glen shut it altogether from their sight, and the place where it lay was only indicated by the fiery-red field of sky immediately over it.

Assueton resolved to follow the course of the glen, and in doing so he found that the forester had completely deceived him in regard to the path, that below having occupied about one-tenth part of the time which was consumed the former night in unravelling the mazes of the hill road. The moon now arose to light them cheerily on their way; objects became more distinct; and, as they were crossing a little glade, they observed a man running, as if to take shelter under the trees.

“After him, Riddel,” cried Assueton; “we must know who and what he is.”

The squire and Lindsay charged furiously after the fugitive, and ere he could gain the thicket, one rode up on each side of him, and caught him. The knight and Lady Isabelle immediately came up, when, to their no small delight, they discovered that it was a trooper of Assueton’s party, and, on interrogating him, they learnt that all the others were lodged safely among the brushwood at no great distance. The man was instantly despatched for them, and, when they appeared, the whole villainy of the pretended foresters was explained. The knight and his two attendants had no sooner left them than they were largely feasted with broiled venison, after which liberal libations of potent ale had been administered to them; and they now firmly believed that the liquor had been drugged with an opiate; for, though the excessive fatigue they had undergone might have accounted for their being immediately overcome with drowsiness, yet it could have furnished no adequate explanation of their sleeping for the greater part of next day, as they had all done to a man, without once awakening. When at length they did arise from their mossy pillows, their horses and accoutrements, as well as the knight’s armour, had vanished with the foresters, and nothing remained but part of the carcase of a deer, left, as it appeared, to prevent them from starving. In this helpless state the men were quite at a loss what to do. To advance with the hope of meeting their leader, even if he were not already the victim of a worse treachery than they had experienced, would have been vain; yet, unarmed as they were, the brave fellows could not entirely abandon him, and after much hesitation, they had at last resolved, towards evening, to wander up the glen to see what discoveries they could make. They had got thus far, when the darkness of the night compelled them to halt until the moon rose; and the man whom Assueton first descried had been sent out by the rest as a scout, to ascertain whether they were yet safe in proceeding.

Assueton’s mind being now relieved as to the safety of the party, he resolved to send back Lindsay to guide the spearmen to Burnstower, that they might horse and arm themselves in the stables. Meanwhile, he proposed that he, the Lady Isabelle, and the squire, should halt in the thickets, near the spot where they then were, and wait patiently for their return.

“Stay,” said Roger Riddel to one of the men, as soon as he had heard his master’s arrangement, “stay, here is the key, and be sure thou shuttest the stable door after thee. Thou canst not mistake the way, even hadst thou no guide, for there is a lantern burning in the Castle of Burnstower that enlighteneth the whole valley.”

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XXII. Waiting for the Spearmen—The Lady Isabelle’s Tale—The Fight

The party led by Robert Lindsay marched off, and Roger Riddel proceeded to seek out a retired spot where the Lady Isabelle might enjoy a little rest. A mossy bank within the shelter of the wood was soon discovered, and the knight and his fair companion seated themselves, whilst the squire secured their horses at no great distance. Assueton was extremely desirous to learn the history of the lady’s capture, and she proceeded to satisfy him.

As she was passing through the woodlands, on her return towards Hailes Castle, after parting from her brother, she was suddenly surrounded by Sir Miers de Willoughby’s party, seized, put on horseback, and carried rapidly off. She was compelled to travel all that day and next night, halting only once or twice for a very short time, to obtain necessary refreshment for the horses and the people; and early next morning they arrived with her at the Castle of Burnstower, where, although every comfort was provided for her, she was subjected to confinement as a prisoner. Sir Miers de Willoughby had taken every opportunity that so rapid a journey afforded, to tease her with offers of love and adoration; and after they reached Burnstower he had spent several hours in making his offensive addresses to her. The lady had repulsed him with a spirit and dignity worthy the daughter of Sir Patrick Hepborne, called upon him boldly to release her at his peril, and made a solemn appeal to Heaven against his treachery and baseness. At length she was relieved of his presence by his being called on some expedition, from which, fortunately for her peace, he did not return till a very late hour, and she saw no more of him that night. But next morning he came again to her apartment, where he compelled her to listen for some hours to addresses which she treated with scorn and indignation. He became enraged, and, in his fury, talked of humbling her pride by other means than fair speeches if he did not find her more compliant on his return from an expedition he was about to proceed upon. She trembled to hear him; but fortunately his immediate absence saved her from further vexation, until she was finally rescued from the villain’s hands by Sir John Assueton.

Having completed her narrative, the Lady Isabelle anxiously demanded a similar satisfaction from Assueton, who gave her all the particulars of his adventures, the recital being characterized by the modesty which was natural to him. The lady shuddered and trembled alternately at the perils to which he had been exposed on her account, and her eyes gave forth a plenteous shower of gladness and of gratitude when he had finished. He seized the happy moment for making a full declaration of his passion, and he was repaid for all his miseries, fatigues, dangers, and anxieties, by the soft confession he received from her.

After their mutual transports had in some degree subsided, Assueton called Roger Riddel from the spot where, with proper attention to decorum, he had seated himself beyond earshot of their conversation, and interrogated him as to what had occurred to him and Lindsay. Their story was short, and Roger, who was always chary of his words, did not add to its length by circumlocution.

