LIX. The Battle at Otterbourne…

LIX. The Battle at Otterbourne

Rory Spears was presiding with joyous countenance over the supper to which he had invited his friends—the more solid part of the entertainment had been discussed—and the ale jug had already performed several revolutions, to the great refreshment and restoration of the strength of those who partook of it, when the jovial companions were suddenly disturbed in their revelry by a very unusual cry from some of the sentinels posted along the line of entrenchment that protected the baggage-camp. The hilarious esquires and men-at-arms were silenced in the midst of their mirth, and sat looking at one another with eyes of inquiry. But they sat not long so, for the cry was repeated, and ran rapidly along the chain of sentinels.

“By St. Lowry, it’s the English, as I’m a Christian man!” cried Rory Spears. “My troth, it was maist ceevil of the chields to wait till we had souped; natheless, it erketh me to think that they carried not their courtesy so far as to permit us to drink but ae ither can. Yet, by the Rood, we shall have at it. Here, Mrs. MacCleareye—d’ye hear, guidwife?”

“Phut, tut!—oich, hoich!—fye, fye, let us awa, Maister Spears,” cried Duncan MacErchar. “Troth, she’ll no wait for us, the Southron loons.”

“Hark again,” cried Sang; “by all that is good, they will be in on us in the twinkling of an eye.”

“Let’s out on them, then, without further talk,” cried Rory, brandishing his battle-axe. “Troth, I wad maybe hae had mair mercy on them an they had gi’en us but time for ae ither stoup; but as it is, let’s at them, my friends, and let them take care o’ their heads.”

“Pay for the supper and yill, Master Spears,” cried Mrs. MacCleareye, thrusting herself forward.

“This is no time, woman, to settle sike affairs,” cried Rory.

“Better now, I trow, than after thou art amortized by the sword o’ some Southron thrust through thy stomach, Master Spears,” said Mrs. MacCleareye. “Pay to-day, I pray thee, and have trust to-morrow.”

“Nay, of a truth, we have no time to stand talking to thee, good woman,” cried Rory impatiently; “had it been to drink mair yill, indeed, I mought hae tholed it; but, holy St. Barnabas, an thou dost keep us much longer there will be guests in thy hut who will drain thy casks without filling thy pockets. Let me past: Rory Spears’ word, though that of ane esquire only, is as sicker as that o’ the best knight in the land. Thou shalt be paid after the scrimmage. Nay, I’ll no die, woman, till thou be’st paid, so fear thee not—and stand out o’ my gate, I tell thee.”

With a turn of his wrist, Rory shoved Mrs. MacCleareye aside. She was jostled by Sang, who followed; and her round and rolling person was fairly run down by MacErchar, who was pressing hastily after them. The rest sprang impetuously over her. The cries now came more distinctly upon them, mingled with the clash of weapons.

“The English, the English!—Piersie!—The English!” were the words now distinguishable.

“To the trenches, my friends; not a moment is to be lost,” cried Mortimer Sang.

“Blow, blow!” cried Roger Riddel; and Rory putting to his mouth an old hunting bugle that hung from his shoulder, blew a shrill and potent blast, that awakened the very echoes of the hills.

“Let us disperse ourselves through the baggage-lines, and rouse up the wainmen and varlets, and the other camp followers,” cried Rory Spears, after taking the bugle from his mouth.

“Thou art right, Rory,” said Sang; “we may do much to support the guard. Let Riddel, and I, and some others, hasten to the entrenchments, to keep up spirit among those who may now be fighting, with the hope of speedy aid, and do thou and the rest quickly gather what force ye may, and straightway bring them thither. The point of assault is narrow. If we can keep back the foe, were it but until the main body of the army be alarmed, should our lives be the forfeit, they would be bravely spent, for we might be the saving of Scotland’s honour this night.”

“Ralpho Proudfoot, companion of my youth,” cried Robert Lindsay, kindly, “we have striven together for many a prize; now let our struggle be for glory.”

“Away, away,” cried Sang; and he and Riddel sprang off to the trenches, followed by Lindsay and Proudfoot, whilst Rory hied him away at the head of the others, all blowing their horns, and shouting loudly through the lines, as if the whole Scottish array had been there, and ready to turn out. The huts were soon deserted. Such as they met with in their way they collected together, and armed as fast as they could with whatever weapons lay nearest to hand; and in a very short time these few intelligent and active heads had assembled a force, neither very numerous nor very well appointed, it is true, but, when headed by men so determined, amply sufficient to defend a narrow pass between marches for a considerable time, especially against assailants who were awed by the conviction, favoured by the darkness, that they were attacking the camp where the whole Scottish army were lodged.

While things were in this state in the baggage camp, the banquet in the pavilion of Lord Douglas was going on with all that quiet and elegant cheerfulness of demeanour beseeming a party chiefly composed of the very flower of Scottish chivalry. The talk was of the love of the ladies, and the glories of tilts and tournaments. Sir Patrick Hepborne was seated between Sir John Halyburton and Sir William de Dalzel. With the former of these knights he recalled some of the circumstances of their friendly meeting at Tarnawa, and the Lady Jane de Vaux was not forgotten between them. Sir William de Dalzel changed the theme to that of the challenge which had passed between the Lord Welles and Sir David Lindsay. Then Sir David Lindsay himself and several others joining in the conversation, it gradually became general around the board. Sir William de Keith, the Marischal of Scotland, displayed his consummate learning on the subject of such challenges between knights; and Sir John de Gordon, Lord of Strathbolgy; Sir John Montgomery; Sir Malcolm Drummond, brother-in-law to the Douglas, as well as to the Scottish champion, who was the person most concerned in the debate; Sir Alexander Fraser of Cowie, and many others, spoke each of them ably as to particular points. The Douglas himself then delivered his judgment with clearness and precision, and the attention with which his words were listened to showed how valuable they were esteemed by those who heard them. After this topic was exhausted, the Earl was indefatigable in ministering to the entertainment of his guests by ingeniously drawing forth the powers of those around him; and his deportment was in every respect so much more than ordinarily felicitous, and so perfectly seasoned by graceful condescension, that all at table agreed he never had charmed them more, and that, as he was the hardiest warrior of all in the field, and the most resistless lance in the lists, so was he by far the most accomplished and witty chevalier at the festive board.

The rational happiness of the evening was approaching its height, and the Douglas was occupying universal attention by something he was saying, when, to the surprise of every one, he suddenly stopped in the middle of his sentence, and turned up his ear to listen.

“Methought I heard a bugle-blast from the baggage lines,” cried he, with a flash in his eye that denoted the utter extinction of every other thought but that of the enemy.

“Perdie, I did hear it also,” cried the Earl of Moray; “nor was it strange to me. Methought I did recognize it for one of Rory Spears’ hunting-mots. He doth feast his friends to-night at the sutlerage, in honour of his newly-acquired squireship; so, peraunter, he doth give them music with their ale.”

“Ha, heard ye that?” cried several of the knights at once.

“Nay, there be more performers than one there,” cried the Douglas, rising quickly to gain the outside of the pavilion, whilst the whole of the knights crowded after him.

“’Tis dark as a sightless pit,” cried some of them.

“Yea,” cried the Earl of Douglas; “but dost thou see those lights that hurry about yonder? Trust me, there is some stirring cause for the quickness of their motions.”

“Hark ye, I hear distant and repeated cries,” said the Earl of Dunbar. “Hark, a horse comes galloping up the hill. Hear ye how he snorts and blows? I’ll warrant the rider hath hot news to tell.”

“The English!—the English in the baggage-camp!—Piersie and the English!” cried the rough voice of a wainman, who made towards the light in the pavilion, mounted on a bare-backed and unharnessed wain-horse, that heaved its great sides as if it would have burst them.

“Arm, arm, chevaliers,” cried the Douglas in a voice like thunder; “arm ye in haste, and turn out your brave bands without a moment’s let. Mine arms—mine arms, my faithful esquires. My horse, my horse!”

All was now hurry, bustle, and jostling; cries, orders, oaths, and execrations arose everywhere. Horses were neighing, and steel was clashing, and every one tried to buckle on his armour as fast as he could. Meanwhile Douglas, with Moray near him, stood calm and undismayed, putting one question after another rapidly to the varlet who brought the alarm, until he had gained all the information he could expect from him.

“By the Rood, but thy new esquire Rory Spears hath well demeaned himself, brother Moray,” said Douglas. “He and those with him have done that the which shall much avail us if we but bestir ourselves. Let us arm then, and get the line formed. I did well mark the ground, my friend. By skirting the woods upon our right, and if the moon will but keep below the hill-tops long enow, we shall steal down unseen upon the enemy, and pour out our vengeance on his defenceless flank. May St. Andrew grant that thy gallant squire may but keep his own until then. Haste, haste, Glendinning. Where is Robert Hop Pringle, my brave shield-bearer? Haste thee, Hart, mine arms and my horse. Ha, Archibald,” cried he to a young man of noble carriage who was passing him at the moment; “get thee my standard, my son; thou shalt bear my jamais arriere to-night. Part with it not for thy life; and bastard though thou be’st, show thyself at least to be no counterfeit Douglas. Quit it not even in death, boy.”

From time to time the shouts of the combatants now came faintly up the hill-side, and hurried those hands that were busily engaged in arming, so that many a buckle was put awry, and many a tag was left to hang loose. The Douglas staid not to complete his harnessing, but sprang into his saddle ere he was half armed, while Lord Moray rode away to his post without discovering that he had forgotten to put his helmet on.

The night still continued extremely dark, and had not Lord Douglas taken accurate note of the ground below him whilst the light of the sun had shone upon it, he must have found it almost impracticable to have led his men on, notwithstanding that his ears were admonished by the din of the distant skirmish, and the discordant braying of at least five hundred bullocks’ horns, blown by the varlets and wainmen who were not engaged; for such were in those days always carried by the Scottish soldiers, and Rory Spears had taken care that all who could not fight should at least blow, that the extent of their force might appear the greater to the enemy.

The Douglas conducted his little army with great silence and circumspection through the skirting brushwood; and it so happened, that just as he approached the place of action, the full-orbed moon arose to run her peaceful and majestic course through a clear and cloudless sky, throwing a mimic day over the scene. Loud shouts arose from the powerful army of the English, for now they began to comprehend the actual situation of their affairs; and making one bold and determined charge, they burst at once through the whole breadth of the entrenchments, overwhelming all who attempted to stand before them. Now it was that the Scottish Earl gave the word to his men, and just as the English were pushing rapidly on towards the slope of the high ground where the Scottish camp hung glittering in the moonbeam, driving a handful of brave men before them, who were still fighting as they retired, the shout of “Douglas!—Douglas!—Scotland!—Scotland!—Douglas!—Jamais arriere?” ascended to Heaven, and the determined Scots poured from their covert out upon the open plain, and rushed against the troops of Piersie.