“Why, Sir Knight,” said he, “they carried us like bundles of straw to a drearisome vault, and locked us up in the dark. Next day came one Ralpho Proudfoot, with divers rogues—caitiff lossel had some old pique at good Rob Lindsay—swore he would now be ywreken on him—threatened him with hanging—and would have done it with his own hands then, but they would not let him till he got his master’s warrant—swore that he would get the warrant and do execution on Rob to-morrow. So we got beef and ale to breakfast and supper, and slept till your honour wakened us to wend with thee.”

Sir John now prevailed upon the Lady Isabelle to take a short repose, whilst he and Riddel watched over her safety. In a little time afterwards, Robert Lindsay returned at the head of his remounted cavalry. Assueton was now himself again, and, with spirits light as air, he and the lady got into their saddles, and proceeded slowly down the glen. To prevent all chance of surprise, Robert Lindsay preceded them with half the party as an advance guard, whilst Roger Riddel brought up the rear with the remainder.

The night was so far spent that day dawned ere they had threaded the pass that formed the entrance into the territory of Sir Miers de Willoughby. The sun rose high in all its glory, and threw a flood of golden light over the romantic scenery they were passing through. All nature rejoiced under the benignant influence of his cheering rays; a thousand birds raised their happy wings and melodious voices to heaven; nay, all vegetable as well as animal life seemed to unite in one general choir to pour out their grateful orisons. Nor did the souls of the lovers refuse to join the universal feeling. They each experienced inwardly a joy and a gratitude that surpassed all the power of expression, but which was, perhaps, best uttered in that silent, but not less fervent language used by the devout spirit, when, impressed with a deep sense of the blessings it has received, it rises in secret thanksgivings to its Creator. Each being thus separately occupied in thought, they rode gently on until they had cleared the defiles, and were entering the wider pastures, where the space in the bottom was more extended, and the trees that clothed the sides of the hills, or dropped down occasionally on the more level ground, grew thinner and more scattered.

As they were entering one of those little plains through which the stream they had followed meandered, they were surprised by the appearance of a party of armed horsemen approaching from the other extremity of it. Assueton immediately called forward his esquire.

“Riddel,” said he, “we know not as yet whether those who come towards us may prove friends or foes; but be they whom they list, to thy faithful charge do I consign the care and protection of the Lady Isabelle; leave not her bridle-rein, whatever may betide. Take three of the spearmen, and let her be always kept in the midst. Should that bandon yonder, that cometh so fast, prove to be hostile, remember thou art in no wise to act offensively unless the lady be attacked; but be it thy duty, and that of those I leave with thee, to think only of defending her to the last extremity. I shall myself ride forward with the rest, to see who these may be.”

The Lady Isabelle grew pale with alarm, partly because her lover was probably about to incur danger, but even yet more, if possible, because, in the knight who was approaching at the head of the troop, she already recognized the figure and arms of him from whose power she had so lately escaped.

“Blessed Virgin protect us,” cried she, “’tis the caitiff knight de Willoughby who advanceth!”

“Is it so?” cried Assueton, his blood boiling at the intelligence; “then, by the Rood of St. Andrew, he shall not hence until I shall have questioned him for his villainy.”

He stayed not to say more, but, galloping forward, he reined up his steed in the middle of the way, and instantly addressed the opposite leader.

“Halt!” cried he, in a voice of thunder; “halt, Sir Knight, if yet thou mayest deserve a title so honourable; for, of a truth, thou dost not, if thou art he whom I take thee to be. Say, art thou, or art thou not, that malfaitour Sir Miers de Willoughby?”

“Though I see no cause why I should respond to a rude question rudely put, yet will I never deny my name,” replied the other, “I am so hight. And now, what hast thou to say to Sir Miers de Willoughby?”

“That he no longer deserves to be called a knight, but rather a caitiff robber,” replied Assueton.

“Robber!” retorted the other; “dost thou call me robber, that dost wear my baldrick and bugle hanging from thy shoulder?”

“Thine!” replied Assueton; “if they be thine, ’tis well thou hast noted them so; I wear them as the gage of my revenge; and I have sworn to wear them until thou payest dearly for the wrong thou hast done to the virtuous Lady Isabelle Hepborne, for I speak not of the base treachery thou didst use towards myself.”

“Nay, then,” replied de Willoughby, “it seems thou art determined that we shall do instant battle. Come on, then.”

And so saying, he put his lance in the rest and ran his course at Assueton. The Scottish Knight couched his, and, exclaiming aloud, “May God and St. Andrew defend the right,” he put spurs to his horse and rushed at his opponent. They met nearly midway. Sir Miers de Willoughby’s lance glanced aside from Assueton’s cuirass, without doing the firmly-seated knight the smallest injury; but Assueton’s point entering on one side, between the joinings of Sir Miers’ helmet and neck-piece, bore him headlong from his saddle, and stretched him, grievously wounded, on the plain. Meanwhile, before Assueton had time to recollect himself, on came the party of de Willoughby, and, with the natural impression that he would dismount to put their leader to death, charged him en masse. His own spearmen rushed to his rescue, but, before they came, he had so well bestirred himself that he had prostrated three or four of the enemy. The battle now became general; but though the numbers were on the other side, yet the victory was very soon achieved by the prowess of Assueton and his people, who left not a man before them; all, save one only, being either thrown to the ground or forced to seek safety in flight.

That one, however, was Ralpho Proudfoot, who at the first onset had singled out Robert Lindsay, with a bloody thirst of long-cherished hatred. Their spears having been splintered in the shock, he had grappled Lindsay by the neck, and the latter seizing his antagonist in his turn, they were both at once dragged from their horses. Rising eagerly at the same moment, however, they drew their swords and attacked each other. Some of Lindsay’s comrades having now no antagonist of their own to oppose, were about to assist him.

“Keep off,” cried he immediately, “keep off, my friends, if ye love me; one man is enow, in all conscience, upon one man; so let him kill me if he can, but interfere not between us.”

They rained down their blows upon each other with tremendous force, and the combat hung doubtful for a considerable time. Proudfoot’s expression of countenance was savage and devilish. He tried various manœuvres to break through Lindsay’s cool determined guards, but without effect; and, being more desirous of wounding his adversary than of saving himself, he received some severe thrusts. At length, as he attempted to throw his point in on Lindsay’s body, he received a cut from him that laid his arm open from the shoulder to the wrist, and at once rendered it useless. The sword dropped from his hand, and, fainting from the loss of blood that poured from his other wounds, he staggered back a few paces, and fell senseless on the ground. The generous Lindsay, forgetting the brutal threats Proudfoot had uttered against him, ran up to his assistance.

“He was my companion when we were boys,” cried he; “oh, let me save him if I can.”

And so saying, he ran to the stream, filled his morion with water, and poured it on Proudfoot’s face. He then bathed his wounds, and bound up his arm, and tried to staunch the bleeding from the thrusts he had given him. Nor were his pious and merciful exertions unattended with success. Proudfoot opened his eyes, and, his senses returning to him, he gazed with silent wonder in the face of the man who had, a moment before, fought so manfully against him, and who was now so humanely employed in endeavouring to save his life, and assuage the acuteness of his pains. His own villainous and cruel determinations against Lindsay, which he had been contemplating, the having it in his power to carry into execution that very night, now rushed upon his mind. His conscience, long hardened by guilt and atrocity, was at once melted by that single, but bright ray of goodness, which darted on it from the anxious eye of Lindsay; and days long since past recurring to his memory, he remembered what he had been, and burst into an agony of tears.

Assueton had no sooner rid himself of his enemies than he went to assist the wounded and discomfited Sir Miers de Willoughby; and on unlacing his helmet, discovered, to his no small surprise, the features of the very forester who guided him to Burnstower.

The evidence of Sir Miers de Willoughby’s villainy was now complete; yet was not the gallant Assueton’s compassion for his hapless state one atom diminished by the discovery. The wound in his neck, though not mortal, bled most profusely, and he lay in a swoon from the quantity of blood he had already lost. The Lady Isabelle and the esquire now coming up, every means were used to stop the effusion, and, happily, with success, but he still remained insensible. Assueton therefore ordered his people to catch some of the horses of those who had fallen; and having placed de Willoughby, Proudfoot, and one or two others of whose recovery there seemed to be good hope, across their saddles, they proceeded charily onwards, and after some hours’ slow travel, brought them safely to Carham, and lodged them under the care of the Black Canons of its Abbey.

Having rested and refreshed themselves and their horses there, they crossed the Tweed, and being impatient to return to Hailes, that they might relieve the anxious mind of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne, they arrived there by a forced march.

The joy of Sir Patrick at the unexpected return of his daughter may be conceived. He had, as he resolved, gone in pursuit of Assueton, and had used every means in his power to discover the direction in which the Lady Isabelle had been carried; but all his efforts had been fruitless, and they found him in the deepest despair. It is easy to guess what happiness smiled upon that night’s banquet.

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Chapter XXIII

Sir Patrick Hepborne’s Journey North—Passes through Edinburgh—King Robert II.—The Wilds of the Highlands—The Celtic Host.

Our history now returns to the younger Sir Patrick Hepborne, whom we left about to commence his journey towards the North. He had no sooner parted from his sister, the Lady Isabelle, and joined his esquire and cortege, under the trees by the side of the Tyne, than he espied a handsome youth, clad in the attire of a page, who came riding through the grove towards a ford of the river. He was mounted on a sorry hackney, carrying his valise behind him, and was guided by a clown, who walked by his bridle. The boy showed symptoms of much amazement and dismay on finding himself thus so unexpectedly surrounded by a body of armed men; and he would have dropped from his horse, from sheer apprehension, had not Sir Patrick’s kind and courteous salutation gradually banished his alarm.

“Who art thou, and whither goest thou, young man?” demanded the knight, in a gentle tone and manner.

“I am a truant boy, Sir Knight,” replied the youth, in a trembling voice; “I have fled from home that I might see somewhat of the world.”

“And where may be thy home?” demanded Sir Patrick.

“On the English bank of the Tweed,” replied the boy.

“Ha!” exclaimed Sir Patrick, “and why hast thou chosen to travel into Scotland, rather than to explore the Southern parts of thine own country?”