Confounded by this unexpected charge from an enemy whom they expected to find asleep in their tents, the English army was driven back in considerable dismay. Then might Harry Piersie and his brother Sir Rafe have been seen flying from standard to standard vainly endeavouring to rally their men; but it was not until they had been driven into the open ground that they could succeed in stopping what almost amounted to a flight.

“What, Englishmen—is this your mettle?” cried Hotspur with vehemence. “Fly, then, cowards, and leave Harry Piersie to die. He may not outlive this disgrace on the standards of St. George.”

These upbraiding words had the effect of checking their panic, and gave them time to observe the comparatively small body to whom they were so basely yielding. The two brothers quickly restored the battle by their daring example. Deafening cheers arose, shouts of “Piersie” and “St. George” being loudly mingled with them; and a fresh and very impetuous onset was made, that drove the Scottish troops entirely through their entrenchments. The struggle was now tremendous, and the clash of the Scottish axes was terrific; but, although the success of the English wavered a little now and then, yet the weight of their mass was so very superior, that the Scottish army lost ground inch by inch, till, after a long contest, the Piersie found himself almost at the Scottish tents.

“Piersie!—Piersie!—The pennon of the Piersie!” cried he, shrieking with the wildest joy, and sanguine with the hope of success; while backed by a band of his choicest warriors, he made a bold dash towards the standard of Scotland, that stood before the pavilion of Douglas, with the pennon beside it. The Douglas was at that time fighting in another part of the field, where the press against his men was greatest. The Earls of Moray and Dunbar were bravely striving to withstand the numbers that came against the respective wings they commanded, supported by Montgomery, Keith, Fraser, and many others. Assueton, though but half recovered from the bruise he had received at Newcastle, and Halyburton, Lindsay, and some others were doing their best to resist the tide of the English in those parts of the battle where fortune had thrown them. Sir William de Dalzel had been carried to his tent grievously wounded to the loss of an eye; and already had the brave Sir Malcolm Drummond, and the gallant Sir John de Gordon, Lord of Strathbolgy, fallen, covered by glorious wounds. Yet was not the standard of Scotland, nor the Piersie’s captive pennon, left altogether undefended; for before them stood the dauntless Sir Patrick Hepborne of Hailes the elder, with his son by his side, backed by a small but resolute band of their own immediate dependents.

“My brave boy,” cried the elder knight, “trust me there is nowhere in the field a more honourable spot of earth to die on than that where we do now stand.”

“Then we quit it not with life, my father, save to drive the Piersie before us,” cried his son.

“Piersie—Piersie!—Piersie’s pennon!—Hotspur’s pennon!” cried those who came furiously on to attack them.

The father and the son, with their little phalanx, remained immovable, and, receiving them on the point of their lances, an obstinate and bloody contest took place. Harry Piersie and his brother fought for the fame of their proud house, and their eager shouts were heard over all the other battle cries, as well as above the clashing of the weapons and the shrieking of the agonized wounded, as they were trodden under foot and crushed to death by the press; but the bulwark of lion hearts that defended the standard was too impregnable to be broken through. Piersie’s men already began to slacken in their attack, and to present a looser and wider circle to the Scottish band; and now the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne, seeing his time, and eager to catch his advantage, brandished a battle-axe, and his son following his example, they joined in the cry of “A Hepborne, a Hepborne!” and charged the enemy so furiously at the head of their men, that Piersie and his followers were driven down the slope with immense slaughter. The axes of the bold knight and his son never fell without the sacrifice of an English life. “A Hepborne, a Hepborne!” they cried from time to time, and “A Hepborne, a Hepborne!” was returned to them from those who ran together to their banner; and yet more and more of the English line gave way before the accumulating aid that crowded after Sir Patrick and his son, who went on gradually recovering the lost ground, by working prodigies of valour.

Whilst the Hepbornes were so manfully exerting their prowess in one part of the field, the Douglas was toiling to support the battle where it was most hopeless. The great force of the enemy had been accidentally directed to the point where he fought, although they knew not against whom they were moving. The dense body opposed to him so encumbered him, that his men were unable to stand before it, and defeat seemed to be inevitable. Finding himself hampered on horseback, he retired a little back, and leaping from his horse, and summoning up his gigantic strength, he seized an iron mace, so ponderous, that even to have lifted it would have been a toil for almost any other individual in the field, and, swinging it round his head, he threw himself amidst the thickest of the foe, bearing ruin and death along with him. At every stroke of the tremendous engine he whirled whole ranks of the English were levelled before him, like grass by the scythe of the mower; and he strode over the dead and dying, down a broad lane cleared through the densest battalions that were opposed to him. Terror seized upon the English, and they began to give back before him. On he rushed after their receding steps, reaping a wide and terrible harvest of death, and strewing the plain with the victims of his matchless courage and Herculean strength. From time to time he was hardily opposed for a few minutes by small bodies of the enemy, that closed together to meet the coming storm, unconscious of its tremendous nature. But his resistless arm bore away all before it, until, encountering a column of great depth and impenetrability, the hero was transfixed by no less than three spears at once.

One entered his shoulder between the plates of his epaulière; another, striking on his breast-plate, glanced downwards, and pierced his belly; and the third easily penetrated his thigh, which in his haste had been left without the cuisse. For a moment did the wounded Douglas writhe desperately on the lance shafts, to rid himself of their iron heads, which had so suddenly arrested his destructive progress. But fate had decreed that his glorious career should be terminated. He received a severe blow on the head; his muscles, so lately full of strength and energy of volition, now refused to obey his will, and he sank to the ground borne down by those who had wounded him, and who knew not how noble and how precious that life’s blood was, to which they had opened so many yawning passages of escape.

His brother-in-law, Sir David Lindsay, and John and Walter Saintclaires, ever the tried friends of the Douglas, and a few others who had been fighting along with him before he thus plunged from their sight into the midst of his foes, took advantage of the terror which his onset had occasioned, and followed bravely in his course, until accident led them to fall in with the stream of victorious Scots who were pouring onwards under the triumphant Hepbornes. Recognizing each other, and joining together with loud cheers they swept away all that ventured to oppose them. They had cleared the plain ground of the enemy for several bowshots before them; the English battalions had been thinned and dispersed over the ground, and the Scottish troops were urging after them without order, when Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger, with Lindsay and the Saintclaires, who were pushing forward together, saw before them the brave and good Richard Lundie, sorely wounded, yet boldly bestriding the body of a warrior, and dealing death with a battle-axe to every Englishman who ventured to approach within his circle. Those who still contended with him quickly fled at their approach, and then, to their great grief, they discovered that it was the noble Douglas that lay weltering in his blood. He had not fallen alone, for his faithful esquires, Simon Glendinning and Robert Hart, lay near him both covered with mortal wounds, and already lifeless, surrounded by heaps of the slaughtered foe. His gallant natural son, too, the handsome Archibald Douglas, faithful to the trust reposed in him, though severely wounded, and bleeding helplessly on the grass, still held his banner with the grasp of death.

“How fares it with thee, Lord Douglas?” cried Sir John Saintclaire, overwhelmed with grief at the sad spectacle before him, and hastening to assist the others in raising him up.

“Well, right well, I trow, my good friends,” replied Douglas feebly, “seeing that I die thus, like all my ancestors, in the field of fame. But let not the death of Douglas be known, for ‘a dead man shall yet gain a glorious field.’ Hide me, then, I pray thee, in yonder brake; let some one rear my standard, the jamais arriere of the Douglas, and let my war-cry be set up, and I promise that ye shall well revenge my death.”

By this time the English, who had been driven for several bowshots beyond that part of the field where the Earl of Douglas had fallen, were now rallying under the heroic efforts of the Hotspur, who, aided by his brother, was again cheering them on to the charge. The Scottish troops began again to give ground before their superior force, and were already retreating in numbers past the group who were occupied about the dying hero. They saw the immediate necessity of conveying him away while the ground was yet clear of the enemy, and Lundie, Lindsay, and the two Saintclaires hastened to obey his injunctions. He uttered not a word of complaint to tell of the agonizing tortures he felt whilst they were removing him. They laid him on a mossy bank among the long ferns, in the closest part of the thicket. Then he took their hands in succession, squeezing them with affection, and when he had thus taken leave of Lindsay and the two Saintclaires—

“Go,” said he faintly to them, “ye have done all for the Douglas that humanity or friendship might require of ye; go, for Scotland lacketh the aid of your arms. Leave me with Lundie; ’tis meeter for his hand to close the eyes of his dying lord.”

The brave knights looked their last upon him, covered their eyes and stole silently away from a scene that entirely unmanned them. Lundie took out a silver crucifix, and, bending over the Douglas, held it up under a stream of moonlight that broke downwards through an opening in the thick foliage above them.

“I see it, Lundie,” said Douglas; “I see the image of my blessed Redeemer. My sins have been many, but thou art already possessed of them all. My soul doth fix herself on Him, in sincere repentance, and in the strong hope of mercy through His merits.”

The affectionate Lundie knelt by the Earl’s side, and whilst his own wounds bled copiously, his tears were dropping fast on his dying master.

“I know thine inmost heart, Lord Douglas,” said he in a voice oppressed by his grief; “thy hopes of Heaven may indeed be strong. Hast thou aught of worldly import to command me?”

“Margaret,” said Douglas in a voice scarcely audible, “my dearest Margaret! Tell Moray to forget not our last private converse; and do thou—do thou tell my wife that my last thought, my last word was—Margaret!”

His countenance began to change as Lundie gazed intently on it under the moonbeam. The weeping chaplain hastily pronounced the absolution, administered the consecrated wafer from a casket in his pocket, and performed the last religious duties bestowed upon the dying, and the heroic spirit of the Douglas took its flight to Heaven.

The grief of Lindsay and the Saintclaires subdued them only whilst they beheld the noble Douglas dying. No sooner had they left the thicket where he lay, than, burning with impatience to revenge his death, they hurried to the field. The younger Sir Patrick Hepborne had already reared his fallen standard, and shouts of “Douglas! Douglas! Jamais arriere!—A Douglas! a Douglas!” cleft the very skies. At this moment the English were gaining ground upon the Scottish centre, but this animating cry not only checked their retreat, but brought aid to them from all quarters. Believing that the Douglas was still fighting in person, down came the Earl of Moray, with Montgomery, Keith, the Lord Saltoun, Sir Thomas Erskine, Sir John Sandilands, and many others, and the shouts of “Douglas, Douglas!” being repeated with tenfold enthusiasm, the charge against the English was so resistless that they yielded before Scotland in every direction. Bravely was the banner of Douglas borne by the gallant Hepborne, who took care that it should be always seen among the thickest of the foes, well aware that the respect that was paid to it would always ensure it the close attendance of a glorious band of knights as its defenders. As he was pressing furiously on, he suddenly encountered an English knight, on whom his vigorous arm, heated by indiscriminate slaughter, was about to descend. The knight had lost his casque in the battle; the moon shed its radiance over a head of snow-white hair, and an accidental demivolt of his horse bringing his countenance suddenly into view, he beheld Sir Walter de Selby.

“I thank God and the Virgin that thou art saved, old man,” cried Hepborne, dropping his battle-axe “oh, why art thou here? Had I been the innocent cause of thy death——”

He would have said more, and he would moreover have staid to see him in safety. But the press came thick at the moment, and they were torn asunder; so that Hepborne, losing all sight of him in the melée, was compelled to look to himself.

And now, “A Douglas, a Douglas!” continued to run through the field, and the English, thrown into complete confusion, were driven through the baggage-camp at the place they had first entered, flying before the Scottish forces. Hotspur alone stood to defend his brother, who was lying on the ground grievously wounded. Harry Piersie had abandoned his horse, and was standing over Sir Rafe, fighting bravely against a crowd of Scottish men-at-arms, when Sir Hugh Montgomery, Sir John Maxwell, and Sir William de Keith came up.

“Yield thee,” said Sir Hugh Montgomery, “yield thee, noble Hotspur. God wot, it were bitter grief to see so brave a heart made cold.”

“And who art thou who would have the Hotspur yield?” cried Piersie.

“I trust, Sir Harry Piersie, that to yield thee to Sir Hugh Montgomery will do thee as little dishonour as may be,” replied the Scottish Knight; “yield thee, then, rescue or no rescue.”

“I do so yield to thee and fate, Sir Hugh Montgomery,” said Hotspur; “but let my brother Rafe here have quick attendance, his wounds do well out sorely, and his steel boots run over with his blood.”

“Let him be prisoner to these gentlemen,” said Sir Hugh, turning to Keith and Maxwell, “and let us straightway convoy him to the Scottish camp.”

The flying English were now driven far and wide, and day began to break ere the pursuit slackened. Among those who followed the chase most vehemently was Sir David Lindsay. Infuriated by the loss of the hero to whom he was so devoted, he seemed to be insatiable in his vengeance. Whilst he was galloping after the flying foe at sunrise, the rays, as they shot over the eastern hill, were sent back with dazzling splendour from the gold-embossed armour of a knight who had stopped at some distance before him to slake his thirst at a fountain. He was in the act of springing into the saddle as Lindsay approached; but the Scottish warrior believing, from the richness of his armour, that he was some one of noble blood, pushed after him so hard, and gained so much upon him, that he was nearly within reach of him with his lance-point.

“Turn, Sir Knight,” cried Lindsay. “It is a shame thus to flee. I am Sir David Lindsay. By St. Andrew, an thou turn not, I must strike thee through with my lance.”

But the English knight halted not; on the contrary, he only pricked on the more furiously, and Lindsay’s keenness being but the more excited, he followed him at full gallop for more than a league, until at last the English knight’s horse, which had shot considerably ahead of his, suddenly foundered under him. The rider instantly sprang to his legs, and drew out his sword to defend himself.

“I scorn to take unfair vantage of thee, Sir Knight,” said Lindsay, dismounting from his horse, when he came up to him, and throwing down his lance and seizing a small battle-axe that hung at his sadle-bow, he ran at the English knight, and a well-contested single combat ensued between them. But the weight of Lindsay’s weapon was too much for the sword of the Englishman; and after their strokes had rung on each other’s arms for a time, and that the Scot had bestowed some blows so heavy that the plates of the mail began to give way under them—

“I yield me, Sir David Lindsay,” cried the English knight, breathless and ready to sink with fatigue; “I yield me, rescue or no rescue.”

“Ha,” replied Lindsay, “’tis well. And whom, I pray thee, mayest thou be who has cost me so long a chase, and contest so tough, ere I could master thee?”

“I am Sir Matthew Redman, Governor of Berwick,” replied the English knight.

“Gramercy, Sir Governor,” said Sir David Lindsay; “sit thee down, then, with me on this bank, and let us talk a while. We seem to be both of us somewhat toil-spent with this encounter, yea, and thy grey destrier and my roan do seem to have had enow on’t as well as their masters. Behold how they feed most peaceably together.”

“Let us then imitate their example, good Sir Knight of Scotland,” said Sir Matthew Redman. “I have a small wallet here, with some neat’s tongue, and some delicate white bread; and this leathern bottle, though it be small, hath a cordial in it that would put life into a dead man.”

The two foes, who had so lately endeavoured to work each other’s death, sat down quietly together and silently partook of the refreshment, and then alternately applying the little leathern flask to their lips, they talked in friendly guise of the result of the battle.

“And now, Sir David of Lindsay,” said Redman, “I am thy prisoner, and bound to obey thy will. But I have ever heard thee named as a courteous knight, the which doth embolden me to make thee a proposal. I have a certain lady at Newcastle, whom I do much love, and would fain see. If thy generosity may extend so far, I shall be much beholden to thee if thou wilt suffer me to go thither, to assure her of my safety, and to bid her adieu; on which I do swear to thee, on the word of a knight, that I will render myself to thee in Scotland within fifteen days hence.”

“Nay, now I do see, Sir Matthew,” said Lindsay archly—“now I do see right well why thou didst ride so hard from the field; but I am content to grant thee thy request; nay, if thou dost promise me, on the faith of a knight, to present thyself to me at Edinburgh within three weeks from the present time, it is enow.”

“I do so promise,” replied Redman. And so shaking hands together, each took his horse and mounted to pursue his own way.

By this time a thick morning mist had settled down on the face of the country, and Lindsay had hardly well parted from the prisoner ere he perceived that he had lost his way. As he was considering how he should recover it, he beheld a considerable body of horsemen approaching, and believing them to be some of the Scottish army who had pushed on thus far in the pursuit, he rode up to them with very great joy; but what was his surprise when he found himself in the midst of some three or four hundred English lances!

“Who art thou, Sir Knight?” cried the leader, who, though clad in armour, yet wore certain Episcopal badges about him that mightily puzzled the Scottish knight.

“I am Sir David Lindsay,” replied he; “but whom mayest thou be, I pray thee?”

“I am the Bishop of Durham,” replied the other; “thus far am I come to give mine aid to the Piersie.”

“Thine aid cometh rather of the latest, Sir Bishop,” replied Lindsay; “for, certes, his army is routed with great slaughter, and he and his brother Sir Rafe are prisoners in the Scottish camp.”

“I have heard as much already from some of those who fled,” replied the Bishop: “Quæ utilitas in sanguine meo? what good would my being killed do my cousins the Piersie? Now I do haste me back again to Newcastle; but thou must bear me company, Sir David.”

“Sith thou dost say so, my sacred Lord,” replied Sir David, “I must of needscost obey thee, for, backed as thou art, I dare not say thee nay. Such is the strange fortune of war.”

Sir David now rode towards Newcastle with the Bishop, and soon overtook the large army which he commanded that was now returning thither. After being fairly lodged within the walls of the town, the Bishop treated him with the utmost kindness and hospitality, and left him to wander about at his own discretion, rather like a guest than a prisoner. The place was filled with mourning and lamentation, and every now and then fresh stragglers, who had fled from the field of Otterbourne, were dropping in to tell new tales of the grievous loss and mortifying disgrace which had befallen the English arms. Murmurs began to rise against the Bishop because he had not proceeded against the Scots, and attempted the rescue of the Piersies. At all events, he might have revenged their loss. The Bishop himself, too, began to be somewhat ashamed that he should have retired so easily, and without so much as looking on the Scottish army. At last he consented to summon a council of war, and in it he was persuaded, by the importunity of the knights and esquires who were present, to order immediate proclamation for the assembling of his army, consisting of ten thousand men, to march long before sunrise.

“Verily, our foes shall be consumed,” said the Bishop, his courage rising. “Si consistent adversum me castra non timebit cor meum. Let the whole Scottish force be there, yet will my heart be bold for the encounter.”

After the council of war, the Bishop introduced Sir David Lindsay to the guests who filled his house. The Scottish knight, so closely connected with the Douglas, was courteously received by the English chevaliers, who, though much cast down in reality by the failure of the Piersies’ attempt, did their best to assume an air of gaiety before him. They vied with one another who should show him greatest kindness. Many were the questions put to him about the fate of the Douglas, but he was too cautious to say anything that could lead them to believe that he had fallen.

The ladies crowded around him to satisfy their curiosity about the particulars of the battle, and he answered them with becoming gallantry. Among those who so addressed him was a lady in a veil, who hung pensively on the arm of the Bishop, and whose figure bespoke her young and handsome. After some general conversation with him, during which she endeavoured to ascertain from him all that he knew as to what English knights had been killed or taken—

“Sir Knight,” said she, with a half-suppressed sigh, “I have heard of a certain brave chevalier of Scotland who did distinguish himself in France, Sir Patrick Hepborne, the younger of that name. Was he in the bloody field? and hath he escaped unhurt, I pray thee?”

“I do well know him, lady,” replied Sir David Lindsay. “To him, and to his gallant father, was chiefly due the gaining of the glorious victory the Scots did yesternight achieve over the bravest army that did ever take the field. I saw him safe ere I left the fight. Proud might he be, I ween, to be so inquired after by one so lovely as thou art.”

“Nay,” said the lady, in some confusion, “I do but inquire to satisfy the curiosity of a friend.” And so saying, she retreated towards the protection of the Bishop of Durham, who seemed to take an especial charge of her.

Sir David Lindsay, for his part, to avoid being annoyed by further questions, retired within the deep recess of a Gothic window, where he sat brooding over the untimely fate of the Douglas, and weeping inwardly at the blow that Scotland had sustained by his loss. He was awakened from his reverie by a friendly tap on the shoulder.

“Ha, Sir Matthew Redman!” said Lindsay, looking up with surprise.

“Sir David de Lindsay!” cried Redman, with signs of still greater astonishment; “what, in the name of the holy St. Cuthbert, dost thou make here at Newcastle? Hath my cordial bottle bewildered thy brain so, that thou hast fancied that it was I who took thee, not thou who took me? Did I not promise thee, on the word of a knight, to go to thee at Edinburgh? and thinkest thou that I would not have kept my word?”