“Verily, because I judged that there was less chance of my being looked for on this side the Border,” replied the boy. “Moreover, the peace that now prevails hath made either side safe enow, I hope, for travel.”

“Nay, that as it may happen,” said the knight. “But why didst thou run away from thy friends, young man? Was it that thou wert evil-treated.”

“Nay, rather, Sir Knight, that I was over charily cockered and cared for,” replied the boy; “more especially by my mother, at home, who, for dread of hurt befalling me, would give me no license to disport myself at liberty with other youths. I was, as it were, but a page of dames. But, sooth to say, I have been long tired of dames and damosels, and knitting, and broidery, and all the little silly services of women.”

“Nay, in truth, thou art of an age for something more stirring,” replied Sir Patrick; “a youth of thine years should have to do with gay steeds, and armour, and ’tendance upon knights.”

“Such are, indeed, the toys that my heart doth most pant for,” replied the boy; “and such is mine excuse for quitting home. I sigh for the gay sight of glittering tourneys, and pageants of arms, and would fain learn the noble trade of chivalry.”

“If thou hast no scruple to serve a Scottish Knight,” replied Sir Patrick, “that is, so long as until the outbreak of war may call on thee to appear beneath the standard of thy native England, I shall willingly give thee a place among my followers; and, by St. Genevieve, thou dost come to me in a good time, too, as to feats of arms, being that I am now on my way to the grand tournament to be held on the Mead of St. John’s. So, wilt thou yede with me thither, my young Courfine?” The boy made no reply, but hung his head, and looked abashed for some moments. “Ha! what sayest thou?” continued the knight; “wilt thou wend with me, or no? Thine answer speedily, yea or nay, young man, for I must be gone.”

“Yea, most joyfully will I be of thy company, Sir Knight,” replied the boy, his eyes glistening with delight; “and while peace may endure between our countries, I will be thy true and faithful page, were it unto the death.”

“’Tis well, youth,” replied Sir Patrick; “but thou hast, as yet, forgotten to possess me of thy name and parentage.”

“My name, Sir Knight,” replied the boy, with some confusion and hesitation—“my name is Maurice de Grey—my father, Sir Hargrave de Grey, is Captain of the Border Castle of Werk—and the gallant old Sir Walter de Selby, Captain of the other Border strength of Norham, is mine uncle.”

“Ha! is it so?” exclaimed Hepborne, with great surprise and considerable agitation—“Then thou art cousin to the La——? then thou art nevoy to Sir Walter de Selby, art thou? Nay, now I do look at thee again, thou hast, methinks, a certain cast of the features of his family. Perdie, he is a most honourable sib to thee. Of a truth thou art come of a good kindred, and if thou wilt be advised by me, sweet youth, thou wilt straightway hie thee back again to thine afflicted mother, doubtless ere this grievously bywoxen with sorrow for loss of thee.”

“Nay, good Sir Knight, I dare not now adventure to return,” replied the boy; “and sith thou hast told me of that tourney, verily thou hast so much enhanced my desire to go with thee, that nothing but thy refusal of what thou hast vouchsafed to promise me shall now hinder me.”

“Had I earlier known of whom thou art come, youth,” replied Sir Patrick gravely, “I had been less rash in persuading thee with me, or in ’gaging my promise to take thee; but sith that my word hath already passed, it shall assuredly be kept; nor shall thy father or mother have cause to regret that thou hast thus chanced to fall into my hands. Come, then, let us have no more words, but do thou dismiss thy rustic guide, and follow me without more ado.”

The youth bowed obedience, and taking the peasant aside, gave him the reward which his services had merited, and, after talking with him for some little time, sent him away, and prepared to follow his new master. Meanwhile, Sir Patrick called Mortimer Sang, and gave him strict charges to care for the boy.

“Be it thy duty,” said he to him, “to see that the young falcon be well bestowed by the way. Meseems him but a tender brauncher as yet; he must not be killed in the reclaiming. Let him be gently entreated, and kindly dealt with, until he do come readily to the hand.”

All being now in readiness, the troop moved forward; and Sir Patrick Hepborne, who wished to know something more of his newly-acquired page, made the boy ride beside him, that they might talk together by the way. Maurice displayed all the bashfulness of a stripling when he first mixes among men. He hung his head much; and although the knight’s eye could often detect his in the act of gazing at him, when he thought he was himself unobserved, yet he could never stand his master’s look in return, but dropped his head on his bosom. The knight, however, found him a lad of intelligence and good sense much beyond his years, and ere they had reached Edinburgh, the boy had perfectly succeeded in winning Sir Patrick’s good affections towards him.

On their arrival in the capital, Sir Patrick bestowed on the page a beautiful milk-white palfrey, of the most perfect symmetry of form and docility of temper, and added rich furniture of velvet and gold to complete the gift. He accoutred him also with a baldrick, and sword and dagger, of rare and curious workmanship—presents which seemed to have the usual effect of such warlike toys on young minds, when the boy is naturally proud of assuming the symbols of virility. He fervently kissed the generous hand that gave them, and blushed as he did so; then mounting his palfrey, he rode with the knight up the high Mercat Street, to the admiration of all those who beheld him. The very populace cheered them as they passed along, and all agreed that a handsomer knight or a more beautiful page had never graced the crown of their causeway.