“Yea, Sir Matthew,” replied Lindsay, “I have full faith in thine honour; but I believe there may now be little need that thou shouldst journey so far, or make to me any fynaunce; for no sooner hadst thou parted from me than I did fall into the hands of His Grace the Lord Bishop of Durham, who hath brought me hither as his prisoner; and if ye be so content, I do rather think we shall make an exchange, one for the other, if it may so please the Bishop.”

“God wot how gladly I shall do so,” replied Redman, shaking him cordially by the hand; “but, by my troth, thou shalt not go hence until thou hast partaken of my hospitality; so thou shalt dine with me to-day, yea, and to-morrow alswa; and then we shall talk anon with the Bishop, after which thou shalt have good safe-conduct for Scotland; nay, I shall myself be thy guard over the Marches, yea, and moreover, give thee hearty cheer in mine own good town of Berwick as thou dost pass thither.”

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LX. The Bishop’s Army—Sorrow for the Fate of the Heroic Douglas

The two brothers, the Earls of Dunbar and Moray, were now left to command the Scottish army after the afflicting death of the Earl of Douglas. Deeply as they grieved for him, they had but little leisure for mourning, since every succeeding moment brought them in harassing rumours that the Bishop of Durham was coming against them with a great army. During the whole of the day succeeding the battle, and of the night which followed it, they were so kept on the alert that they could even do but little to succour the wounded or bury the dead. The prisoners, however, among whom were many renowned knights, besides the two Piersies, were treated with all that chivalric courtesy and hospitality for which the age was so remarkable. Sir Rafe was immediately despatched in a litter to Alnwick, that he might have the benefit of such careful treatment as might be most likely to cure the many and severe wounds he had received.

After various false alarms, the second morning after the battle brought back the scouts, who had been sent to follow the flying enemy, and to gather what intelligence they might in the neighbourhood of Newcastle. By these men they were informed of the proclamation which had been made in the town, and of the proposed march of the Bishop of Durham’s large army. A council of war was immediately held, and the opinion was unanimous that they should remain where they were to receive the Bishop in their present position, which they had already proved to be so favourable for successful defence against superior numbers, rather than march harassed as they were with a number of wounded and prisoners, and with the risk of being overtaken in unfavourable ground. They accordingly hastened to strengthen themselves in the best way they could; and, as they had but little time for a choice of plans, they piled up an abattis, formed of the dead bodies of the slain, on the top of the broken rampart that stretched across between the flanking marches, and defended the entrance to their position.

Before the enemy appeared, a very serious question arose for the consideration of the leaders. Their prisoners amounted to above a thousand, and what was to be done with them? To have put them to death would have been so barbarous that such an idea could not be entertained for a moment in such times; yet, as their number was nearly equal to half their little army, the danger they ran from their breaking loose upon them during the fight, and even turning the tide of battle against them, was sufficiently apparent to every one. At length, after much debate and deliberation, it was generally resolved to trust them. They were accordingly drawn up in the centre of the camp, and an oath administered to them that they should not stir from the spot during the ensuing battle, and that, be the result what it might, they should still consider themselves as prisoners to Scotland. After this solemnity, they left them slenderly guarded by some of the varlets and wainmen, with perfect confidence that they would keep their oath.

Then it was that the Earl of Dunbar thus encouraged his soldiers, after having drawn them up behind their lines.

“My brave Scots,” said he, “ye who have hardly yet well breathed sith that ye did conquer the renowned Piersies of Northumberland, can have little fear, I trow, to encounter a mitred priest. Verily, though his host be great, it will be but two strokes when both shepherd and sheep will be dispersed, and we shall teach this pastoral knight that it were better for him to be a scourger of schoolboy urchins with birchen rods than to essay thus, with the sword, to do battle against bearded soldiers.”

This speech was received with shouts by the little army to which it was addressed, and, “Douglas, Douglas! revenge our brave, our beloved Douglas!” was heard to break from every part of the line. The two Earls had hardly completed their preparations, when the approach of the Bishop of Durham’s army was announced. Orders were immediately issued for each soldier to blow the horn he carried, and the loud and discordant sound of these rude and variously-toned instruments being re-echoed and multiplied from the hills, was distinctly audible at several miles’ distance. It rung in the ears of the Bishop, and very much appalled him. Had it not been for a spice of shame he felt, he would have been disposed to have gone no farther; but the knights and esquires who were with him were still sanguine in their hopes of successfully attacking, with so large a force, the small army of the Scots, wasted as it was by the recent bloody engagement.

“Verily, it is a sinful thing to trust in the arm of flesh,” said the Bishop, growing paler and paler. “Who knoweth what may be the issue of the battle? Trust not in numbers. Non salvatur rex per multam virtutem; even the bravery of a Bishop shall not always win the fight. Gigas non salvabitur in multitudine virtutis suæ; even the courage of the greatest of Churchmen shall not always prevail. Fallax equus ad salutem; a horse is counted but a vain thing to save a man. St. Cuthbert grant,” ejaculated he in a lower tone—“St. Cuthbert grant that our steeds may be preserved.”

The Bishop, however, dissembling his feelings as well as he could, continued to advance in good order until he came within sight of the Scots; when, beholding the strength of their position, and the horrible bulwark of defence they had constructed with the heaps of the dead bodies of the English whom they had already sacrificed, and listening to their wild shrieks of defiance, mingled with the increased sound of their horns, his blood froze within him, and he halted to reason with those who had been so prone to attack the foe. But opinions had been mightily changed in the course of a mile’s march. The knights and esquires, who had been lately so bold, now listened with becoming patience to the prudent arguments of their reverend leader; and when, after a considerable halt, and holding a communication with the Castle of Otterbourne, the Bishop did at last give the word for his army to retreat, there was not a single voice lifted in condemnation of the movement.

When it was fully ascertained in the Scottish army that the retrograde march of the English was no manœuvre, but a genuine retreat, a strong guard of observation was planted, and orders were given to proceed with the sad duty, already too long neglected, of collecting such of the wounded as had lain miserably on the plain, without food or attention, ever since they had fallen. Parties were also appointed to bury the dead.

The body of the heroic Douglas had never been deserted by the affectionate Lundie, who, though himself grievously wounded, sat watching it by the thicket where he died, until the termination of the battle and the break of day enabled the Saintclaires, the Earl of Moray, and the Hepbornes, to come to his aid. Then was his honoured corpse carried to the camp; but it was not till after the departure of the Bishop of Durham, that the Earls of Moray and Dunbar, accompanied by the whole chivalry of the Scottish army, met together at night in the pavilion of the Douglas. There—sad contrast to the happy night which they had so lately spent in the same place, under the cheering influence of his large, mild, and benignant eye!—they came to behold his body laid out in state. It was attended, even in death, by those who had never abandoned him in life. By the side of his bier lay his brave son Archibald, who had so well fulfilled his last injunctions. At his feet were stretched his two faithful esquires, who had so nobly perished with their master. Near them stood Robert Hop Pringle, leaning on the Douglas’s shield, who, having been separated from him in the thickest press, had fought like a lion, vainly searching for him through the field, and who now looked with an eye of mingled grief and envy on his comrades. Richard Lundie too was there, wounded as he was, to perform a solemn service for that soul with which he had long held the closest and dearest converse. The place was dimly illuminated by the red glare of numerous torches, held by some hardy soldiers, who, though formed of the coarsest human clay, were yet unable to look towards the bier where lay the body of their brave commander, whose fearless heart had so often led them on to glory, without the big tears running down the furrows of their weather-beaten cheeks. Those who were tempered of finer mould, and whose rank had brought them into closer contact with the Douglas, and, above all, those whom strict friendship had bound to him, though they struggled hard to bear up like men, were forced to yield to the feelings that oppressed them. So overpowering indeed was the scene that Harry Piersie himself, who had craved permission to be present, wept tears of unfeigned sorrow over the remains of him who had been so lately his noble rival in the field of fame. “Douglas,” said he with a quivering lip that marked the intensity of his feelings, “what would I not give to see that lofty brow of thine again illumined with the radiant sunshine of thy godlike soul? Accursed be my folly—accursed be my foolish pride! Would that the curtailment of half the future life of Hotspur could be given to restore and eke out thine! God wot how joyously he would now make the willing sacrifice. Thou hast not left thy peer in chivalry, and even Hotspur’s glory must wane for lack of thee to contend with.”

This generous speech of the noble Piersie deeply affected all present. Sir Patrick Hepborne stole silently out of the tent to give way to his emotions in private, and to breathe the invigorating breeze of the evening, that sported among the dewy furze and the wild thyme that grew on the side of the hill. The moon was by this time up. Hepborne looked over the lower ground, that was now widely lighted up by her beams, where the furious and deadly strife had so lately raged, and where all was now comparatively still. The only signs of human life—and they spoke volumes for its folly, its frailty, and its insignificance—were the few torches that were here and there seen straggling about, carried by those who were creeping silently to and fro, over the field of the dead, looking for the bodies of their friends.

Hepborne’s heart was already sufficiently attuned to sadness; and it led him to descend the slope before him, that he might be a spectator of the melancholy scene. As he wandered about from one busy group to another, he met his esquire, Mortimer Sang, who, so actively engaged at the beginning of the battle, had fortunately escaped, covered indeed with wounds of little importance in themselves. His friend Roger Riddel, who had been a good deal hurt, but who had been also fortunate enough to survive an attack where it appeared almost impossible that a mouse could have escaped with life, was with him. They were employed in the pious duty of looking for some of their friends who had not appeared. After they had turned over many an unknown and nameless corpse, and many a body whose face had been familiar to them, on each of whom Roger Riddel had some short and pithy remark to bestow, they at last discovered the well-set form of Ralpho Proudfoot.

“Good fellow, thy pride is laid low, I well wot,” cried Roger Riddel, as he held up the head of the dead man to the light of the torch, and discovered who he was.

The same haughty expression that always characterised him still sat upon his forehead in death; his eyebrows were fiercely knit and his lip curled. His battle-axe was firmly grasped with both his hands, and a heap of English dead lay around him. He had fallen across the body of a Scottish man-at-arms, and on turning him up, Hepborne was shocked to behold the features of Robert Lindsay.

“Ah me!” cried Roger Riddel; “what will become of thine ould father, Robin.”