Yet though the boy seemed to yield to the joy inspired by the possession of these new and precious treasures, his general aspect was rather melancholy than otherwise, and Hepborne that very evening caught him in tears. He dried his eyes in haste, however, as soon as he saw that he was observed, and lifting his long dark eye-lashes, beamed a smile of sunshine into the anxiously inquiring face of his master.

“What ails thee, Maurice?” said Hepborne, kindly taking his hand—“what ails thee, my boy? Thy hand trembles, and thy cheeks flush—nay, the very alabaster of thine unsullied forehead partake of the crimson that overrunneth thy countenance. ’Tis the fever of home-leaving that hath seized thee, and thou weepest for thy mother, whom thou hast left behind thee; silly youth,” said he, chuckling him gently under the chin, “’tis the penalty thou must pay for thy naughtiness in leaving them. Doubtless, thou hast made them weep too. But say if thou wouldst yet return? for if thou wouldst, one of mine attendants shall wend with thee, and see thee safe to Werk; and——”

“Nay, good Sir Knight,” cried the boy, interrupting him, “though I weep for them, yet would I not return to Werk, but forward fare with thee.”

“Nay,” said Hepborne, “unless thou shouldst repent thee of thy folly, sweet youth, I shall leave thy disease to run its own course, and to find its own cure. And of a truth, I must confess, I should part with thee with sorrow.”

“Then am I happy,” cried the boy, with a sudden expression of delight: “Would that we might never part!”

“We shall never part whilst thou mayest fancy my company,” said Hepborne, kissing his cheek kindly, and infinitely pleased with the unfeigned attachment the boy already showed him. “But youth is fickle, and I should not choose to bind thy volatile heart longer than it may be willing; for it may change anon.”

The boy looked suddenly to heaven, crossed his hands over his breast, and said earnestly, “I am not one given to change, Sir Knight; thou shalt find me ever faithful and true to thee.”

After leaving Edinburgh, Hepborne travelled by St. Johnstoun, and presented himself before King Robert the Second at Scone, where he then happened to be holding his court. The venerable monarch received him in the most gracious and flattering manner.

“Thy renommie hath outrun thy tardy homeward step, Sir Knight,” said His Majesty, “for we have already heard of thy gallant deeds abroad. Perdie, we did much envy our faithful ally and brother of France, and did grudge him the possession of one of the most precious jewels of our court, and one of the stoutest defences of our throne. We rejoice, therefore, to have recovered what of so good right belongeth to us, and we hope thou wilt readily yield to our command that thou shouldst remain about our royal person. Since old age hath come heavily upon us, marry, we the more lack such staunch and trusty props.”

“My Most Gracious Liege,” said Hepborne, “I shall not be wanting in my duty of obedience to your royal and gratifying mandate. At present I go to attend this tourney of my Lord of Moray’s, and I go the more gladly, that I may have an opportunity of meeting with my peers of the baronage, of Scottish chivauncie, whom my absence in France hath hitherto prevented my knowing. Having your royal leave to follow out mine intent, I shall straightway render myself in your grace’s presence, to bow to your royal pleasure.”

“By doing so, Sir Patrick,” said the King, “thou wilt much affect us to thee. We have of late had less of thy worthy father’s attendance on our person than we could have wished. Mansuete as he is in manners, sage in council, and lion-hearted in the field, we should wish to see him always in our train. But we grieve for the sad cause of his retirement. Thy virtuous mother’s sudden death hath weighed heavily on him, yet must he forget his grief. Let a trental of masses be said for her soul;—he must bestir himself anon, and restore to us and to his country the use of those talents, of that virtue and bravery with which he hath been so eminently blessed, and which were given him for our glory and Scotland’s defence. If thou goest by the most curt and direct way into Moray Land, thou wilt pass by our son Alexander Earl of Buchan’s Castle of Lochyndorbe. Him must thou visit, and tell him that we ourselves did urge thee to claim his hospitality.”

Hepborne readily promised that he would obey His Majesty’s injunctions in that respect, and took his leave, being charged with a letter for the Earl, from the King, under his private signet.

His route lay northwards, through the centre of Scotland. As he journeyed onwards, through deep valleys and endless forests, and over high, wide, and barren wastes, he compared in his own mind the face of the country with the fertile regions of France, which he had so lately left. But still, these were the mountains of his fatherland that rose before his eye, and that name allied them to his heart by ties infinitely stronger than the tame surface of cultivation could have imposed. His soul soared aloft to the summits of the snow-topt Grampians, where the hardy and untameable spirit of Scotland seemed to sit enthroned among their mists, and to bid him welcome as a son.

He made each day’s journey so easy, on account of the tender page, that a week had nearly elapsed ere he found himself in the upper part of the valley of the Dee. It was about sunset when he reached a miserable-looking house, which had been described to him as one accustomed to give entertainment to travellers. It was situated under some lofty pines on the edge of the forest. The owner of this mansion was a Celt; a tall, stout, athletic man of middle age, clad in the garb of the mountaineers. Having served in the wars against the English, he had acquired enough of the Southron tongue to enable Hepborne to hold converse with him. The knight and the page (whom, notwithstanding his injunction to Mortimer Sang, he had yet kept always within his own eye) were ushered together into a large sod-built apartment, where a cheerful fire of wood burned in the middle of the floor. The squire and the rest of the party were bestowed in a long narrow building of the same materials, attached to one end of it. The night had been chilly on the high grounds they had crossed, and the fire was agreeable. They sat them down, therefore, on wooden settles close to it, and the rude servants of their host hastened to put green boughs across the fire, and to lay down steaks of the flesh of the red-deer to be cooked on them.