“Robert Lindsay!” said Sang—“Blessed Virgin!—no—it cannot be—ay—there is indeed that open countenance of truth the which was never moved with human wrath or wickedness. This is indeed a bitter blow to us all; and as for his poor father, as thou sayest, Roger, Heaven indeed knows how the old man may stand it, for poor Robert here was the only hope and comfort of his life. Let me but clip a lock of his hair, and take from his person such little trinkets as may peraunter prove soothing, though sad memorials, to the afflicted Gabriel.”

“Alas, poor Robert Lindsay!—alas for poor Gabriel!” was all that Hepborne’s full heart could utter, as recollections of home, and of his boyish days, crowded upon him until his eyes ran over.

The position in which their bodies were found sufficiently explained that Lindsay and Proudfoot had been fighting side by side in the midst of a cloud of foes. Lindsay had fallen first, and Proudfoot had stood over him, defending his dying friend, until, overpowered by numbers, he had been stretched across him, covered with mortal wounds. Near him lay the body of an English knight, and some of those who knew him declared him to be Sir Miers de Willoughby.

Hepborne saw that a grave was dug to contain the bodies of Lindsay and Proudfoot, and he himself assisted the esquires in depositing them in the earth, locked in each other’s embrace.

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LXI. The Field of Otterbourne after the Fight

After Sir Patrick Hepborne had assisted to perform the last sad duties to the remains of Robert Lindsay and Ralpho Proudfoot, his attention was caught by the appearance of a solitary cluster of lights on the distant part of the field, where the slaughter of the English had been greatest. Curiosity led him to approach, when he perceived that they were borne by a party who followed a bier, that was slowly carried in the direction of Otterbourne Castle. Advancing to a point which they must necessarily pass, he saw, as the procession drew nearer, that the bier was supported by some English spearmen, and that it was followed by a group of women.

Hepborne’s attention was particularly attracted by a lady in the midst of them, who walked with her head veiled in the folds of her mantle, and seemed to be deeply affected by that grief in which the others only sympathised. She took her mantle from her head, and threw her eyes upwards as if in inward ejaculation. Sir Patrick started, for he beheld that very countenance the charms of which, though seen but by glimpses at Norham, had made too deep an impression upon his heart ever to be forgotten; but now they seemed to be more than ever familiar to him, as he was disposed to believe, from their frequent presence to the eye of his imagination. He gazed in silent rapture. The strong resemblance between his page Maurice de Grey and the lady now struck him the more powerfully, that he had a full opportunity of perusing every trait; he was confounded; the mantle dropped over the alabaster forehead, and the countenance was again shrouded from his eyes. The procession moved on, and he followed, almost doubting whether it was not composed of phantoms, until it approached the gate of the Castle of Otterbourne, where the captain of the place, attended by his garrison, appeared to receive it. Still Hepborne had difficulty in convincing himself that the whole was not a waking vision—a belief warranted by the superstition of his country. It slowly entered the gateway. The lady in whom he felt so deep an interest was about to disappear. He could bear suspense no longer.

“Lady Eleanore de Selby—Lady de Vere,” cried he, in a frantic voice.

The lady started at the sound of it, threw back the mantle from her head, and cast her eyes around in strong agitation, until they glanced on Hepborne’s face, when she uttered a faint scream, and fell back senseless into the arms of her attendants, who crowded around her, and hastily bore her within the gateway of the Castle, the defences of which being immediately closed, she was shut from his straining sight.

Hepborne stood for some time in a state of stupefaction ere he could muster sufficient self-command to return to his tent. The abrupt termination of the scene, which still remained fresh on his mind, almost convinced him of the accuracy of his conjecture as to its having been some strange supernatural appearance he had beheld. He slowly found his way to his friends, his soul vexed by a thousand contending conjectures and perplexities, which he found it impossible to satisfy or reconcile.

Meanwhile Mortimer Sang, who had been earnestly searching for the body of Rory Spears, of whose death he had begun to entertain great apprehensions, was surprised by the appearance of a damsel, whom he saw bearing a torch and bitterly weeping.

“Holy St. Andrew!” exclaimed he; “Katherine Spears, can it be thee in very body—or is it thy wraith I behold? Speak, if thou be’st flesh and blood—for the love of the Holy Virgin, speak.”

“Oh, dear Master Sang,” cried Katherine, running to him and proving by the gripe that she took of his arm, that she was indeed something corporeal, “the blessed St. Mary be praised that I have met with thee; thank Heaven, thou art safe at least. But, oh, tell me, tell me, hast thou seen aught of my dear father? Hath he ’scaped this dreadful field of death?”

“Thy father, I trust, is well,” replied Sang, much perplexed; “but how, in the name of all that is wonderful, didst thou come here?”

“I came with an English lady, who is now at the Castle of Otterbourne,” replied Katherine evasively. “But, oh, tell me, tell me, I entreat thee,” said the poor girl, earnestly seizing his hand, “tell me, hast thou seen my father sith the fight was over?”

“He hath not appeared since the battle,” said Sang in a half-choked voice, and with considerable hesitation; “but we trust he may be prisoner with the English, for as yet we have searched for him in vain among the slain scattered over the field. Yes,” continued he, in a firmer and more assured tone, as he observed the alarm that was taking possession of her; “yes, he hath not been found—and as he hath not been found, dear Katherine, it is clear that he must be a prisoner—so—and—and so thou wilt soon see him again; for as there must be a truce, the few prisoners ta’en by the English must speedily be sent home again.”

“Nay, but do they seek him still, Sir Squire?” cried Katherine, but little satisfied with this attempt of Sang’s to soothe her apprehension. “Alas, I must seek for him.”

“Nay, this is no scene for thee, dear Katherine,” replied Sang; “return I pray thee to the Castle, and I will search, and thou shalt quickly know all.”

“Try not to hinder me, Sir Squire,” replied Katherine; “I will go seek for my father. I have already seen enow of those grim and ghastly faces not to fear in such a cause.”

“Then shall I go with thee, Katherine,” cried Sang, seeing her determination. “Here, lean upon mine arm.”

When they came into the thickest part of the field of slaughter, Katherine shuddered and shrank as they moved aside, from time to time, to shun the heaps of slain. Sang looked everywhere for his comrade Roger Riddel, and at last happily met him; but, alas! Riddel could give no intelligence of him they sought for. By this time they had approached the abattis of dead bodies which had been so hastily piled up for defence against the expected attack of the Bishop of Durham.

“Come not this way, Katherine,” cried Sang; “this rampart of the dead is horrible.”

Katherine’s heart was faint within her at the sight; she stopped and turned away, when, just at that moment, her ear caught the whining of a dog at a little distance.

“That voice was Oscar’s,” cried she eagerly. “Oh, let us hasten, my father may be there.”

They followed her steps with the lights, and there she beheld her father lying on the ground, grievously wounded, and half dead with want and loss of blood. Luckily for him, poor Oscar had been accidentally let out at the time that Sang and Riddel went forth to search among the slain, and having sought more industriously for his master than all the rest, he had discovered the unhappy Rory Spears built into the wall of the dead. Rory had fallen before the tremendous charge made by the English, when they burst through the line of entrenchment, where he had fought like a lion himself, and inspired a something more than human courage into those around him. Having lost his basinet, he had received a severe cut on the head, besides many other wounds, which affected him not. But the thrust of a lance through his thigh was that which brought him to the ground; after which, he was nearly trampled to death by the rush of English foot and horsemen that poured over him. During the time that had passed since he was laid low, he had fainted repeatedly, and had been for hours insensible to his sufferings. Whilst lying in one of his mimic fits of death, he had been taken up by some of those who were employed in heaping the slain into a rampart, and who, having little leisure for minute examination, had made use of him as part of its materials. Fortunately his head was placed outwards, so that when he recovered he was enabled to breathe, and consequently was saved from suffocation. Oscar had no sooner found him than, seizing the neck of his haqueton with his teeth, he pulled him gently out upon the plain.

“My father, my dear father!” cried Katherine Spears, running to support him, and much affected by the sight of his wan visage, the paleness of which, together with his sunken eye, showed more ghastly from the blood that had run down in such profusion from his wound, that the very colour of his beard was changed, and the hairs of it matted together by it.

“What dost thou here, Kate?” demanded Rory, in a firmer voice than his appearance would have authorized the bystanders to have expected from him; “sure this be no place for a silly maiden like thee.”

“Oh, father, father,” cried Katherine, embracing him, and doing her best to assist Sang in raising him up by the shoulders; “the holy Virgin be praised that thou art yet alive.”

“Alive!” answered Rory; “troth, I’m weel aware that I’m leevin, for albeit that the agony o’ my head wad gi’e me peace enow to let me believe that I had really depairted in real yearnest, the very hunger that ruggeth so cruelly at my inside wad be enew to keep me in mind that I was still belonging to this warld. For the sake o’ the gude Saint Lawrence, Maister Sang, gar ane o’ them chields rin and see gif Mrs. Margaret MacCleareye can gi’e me a bit o’ cauld mutton or sike like, and a wee soup yill. Tell the woman I’ll pay her for the score o’ yestreen and a’ thegither. But, aboon a’ thing, see that they mak haste, or I’ll die ere they come back. What sould I hae done an it hadna been for the gude wife’s wee bit supper afore we fell to!”

Sang immediately despatched one of the camp followers who was standing by, and who quickly returned with the melancholy intelligence that Mrs. MacCleareye’s frail hut had been levelled with the earth by the press—that her provender had been scattered and pillaged—that her ale barrels had been rolled away and emptied—and that she herself had also disappeared.

“Hech me,” cried Rory, altogether forgetful of his own craving stomach; “poor woman, I’m sorry for her loss; aboon a’, it erketh me sair that I paid her not her dues yestreen. But, an a’ live, she or her heirs shall hae it, as I’m a true esquire. But, och, I’m faunt!”

“Take some of this, Master Spears,” cried Mortimer Sang, holding a leathern bottle to Rory’s mouth, and pouring a few drops of a cordial into it.

“Oich, Maister Sang, that is reveeving!” said Rory. “A wee drap mair, for the love o’ St. Lowry. Mercy me! Weel, it’s an evil thing after a’ to be killed in battle (as I may be allowed to judge, I rauckon, wha has been half killed), was it no for the glory that is to be gotten by it. But to be cut down and then travelled ower like a mercat-causey, and then to be biggit up like a lump o’ whinstane intil a dyke—ay, and that, too, for the intent o’ haudin out the yenemy, and saving the craven carcages o’ ither fouk, and a’ to keep the dastard sauls in chields that ane is far frae liking as weel as ane’s sell—troth, there’s onything but honour or pleasure in’t to my fancy.”