Meanwhile the host entered with a wooden stoup in his hand, and poured out for them to drink, into a small two-eared vessel of the same material. The liquor was a sort of spirit, made partly from certain roots and partly from grain; and was harsh and potent, but rather invigorating. Hepborne partook of it, but the page would on no account taste it.

“Fu?” said Duncan MacErchar, for that was their host’s name, “fu! fat for will she no drink?”

“He is right,” said Hepborne; “at his age, water should be his only beverage.”

The host then went with his stoup to offer some of its contents to the knight’s followers, most of whom he found less scrupulous than the page. During his conversation with the men, he soon learned who was their master; but he had no sooner heard the name of Hepborne than he became half frantic with joy, and hastily returned into the place where Sir Patrick was sitting.

“Master Duncan MacErchar,” said Hepborne to him as he entered, “thou must e’en procure me some mountaineer who may guide me into Moray Land. I be but a stranger in these northern regions, and verily our way among the mountains hath been longer than it ought, for we have been often miswent. Moreover, I am altogether ignorant of thy Celtic leden, so that when we have had the good fortune to meet with people by the way, we have not been able to profit by the information they could give us.”

“Ugh!” cried MacErchar, with a strong expression of joy, and rubbing his hands as he spoke; “but she’ll go with her hersel, an naebody else can be gotten to attend her. Ugh ay, surely she’ll do that and twenty times more for ony Hepborne, and most of all for the son of the noble, and brave, and worthy Sir Patrick, and weel her part. Och ay, surely!”

“And how comest thou to be so very friendly to the Hepbornes, and, above all, to our family?” demanded Sir Patrick.

“Blessings be upon her!” said MacErchar, “she did serve mony a day with her father, the good and the brave Sir Patrick, against the English, and mony was the time she did fight at her ain back. She would die hersel for Sir Patrick, or for ony flesh o’ his.”

Hepborne’s heart immediately warmed to the honest Celt; he shook him cordially by the hand, and MacErchar’s eyes glistened with pleasure.

“Depend on it, Master MacErchar,” said he, “my father shall know thine attachment to him.”

“Ou fye,” said MacErchar, “it would be an honour and a pleasure for her to see Sir Patrick again, to be sure!—ugh ay!” And he stopped, because he seemed to lack language to express all he felt.

“Thou livest in a wild spot here,” said Hepborne; “but thou art a soldier, and hast travelled.”

“Ou ay, troth she hath done that,” said Duncan, with a look of conscious pride; “troth hath she travelled mony a bonny mile in England, not to talk o’ Ireland, where she did help to take Carlinyford. Troth she hath seen Newcastle, and all there-abouts, for she was with the brave Archembald Douglas, the Grim Lord of Galloway. Och! oich! it was fine sport!—She lived on the fat o’ the land yon time; and, u-hugh! what spuilzie!—ay, ay, he! he! he!”

“Thou didst march into England, then, with the French auxiliaries who came over to St. Johnstoun under Jean de Vian, Comte de Valentinois?” demanded Sir Patrick.

“Ou ay, troth she was with the Frenchmens a long time,” said MacErchar—“Peut Parley Frenchy, hoot ay can she. Fair befall them, they helped to beleaguer and to sack two or three bonny castles. Ugh! what bonny spuilzie! sure, sure!”

He laid his finger with great significancy against his nose, and, having first shut the door, he lifted a brand from the fire, and went to one end of the apartment. There he removed a parcel of faggots that lay carelessly heaped up against the wall, and, lifting a rude frame of wattle that was beneath them, uncovered an excavation in the earthen floor, from which he brought out a massive silver flagon, one or two small silver mazers, and several other pieces of valuable spoil; and besides these, he produced a plain black bugle-horn, and two or three coarse swords and daggers.

“Troth she would not show them to everybody,” said he; “but she be’s an honourable knight, and Sir Patrick’s son;—she hath no fear to show the bonny things to her. But she has not had them out for mony a day syne.”

Hepborne bestowed due admiration on those well-earned fruits of Master Duncan MacErchar’s military hardships and dangers. Though of less actual value to the owner than the wooden vessel from which he had so liberally dealt out his hospitable cup at meeting, yet there was something noble in the pride he took in showing them. It was evident that the glory of the manner of their acquisition gave them their chief value in his eyes; for it was not those of most intrinsic worth that were estimated the highest by him.

“See this,” said he, lifting the plain black bugle-horn; “this be the best prize of them all. She took this hersel off a loon that fought and tuilzied with her hand to hand; but troth she tumbled him at the hinder-end of the bicker. Fye, fye, but he was a sorrowful mockel stout loon.—This swords, an’ this daggers, were all ta’en off the loons she killed with her nain hand.—But uve, uve! she maunna be tellin’ on her, though troth she needna fear Sir Patrick Hepborne’s son. But if some of the folks in these parts heard of these things, uve, uve! they wouldna be long here.”