“Uve, uve! sore foolish speech, Maister Spears,” said a voice from the heap of dead bodies. “Great pleasures and high honours in troth, sure, sure.”

“Captain MacErchar!” cried Sang. “Run, Roger, and yield him relief.”

Squire Riddel hastened to the assistance of MacErchar, and drew forth his great body from the place it had occupied in the bottom of the fortification, where the skilful architect had, with much judgment, made use of him as a substantial foundation. His history had been something similar to that of Rory Spears, and he had not suffered less from wounds. He was brought forward and placed on a bank beside Rory, and a portion of Squire Sang’s life-inspiring bottle was given to him with the happiest effect.

“Hech me,” cried Spears, looking round with great compassion on his companion in glory and misfortune—“hech me, Captain MacErchar, wha sould hae thought that thou wert sae near? Had we but kenn’d we mought hae had a crack thegither, albeit hardly sae cosy as in Mrs. MacCleareye’s. Troth, I was sair weary and lonesome wi’ lying, and even the converse o’ the sagaciousome brute there was a comfort to me. This is but ane evil way o’ weeting a squireship. We sould hae done it in ane ither gate, I rauckon, had the English chields but defaured a wee. But I trust that neither have you disgraced your captaincy nor I my squireship. I saw you fighting like a very incarnate deevil, ay, and sending the Southrons back frae the rampyre like raquet ba’s frae a wa’, though it may be premeesed that nane o’ them ever stotted again.”

“Ouch ay, troth ay,” replied MacErchar, “it was a bonnie tuilzie, Maister Spears. She did her pairts both—both, both. Ou ay; it was a great pleasures, in troth, to see her chap the chields on the crown.”

“Poor Oscar, poor man,” said Rory, patting his dog’s head as he put his nose towards his face to claim his share of his master’s attention; “troth, I maun say that thou didst do me a good turn this blessed night. I was just thinking as I lay here that as I must now bear the proper armorial device of ane esquire, I sould take the effigy of ane allounde couchant beside his master sejant, with this motto, ‘Fair fa’ the snout that pu’d me out.’”

“How couldst thou think of such things, my dear father, whilst thou didst lie in plight so pitiful!” cried Katherine Spears.

“Troth, I had naething else to think o’, ye silly maiden, but that or hunger,” said Rory; “and that last, I’ll promise thee, was a sair sharp thought. And, by St. Lowry, it doth sore sting me at this precious moment.”

“Uve, uve! sore hungry—sore hungry,” cried MacErchar.

“Nay, then, let us hasten to carry both of them to camp without further let,” cried Sang.

“Come, bestir ye, varlets,” said he to a crowd of camp-followers who were standing near; “lend us your aid.”

“Nay,” said Katherine, “my father must be carried to Otterbourne Castle.”

“Otterbourne Castle!” cried Rory; “what mean ye, silly quean?”

Katherine bent over him, and put her mouth to his ear to whisper him.

“Ay—aweel—poor thing!—very right—an it maun be sae, it just maun,” said he, after hearing what she had to say. “Aweel, Maister Sang, ye maun just tell the Yearl that as I can be o’ nae mair service in fighting at this present time, I may as weel gae till the Castle o’ Otterbourne as ony ither gate to be leeched, mair especially as it is my belief that kitchen physic will be the best physic for me. Tell him that I’m gaun there wi’ my dochter Kate till a friend of his, and that he sall ken a’ about it afterhend.”

Rory was accordingly carried straight to Otterbourne Castle, whither the gallant Mortimer Sang accompanied Katherine. Their parting at the gate was tender—but he could wring nothing from her that could elucidate the mystery of her present conduct.

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Chapter LXII

Withdrawal of the Scots Army—Obsequies of the Gallant Dead—The Mystery solved.

Although the morning sun rose bright and cheerful upon Otterbourne, yet were its rays incapable of giving gladness to those in the Scottish camp. The little army of heroes had gained a great and glorious victory, but they had dearly paid for it in the single death of Douglas. There was, therefore, more of condolence than of exultation among them, as they gave each other good morrow. They broke up their encampment with silence and sorrow, and marched off towards Scotland, under the united command of the Earls of Moray and Dunbar, with the solemn pace and fixed eyes of men who followed some funeral pageant; indeed, it was so in fact; for at the head of the main body of the army was the car that carried the coffin of the Douglas. Before it was borne his banner, that “Jamais Arriere” which, in the hands of Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger, had so happily turned the fate of the battle; and, in compliment to the gallant young knight, it was his esquire, Mortimer Sang, to whom the honour of carrying it was assigned. Behind it came the fatal pennon of Piersie, which had been the cause of so much waste of human life, and around the machine were clustered all those brave knights who had lately looked up to the hero for the direction of their every movement—at whose least nod or sign they would have spurred to achieve the most difficult and dangerous undertakings, and whose applause was ever considered by them as their highest reward. The life and soul of the army seemed now to have departed. They hung their heads, and marched on, rarely breaking the silence that prevailed, except to utter some sad remark calculated to heighten the very sorrow that gave rise to it.

The last of their columns disappeared from the ground, and when Katherine Spears and the lady on whom she attended cast their eyes over it from the window of the tower in the Castle of Otterbourne, it was again as much a scene of peace as if no such fierce warfare had ever disturbed it. Huge heaps, and long lines, indeed, marked the places under which hundreds of those who had merrily marched thither now reposed, Scot and Englishman, in amity together. The ruined huts and broken-down entrenchments too were still visible; but the daisies and the other little flowers that enamelled the field, refreshed by the morning dew, had again raised their crushed heads, and the timid flocks and herds which had been scared by the din of arms, had again ventured forth from the covert whither they had been driven, and were innocently pasturing on the very spot where heroes had been so lately contending in the mortal strife. The lady, however, suffered her attention to be occupied with these objects for a brief space only ere she returned to perform her melancholy task of watching by those beloved remains she had so piously rescued from the promiscuous heaps of slaughter that covered the battle-field. She again sought the Chapel of the Castle, where lay the brave old knight Sir Walter de Selby, for it was he who, having met with some less merciful foe than Sir Patrick Hepborne, had been cut down in the melée. The mortal wound now gaped wide on his venerable head, and the beauty of his silver hair was disfigured with clotted gore. The tears of her who now seated herself by his bier fell fast and silently, as she bent over that benignant countenance now no longer animated by its generous spirit. Now it was she recalled all that affection so largely exhibited towards her from her very childhood. His faults had at this moment disappeared from her memory, and as the more remarkable instances of his kindness arose in succession, she gave way to that feeling natural to sensitive minds on such occasions, and bitterly accused herself of having but ill requited them.

The body of Sir Walter remained in the Castle of Otterbourne for several days, until proper preparations were made there and at Norham for doing it the honours due to the remains of so gallant a knight, and one who had enjoyed so important a command. After the escort was ready, the lady parted with much sorrow from Katherine Spears, whose father was yet unable to bear the motion of a journey. She commended both to the especial protection of the Captain of the Castle, and then hastily seating herself in her horse-litter to hide her grief from observation, the funeral procession moved away.

It was long after the sunset of the second day, that the troops of the garrison of Norham, under the Lieutenant Oglethorpe, marched out in sad array to meet the corpse of their late governor. Clad in all the insignia of woe, and each soldier bearing a torch in his hand, they halted on the high ground over the village, and rested in mute and sorrowful expectation of the approach of the funeral train. Lights appeared slowly advancing from a distance, and the dull chanting of voices and the heavy measured tread of men were heard. The coffin had already been removed from the car in which it had hitherto been carried, and four priests who had gone to meet it, one of them bearing a crucifix aloft, now appeared walking bareheaded before it, and chanting a hymn. The coffin itself was sustained on the shoulders of a band of men-at-arms, who accompanied it from Otterbourne; and after it came the horse litter of the lady, attended by a train of horsemen who rode with their lances reversed. Among these, alas! no man belonging to the deceased was to be seen, for all had perished with him in the field.

When the procession had reached the spot where the troops from Norham were drawn up to receive it, those who formed it halted, and the bearers, resigning their burden to the chief officers of the garrison, fell back to join their fellows. One-half of the soldiers of the Castle then moved on before the body, whilst the other half filed in behind the lady’s litter, and the men of Otterbourne were left to close up the rear of the pageant.

As they descended the hill, the inhabitants of the village turned out to gaze on the imposing spectacle; and after it had passed by, they followed to witness the last obsequies of one whose military pomp had often delighted their eyes, and the hardy deeds of whose prime were even now in every man’s mouth.

Having reached the entrance to the church, the soldiers formed a double line up to the great door, each man leaning upon his lance, in grief that required no acting. The lady descended from her litter. With her head veiled, and her person enveloped in black drapery, she leaned upon the arm of Lieutenant Oglethorpe, and followed the body with tottering steps and streaming eyes into the holy fane. The church was soon filled by the Norham soldiery, ranked up thickly around it, the blaze of the torches pierced into the darkest nook of its Gothic interior, and the solemn ceremony proceeded.

The lady had wound up her resolution to the utmost, that she might undergo the trying scene without flinching. She stood wonderfully composed, with her eyes cast upon the ground, endeavouring to fix her thoughts on the service for the dead, which the priests were chanting; when, chancing to look up, her attention was suddenly caught by the figure of a Franciscan monk, who, elevated on the steps of the altar, stood leaning earnestly forward from behind a Gothic pillar that half concealed him, his keen eyes fixed upon her with a marked intensity of gaze. Her heart was frozen within her by his very look, and, uttering a faint scream, she swooned away, and would have fallen on the pavement but for the timely aid of Oglethorpe and those who were present. Dismay and confusion followed. The ceremonial was interrupted; and the bystanders believing that her feelings had been too deeply affected by the so sad and solemn spectacle, hastened to remove her from the scene, so that she was quickly conveyed to her litter, and escorted to the Castle.

The funeral rites were hurried over, and the body was committed to the silent vault, with no other witnesses than the officiating priests, the populace, and such of the officers and soldiers as had been bound to the deceased by some strong individual feeling of affection, and who now pressed around the coffin, to have the melancholy satisfaction of assisting in its descent.

While the remains of Sir Walter de Selby were conveying from Otterbourne Castle, the Scottish Nobles and Knights who had accompanied the body of the Douglas were engaged in assisting at the obsequies of that heroic Earl at Melrose. All that military or religious pomp could devise or execute was done to honour his remains, and many a mass for the peace of his soul was sung by the pious monks of its abbey. The brave Scottish Knights surrounded his tomb in silence and sorrow, all forgetting that they had gained a victory, and each feeling that he had lost a private friend in him whose body they had consigned to the grave.