Saying this, he hastily restored the articles of spoil to the grave that had held them, and putting down the wattle over them, he threw back the billets into a careless heap against the wall.

“Thy treasure is so great, Master MacErchar,” said Hepborne, “that thou art doubtless satisfied, and wilt never again tempt thy fate in the field?”

“Hoot toot!” cried MacErchar, “troth she’ll be there again or lang; she maun see more o’ the Southrons yet or she dies. But uve, uve! what for is there nothing for her to eat?”

He then burst out in a torrent of eloquence in his own language, which soon brought his ragged attendants about him, and the best that he could afford was put on a table before Sir Patrick and the page. Cakes made of rough ground oatmeal, milk, cheese, butter, steaks of deer’s flesh, with various other viands, with abundance of ale, appeared in rapid succession, and both knight and page feasted admirably after their day’s exercise. Hepborne insisted on their host sitting down and partaking with them, which he did immediately, with a degree of independent dignity that impressed Sir Patrick yet more strongly in his favour.

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Chapter XXIV

Savage-looking Visitors—Night in the Highland Hostelry—Wolf-Dogs.

As they sat socially at their meal, they were suddenly interrupted by the door being burst open, when two gigantic and very savage-looking men entered, in most uncouth and wild drapery. They were clothed in woollen plaids of various colours and of enormous amplitude, and these were wrapt round their bodies and kept tight by a belt of raw leather with the hair on it, leaving the skirts to hang half-way down their naked thighs, while the upper part above the belt was thrown loosely over the shoulder, so as to give their muscular arms and hairy knees the full freedom of nakedness. Their heads also were bare, except that they had the copious covering which Nature had provided for them, the one having strong curly black hair, and the other red of similar roughness, hanging in matted locks over their features and about their ears. The forests which Nature had planted on their faces, chins, and necks too, had been allowed to grow, untamed by shears; their legs were covered half-way to the knee by strips of raw skin twisted round them, and their feet were defended by a kind of shoes made of untanned hides. Each had a dirk in his girdle, and a pouch of skin suspended before, while across their backs were slung bows and bunches of arrows. In their hands they brandished long lances, and several recently-taken wolves’ skins were thrown over their shoulders, but rather for carriage than covering. Five or six large wiry-haired wolf-dogs entered along with them.

MacErchar instantly started up when they appeared, and began speaking loudly and hastily to them in their own tongue, waving them from time to time to retire, and at length opened the door, and showed them the way to the other apartment.

“Who may be these two savage-looking men?” demanded Hepborne of his host as he entered.

“Troth, she no kens them, Sir Patrick,” replied MacErchar, “she never saw them afore; but they tells her that they be’s hunters from the north side of this mountains here.”

“Live they in the way that I must needs wend to-morrow towards Moray Land?” asked Hepborne.

“Uch, ay,” replied MacErchar; “but mind not that, Sir Patrick, for hersel will go wi’ her the morn.”

“Nay,” said Hepborne, “that may not be, that is, if these men are to return whence they came, and that their road and mine run nearly in the same direction. Perdie, I cannot in that case suffer thee to yede so far with me unnecessarily, when their guidance might suffice. Thou shalt give them knowledge of the point I wish to reach, together with all necessary directions touching the places where we may best halt, and spend the night; and they shall receive a handsome guerdon from me when they shall have brought me and mine in safety to the Castle of Lochyndorbe, whither I am first bound.”

“Uch-huch! of a truth she would like to go with her,” said MacErchar; “but troth, after all, she must confess that she kens but little o’ the way beyond her ain hills there. Weel would it be her part to wend wi’ her; but if yon loons ken the gate into Moray Land (as doubtless they have been there mony a time, and she does not mistake them) they will be better guides, after all. But what an she should ask some questions at them?”

“Thou hadst better do so,” said Hepborne; “best ask them whence they come, and what parts of the country they know, before thou dost teach them the object of thy questions.”

“Troth, and she’s right there,” said Duncan MacErchar; “this salvage loons are not just to lippen till; weel does she ken them; and, uve, uve! she maun tak special care to look sharp after them gin she should yede wi’ them; they are but little chancy, in troth. But she’ll call them in now, and see what the loons will say.”

The two uncouth-looking men were accordingly brought in. They made no obeisance, but stood like a couple of huge rocks, immovable, with all their thickets and woods upon them. They even beetled over the tall and sturdy form of Duncan MacErchar, who, though above the middle size, might have passed as a little man when placed beside those gigantic figures. Duncan put several questions to them in their own language, which they answered, but always before doing so, they seemed to consult each other’s countenances, and then both answered in the same breath. They eyed the knight and his page from time to time, as the inhabitants of all secluded and wild regions are naturally apt to stare at strangers. After a good deal of colloquy had passed, MacErchar turned to Hepborne—

“Sir Patrick,” said he, “these men ken every inch of the country from here to the Firth of Moray. Shall she now ask them if they be willing to guide her honour to Lochyndorbe?”

“Do so, I beseech thee,” said Hepborne, “and tell them I will give them gold when they bring me thither.”

MacErchar again addressed them in their own language. The men seemed to nod assent to the proposals he made them; and after a few more words had passed between them—

“Uch, Sir Patrick,” said he, “they be very willing for the job. They’ll bring her there in two days. They say that she must be off by sunrise in the morning.”

This Sir Patrick readily undertook; and Duncan MacErchar having wet the treaty with a draught of the spirits from his stoup, of which he poured out liberally to each, the men retired. Sir Patrick Hepborne then signified a wish to go to his repose. Two heather-beds, of inviting firmness and elasticity, were already prepared at the two extremities of the chamber where they were; and the knight having occupied the one, and the page the other, both were very soon sound asleep.

About the middle of the night Sir Patrick was awakened by a noise. He raised himself suddenly, and, looking towards the door, whence it seemed to have proceeded, he saw that it was open. One or two of the great rough wolf-dogs came slowly in, looking over their shoulders, as if expecting some one to follow them—and, making a turn or two round the expiring fire, and smelling about them for a little while, walked out again. Hepborne arose and shut the door, and then threw himself again within his blankets. He lay for some time awake, to see whether the wolf-dogs would repeat their unpleasant intrusion; and finding that there was no appearance of their doing so, he again resigned himself to the sweets of oblivion.

He had lain some time in this state when he was a second time awakened, he knew not how, but he heard as if there were footsteps in the place. The fire had now fallen so low that he could see nothing by its light, but by a glimmering moonbeam that made its way in he saw that the door was again open. As he looked towards it, he thought he perceived something like a dog glide outwards. He started up, as he had done before, and, going to the door, he again shut it; and, that the wolf-dogs might no more torment him, he piled up the rustic table he had supped on, and some of the stools and settles against it. The precautions he thus took were effectual, for the dogs were no more troublesome to him all night; and the first interruption his slumbers experienced was from the overthrow of the whole materials of his barricado, and the exclamation of “Uve! uve!” that burst from Duncan MacErchar, who came for the purpose of rousing him to prosecute his journey. Hepborne explained the cause of his having so fortified the door.

“Uch ay,” said MacErchar, “they be’s powersome brutes—powersome brutes, in troth, and plaguy cunning. I’se warrant they smelt the smell of the rosten deer’s flesh, and that brought them in. But they got little for their pains, the ragged rascals—not but they are bonny tykes, poor beasts! and troth, ’tis better to have ane o’ them in the house than the wolves themselves, that we’re sometimes plagued with.”

The host approached the side of Hepborne’s couch, with his everlasting stoup in his right hand, and the wooden cup in his left, and poured him out of the spirits it contained. The knight sipped a little, and then MacErchar retired to see that his morning’s meal was properly provided. It was no less copiously and comfortably supplied, according to his means, than the supper of the previous evening had been.

At length Mortimer Sang came to receive his master’s orders; and when Hepborne asked him how he and his people had fared, he learned that they had been treated with every thing the good host could procure for them. Oats were not to be had for the horses; but, in addition to the grass that was cut for them, Master MacErchar had himself carried a large sack of meal to the stables and out-houses of turf, where the animals had with some difficulty been forced in, and he had most liberally supplied them with his own hands. He went round all the men of Hepborne’s party, and gave each his morning’s cup of spirits. In short, he seemed to think that it was impossible he could do enough from his small means, for the knight and every person and animal belonging to him.

When the horses were brought out, Hepborne called MacErchar to him, and offered him, from his purse, ten times as much money as the value of his night’s entertainment and lodging would have cost.

“Uve! uve!” said Duncan, sore hurt, and half offended; “uve! uve! Sir Patrick! Hoot no. What! take money from the son of Sir Patrick Hepborne, the son o’ the noble brave knight that she has followed mony a days!—take money from his son for a bit paltry piece and a drink!—Na! na!—Uve! uve!—Ou fye! ou fye!—na, na!—Troth, she’s no just so poor or so pitiful as that comes to yet. Uve! uve! Surely!”

Hepborne at once saw the mischief he had done. He would have rather put his hand in the fire than have hurt feelings that were so honourable to Duncan MacErchar; and he almost began to wish that his purse had been there, ere it had been the means of giving pain to so noble a heart. He did all he could, therefore, to remedy the evil; for, putting his purse sheepishly into his pocket, he called for the stoup of spirits, and, filling the cup up to the brim, drank it off, to the health, happiness, and prosperity of Master Duncan MacErchar; then shaking the mountaineer heartily by the hand—

“May we meet again, my worthy friend,” said he; “and wherever it may be, let me not pass by thee unnoticed. Meanwhile, farewell, and may the blessing of St. Andrew be about thee!”

This courteous and kind behaviour completely salved the wound Hepborne had so unwittingly inflicted. Duncan was overjoyed with it, and gratified beyond measure. He tried to express his joy.

“Och, oich! God’s blessing and the Virgin’s blessing be about her. Och, och! Sir Patrick! uu-uch! God’s blessing and the Virgin’s blessing—and uch-uch!—and, Sir Patrick—Sure, sure! ou ay—uu—u!”

His English failed him entirely, and he resorted to that language in which he was most fluent. Hepborne mounted his horse, and, waving him another farewell, rode on to overtake his guides, who were standing on a distant eminence waiting for him; and as he receded from the humble mansion of Master Duncan MacErchar, he for several minutes distinguished his voice vociferating in pleased but unintelligible accents.

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