It was only that morning that Sir Patrick Hepborne had heard accidentally from his esquire the particulars of his unexpected meeting with Katherine Spears; and this information, added to those circumstances which had so strangely occurred to himself, determined him to proceed to Norham the very next day, where he hoped to unravel the mystery that had been gradually thickening around him. The truce that had been already proclaimed ensured his safety, so that he entered the court-yard of the Norham Tower Hostel with perfect confidence. Although Hepborne and his esquire came after it was dark, the quick eye of Mrs. Kyle immediately recognized them; and, conscious of the share she had had in the treachery so lately attempted against them, she took refuge in the innermost recesses of the kitchen part of the building. But Sang was determined not to spare her, and, after searching everywhere, he at last detected her in her concealment, from which he led her forth in considerable confusion.

“So, beautiful Mrs. Kyle,” said he, “so thou wert minded to have done our two noble knights and their humbler esquires a handsome favour, truly, the last time they did honour thy house? By St. Andrew, we should have made a pretty knot dangling from the ramparts of Norham.”

“Nay, talk not so, Sir Squire,” replied the hostess in a whining tone; “it was the wicked Sir Miers de Willoughby who did bribe me to put ye all in his power. And then he did never talk of aught else but the ransom for thy liberty; and in truth, love did so blind me that I thought no more of the matter. But I trow I am well enow punished for my folly; for here he came, and by his blazons and blandishments, he did so overmatch me that he hath ta’en from me, by way of borrow (a borrow, I wis, that will never come laughing home again), many a handful of the bonny broad pieces my poor husband Sylvester, that is gone, did leave me. Yet natheless have I enow left to make any man rich; and when Ralpho Proudfoot doth return frae the wars——”

“Poor Ralpho Proudfoot will never return,” said Sang, interrupting her, in a melancholy tone; “these hands did help to lay him in the earth.”

“Poor Ralpho,” cried Mrs. Kyle, lifting her apron to a dry eye, “poor Proudfoot! He was indeed a proper pretty man. But verily,” added she, with a deep sigh, whilst at the same time she threw a half-reproachful, half-loving glance at Sang, “verily, ’twere better, perhaps, for a poor weak woman to think no more of man, seeing all are deceivers alike. Wilt thou step this gate, Sir Squire, and taste my Malvoisie? Or wilt thou—”

“What tramp of many feet is that I hear in the village?” demanded Sang, interrupting her.

“’Tis nought but the burying o’ our auld Captain o’ Norham,” replied Mrs. Kyle; “I trust that we sall have some right gay and jolly knight to fill his boots. Auld de Selby was grown useless, I wot. Gi’e me some young rattling blade that will take pleasure in chatting to a bonny buxom quean when she comes in his way. I haena had a word frae the auld man for this I kenna how lang, but a rebuke now and then for the deboshing o’ his men-at-arms, the which was more the fault o’ my good ale than o’ me. But where are ye running till, Master Sang?—Fye on him, he’s away.”

Sang did indeed hasten to tell his master of the passing funeral procession, and Hepborne ran out to follow it. It had already reached the church, and by the time he got to the door the interior was so filled that it was only by immense bodily exertion that he squeezed himself in at a small side door. His eyes immediately caught the figure of the lady, and there they rested, unconscious of all else. The moment she lifted her head he recognized the features of Maurice de Grey and of her whom he had seen on the battle-field of Otterbourne. But her fainting allowed him not a moment for thought. The crowd of men-at-arms between him and the object of his solicitude bid defiance to all his efforts to reach her, and ere he could regain the open air her litter was already almost out of sight.

“Poor soul,” said a compassionate billman, who had been looking anxiously after it, “thou hast indeed good cause to be afflicted. Verily, thou hast lost thy best friend.”

“Of whom dost thou speak, old man?” demanded Hepborne eagerly.

“Of the poor Lady Beatrice, who was carried to the Castle but now,” replied the man.

“What saidst thou?” demanded Hepborne; “Lady Beatrice! Was not that the daughter of thy deceased governor? was not that the Lady Eleanore de Selby, now the Lady de Vere?”

“Nay, Sir Knight, that she be not,” replied the man, “nouther the one nor the other, I wot; and if I might adventure to speak it, I would say that there be those who do think that the Lady Eleanore de Selby, now the Lady de Vere, hath no small spice of the devil in her composition, whilst the Lady Beatrice is well known to all to be an angel upon earth.”

“Who is she, and what is her history, my good fellow?” demanded Hepborne, slipping money into his hand.

“Meseems thou art a stranger, Sir Knight, that thou knowest not the Lady Beatrice,” said the man; “but I can well satisfy thy curiosity, seeing I was with good Sir Walter in that very Border raid during which she did become his. Our men had driven the herds and flocks from a hill on the side of one of the streams of Lammermoor, when, as we passed by the cottage of the shepherd who had fed them, his wife, with an infant in her arms, and two or three other children around her, came furiously out to attack Sir Walter with her tongue, as he rode at the head of his lances. ‘My curse upon ye, ye English loons!’ cried she bitterly; ‘no content wi’ the sweep o’ our master’s hill, ye hae ta’en the bit cow that did feed my poor bairns. Better take my wee anes too, for what can I do wi’ them?’ A soldier was about to quiet her evil tongue by a stroke of his axe. ‘Fye on thee,’ said Sir Walter; ‘what, wouldst thou murder the poor woman? Her rage is but natural. Verily, our prey is large enow without her wretched cow.’ And then, turning to her with a good-natured smile on his face, ‘My good dame, thou shalt have thy cow.’ And the beast was restored to her accordingly. ‘The Virgin’s blessing be on thee, Sir Knight,’ said the woman. ‘And now,’ said Sir Walter, ‘by’r Lady, I warrant me thou wouldst have ill brooked my taking thee at thy word. Marry, I promise thee,’ continued he, pointing to a beautiful girl of five years, apparently her eldest child, ‘marry, I’ll warrant me thou wouldst have grudged mightily to have parted with that bonny face?’ ‘Nay, I do indeed love Beatrice almost as well as she were mine own child, albeit I did only nurse her,’ replied the dame; ‘but of a’ the bairns, she, I wot, is the only one that I could part with.’ ‘Is she not thy child, then?’ said Sir Walter; ‘whose, I pr’ythee, may she be?’ ‘That is what I canna tell thee, Sir Knight,’ replied the woman. ‘It is now about four years and a-half sith that a young lordling came riding down the glen. He was looking for a nurse, and the folk did airt him to me, who had then lost my first-born babe. He put this bairn, whom he called Beatrice, into my arms, and a purse into my lap, and away he flew again, saying that he would soon be back to see how the bairn throve. The baby was richly clad, so methought it must be some fair lady’s stolen love-pledge. But I hae never seen him sithence, nor need I ever look for him now. And troth, Robby and I hae enew o’ hungry mouths to feed withouten hers, poor thing—ay, and maybe a chance o’ mair.’ ‘Wilt thou part with the child to me, then?’ said Sir Walter; ‘I have but one daughter, who is of her age, and I would willingly take this beauteous Beatrice to be her companion.’ The poor woman had many scruples, but her husband, who now ventured to show himself, had none; and, insisting on his wife’s compliance, Beatrice was brought home with us to Norham, adopted by the good Sir Walter, and has ever been treated by him sithence as a second daughter. What marvel, then, Sir Knight, that she should swoon at his burying?”

Light now broke in at once on Sir Patrick Hepborne. As we have seen in the opening chapter of our story, he was struck, even in the twilight, by the superior manner and attractions of the lady who had lost her hawk, and whose gentle demeanour had led him to conclude that she was the Lady Eleanore de Selby, of whose charms he had heard so much. Having been thus mistaken at first, he naturally went on, from all he heard and saw afterwards, and especially in the interviews he had at Norham, with her who now turned out to have been the companion of the Lady Eleanore de Selby, to mislead himself more and more. He returned to his inn to ruminate on this strange discovery; but be the beautiful Beatrice whom she might, he had loved her, and her alone, and he felt that his passion now became stronger than ever. His mind ran hastily over past events; he at once suspected that his inconsiderate jealousy had been, in fact, awakened by accidentally beholding an interview between the real Eleanore de Selby and her lover, and he cursed his haste that had so foolishly hurried him away from Norham; he remembered the fair hand that had waved the white scarf as he was crossing the Tweed; he recalled the countenance, the behaviour, and the conversation of his page, Maurice de Grey; he kissed the emerald ring which he wore on his finger; and his heart was drowned in a rushing tide of wild sensations, where hope and joy rose predominant. His generous soul swelled with transport at the thought of being the protector of her whom he now adored, and whom he now found, at the very moment she was left, as he believed, in a state of utter destitution. His impatience made him deplore that decency forbade his visiting the Lady Beatrice that night, but he resolved to seek for an audience of her early the next morning.

At such hour, then, as a lady could be approached with propriety, he despatched his esquire on an embassy to the Castle. He had little fear of the result, from what had already passed between them; but what was his mortification to learn that the Lady Beatrice had been gone from Norham for above five or six hours, having set out during the night on some distant journey, whither no one in the Castle could divine.

It is impossible to paint the misery of Sir Patrick Hepborne. Hope had been wound up to the highest pitch, and the most grievous disappointment was the issue. He was so much beside himself that he was little master of his actions, and Mortimer Sang was obliged to remind him of the necessity of returning immediately to Melrose, to join his father, who, with the other Scottish nobles and knights, had resolved to stay there for the space of three days ere they should separate.

The warriors parted, with solemn vows uttered over the grave of the Douglas; and Sir Patrick Hepborne and his son, accompanied by the Earl of Moray, Assueton, Halyburton, and a number of other knights, set out for Hailes Castle. The Lady Isabelle was ready to receive them on their arrival. She sprang into the court-yard to clasp her father and her brother to her bosom; and although modesty and maiden bashfulness checked those manifestations of love towards her knight with which her heart overflowed, yet, as he kissed her hand, her cheeks flushed, and her eyes sparkled with a delight that could not be mistaken.

Among those who came out to welcome the war-like party was old Gabriel Lindsay. Leaning on his staff on the threshold, he eagerly scanned each face that came near him with his dim eyes.

“Where is my gallant boy?” cried he. “I trow he need seldom fear to show his head where valorous deads hae been adoing; he hath had his share o’ fame, I warrant me. Ha, Master Sang, welcome home. Where loitereth my gallant boy Robin? he useth not to be so laggard in meeting his old father, I wot. A plague on these burnt-out eyes of mine, I canna see him nowhere.”

“Who can undertake the task of breaking poor Robert’s death to the old man?” cried Sang, turning aside from him in the greatest distress. “Sure I am that I would rather face the fierce phalanx of foes that did work his brave son’s death than tell him of the doleful tidings.”

“Where hast thou left Robin, Master Sang?” said the doting old man again. “Ah, there he is; nay, fye on my blindness, that be’s Richie Morton. Sure, sure my boy was never wont to be laggard last; ’twas but the last time he came home with Sir John Assueton that he had his arms round my ould neck or ever I wist he was at hand; he thought, forsooth, I would not have ken’d him: but, ah, ha, Robin, says I to him——”

“My worthy old friend,” said Sang, quite unable any longer to stand his innocent garrulity, so ill befitting the reception of the bitter news he had to tell him, and taking his withered arm to assist him into the Castle, and leading him gently to his chamber—“my worthy friend, come this way, and I will tell thee of thy son—we shall be better here in private. Robert Lindsay’s wonted valour shone forth with sun-like glory in the bloody field of Otterbourne; but——”

“Ah, full well did I know that he would bravely support the gallant name of Lindsay,” cried the old man, interrupting him with a smile of exultation. “Trust me, the boy hath ever showed that he hath some slender streams of gentle blood in his veins; we are come of good kind, Master Sang, and maybe my boy Robin shall yet win wealth and honours to prove it. My great-great-grandfather—nay, my grandfather’s great-great——”

“But, Robert,” said Sang, wishing to bring old Gabriel back to the sad subject he was about to open.

“Ay, Robert, Master Sang,” replied the old man, “where tarrieth he?”

“At Otterbourne,” replied Sang, deeply affected. “Thy son, thy gallant son, fell gloriously, whilst nobly withstanding the whole force of the English line as they burst into our camp.”

“What sayest thou, Master Sang?” said the infirm old man, who perfectly comprehended the speaker, but was so stunned by his fatal intelligence that his feeble intellect was confused by the blow—“what sayest thou, Master Sang?”

“Thy heroic son was slain,” replied Sang, half choked with his emotions. “This lock of Robert Lindsay’s hair, and these trinkets taken from his person ere we committed his body to the earth, are all that thou canst ever see of him now, old man.”

The esquire sat down, covered his face with his hands, and wept; and then endeavouring to command himself, he looked upward in the face of Gabriel Lindsay, who was standing before him like the decayed trunk of some mighty oak. The time-worn countenance of the old man was unmoved, and his dull eyes were fixed as in vacancy. The wandering so common to wasted age had come over his mind at that moment, sent, as it were, in mercy by Providence to blunt his perception of the dire affliction that had befallen him. Fitful smiles flashed at intervals across his face—his lips moved without sound—and at last he spoke—

“And so thou sayest my boy will be here to-night, Master Sang, and that this is a lock of his bride’s hair? It is golden like his own; my blessing be on him, and that of St. Baldrid. But why feared he to bring her to me attence? Ha, doubtless he thought that the joyful surprise mought hae made my blood dance till it brast my ould heart. But no, Master Sang, joy shall never do for me what sorrow hath failed to work. I lost his mother—lost her in a’ her youth and beauty, and yet I bore it, and humbled myself before Him who giveth and taketh away, and was comforted; and shall I sink beneath the weight of joy? Nay, even had he died in the midst of his glory, I trust I am soldier enow, though I be’s ould, to have borne the news of my son having fallen with honour to Scotland, and to the name of Lindsay; but doth he think that his ould father may not be told, without risk, how he hath fought bravely—how he was noticed by the gallant Douglas—and, aboon a’, how he is coming hame in triumph with a bonny gentle bride? And didst thou say they would be here to-night, Sir Squire? Fye, I must gang and tell Sir Patrick—and the brave young knight—and my Lady Isabelle; they will all rejoice in Gabriel’s glad tidings. A bonny bride, thou sayest, Master Sang; and shall I yet have a babe o’ Robin’s on my knee ere I die? But I must away to Sir Patrick.”

He made an effort to go. Sang rose gently to detain him. He stopped—looked around him wildly—fastened his eyes vacantly for some moments on the ceiling—reason and recollection returned to him, and his dream of bliss passed away.

“Oh, merciful God!” he cried, clasping his hands together in agony of woe. “Oh, my boy, my brave, my virtuous boy, and shall I never see thee more?”

Nature with him was already spent; his failure was instantaneous; his limbs yielded beneath him, and he sank down into the arms of the esquire, who hastily laid him on the bed and ran for assistance. Sir Patrick Hepborne, his son, and the Lady Isabelle, as well as many of the domestics, quickly appeared in great consternation; but they came only to weep over the good old Seneschal—He was gone for ever.

The death of this old and faithful domestic threw a gloom over the Castle, so that Assueton felt that he could hardly press on his marriage-day. At last, however, it was fixed. The preparations were such as became the house of Hepborne; and the ceremony was performed in presence of some of the first nobles and knights of Scotland.

The Countess of Moray had come from Tarnawa to meet her Lord. Sir Patrick Hepborne, the younger, eagerly sought an opportunity of having private conversation with her, hoping to have some explanation of the strange disappearance of his page. But the noble lady, maintaining the same distance towards him she had so mysteriously used, seemed rather disposed to shun the subject; and it was not until Hepborne had prefaced his inquiry with a full exposition of all he suspected, and all he knew, regarding the Lady Eleanore de Selby and the Lady Beatrice, and that she really saw where his heart was sincerely fixed, that she would consent to betray the secret she possessed. Hepborne was then assured that his page Maurice de Grey was no other than the Lady Beatrice.

Believing that Hepborne loved her, she had looked with joy to other meetings with him; she had been filled with anxiety when she heard of the encounter between him and Sir Rafe Piersie; and she was exulting in his triumph over that knight at the very moment they came to tell her of his departure. She hastened to a window overlooking the Tweed, where she beheld the boat that was wafting him to Scotland. It was then, when she thought herself deserted, that she really felt that she loved. Almost unconscious of what she did, she waved her scarf. He replied not to the signal. Again and again she waved, and in vain she stretched her eyeballs to catch a return of the sign. The boat touched the strand; he sprang on shore, and leaped into his saddle. Again in despair she waved; the signal was returned, and that faint sign from the Scottish shore was to her as the twig of hope. So intense had been her feelings that she sank down overpowered by them. Recovering herself, she again gazed from the window. The ferry-boat had returned, and was again moored on the English side. She cast her eyes across to the spot where she had last beheld Sir Patrick. The animating figures were now gone—some yellow gravel, a green bank, a few furze bushes, and a solitary willow, its slender melancholy spray waving in the breeze, were all that appeared, and her chilled and forsaken heart was left as desolate as the scene.

It was at this time that she was called on by friendship to dismiss her own griefs, that she might actively assist the high-spirited Eleanore de Selby. By the result of Sir Rafe Piersie’s visit, that lady was relieved from his addresses; but they were immediately succeeded by the strange proposals of her infatuated father, when deluded by the machinations of the Wizard Ancient. All her tears and all her eloquence were thrown away, and so perfect was Sir Walter’s subjection to the will of the impostor that even his temper was changed, and his affection for his daughter swallowed up, by his anxiety to avert the fate that threatened. Such coercion to a union so disgusting might have roused the spirit of resistance in the most timid female bosom; but Eleanore de Selby, who was high and hot tempered, resolved at once to fly from such persecution; and, taking a solemn vow of secrecy from the Lady Beatrice, she made her the confidant of a recent attachment which had arisen between her and a certain knight whom she had met at a tilting match held at Newcastle a short time before, when she was on a visit to an aunt who resided there. The Lady Eleanore informed her friend that her lover was Sir Hans de Vere, a knight of Zealand, kinsman to the King’s banished favourite the Duke of Ireland, who had lately come from abroad, and who looked to gain the same high place in King Richard’s affections which the Duke himself had filled. From him she had received a visit unknown to her father, and it was the parting of the lovers after that meeting which had so filled Hepborne with jealousy. In the urgency of her affairs she implored her friend to aid her schemes, which were immediately carried into effect by means of the Minstrel.

Having thus been gradually, though unwillingly, drawn to be an accomplice in the Lady Eleanore’s plans, Beatrice felt that she could not stay behind to expose herself to the rage of the bereft father. Having assisted her friend, therefore, to escape, she accompanied her, in male attire, to the place where her lover waited for her at some distance from Norham. There she parted, with many tears, from the companion of her youth, having received from her the emerald ring which Sir Patrick Hepborne afterwards became possessed of. Her own depression of spirits, occasioned by Sir Patrick’s unaccountable desertion of her, had determined her to seek out some convent, where she might find a temporary, if not a permanent retreat. Under the protection of old Adam of Gordon, therefore, she crossed the Tweed into Scotland. There he procured her a Scottish guide to conduct her to North Berwick, where he had a relation among the Cistertian nuns, and thither she was proceeding at the time she met Hepborne in the grove by the side of the Tyne.

When Sir Patrick addressed her she felt so much fluttered that it was some time before she could invent a plausible account of herself; and when he proposed to her to become his page, love triumphed over her better judgment, and she could not resist the temptation of an offer that held out so fair an opportunity of knowing more of him, and of trying the state of his heart. As to the latter she became convinced, by some of those conversations we have detailed, that she had been cruelly deceived, and that she had in reality no share in it. She heard him passionately declare his inextinguishable love for the Lady Eleanore de Selby, and when he said that he had seen too much of her for his peace of mind, she naturally enough concluded that they had met together on some former occasion. She became unhappy at her own imprudence in so rashly joining his party, and was anxious to avail herself of the first opportunity of escaping from one whose heart never could be hers. The Countess of Moray’s kindness to her as Maurice de Grey induced her to discover herself to that lady. She earnestly entreated that she might remain concealed, and that Sir Patrick might not be informed. It was the Lady Jane de Vaux who laid the plan for deceiving him about the departure of his page, and she and the Countess of Moray could not resist indulging in tormenting one whom they believed to have wantonly sported with the affections of the Lady Beatrice, and who had consequently suffered deeply in the good opinion of both.

The Minstrel, who, to do away suspicion, had returned to Norham immediately after the escape of the ladies, no sooner learned from the guide the change which had taken place in Beatrice’s plans, and that she had gone to Tarnawa, than he determined to follow her thither, under pretence of going to the tournament. Having learned from him that her benefactor, Sir Walter de Selby, had been overwhelmed with affliction for the loss of his daughter, of whose fate he was yet ignorant, and that he had also grievously complained of her own desertion of him, she was filled with remorse, and determined to return to him immediately, and to brave all his reproaches; but indisposition, arising from the trying fatigue of body and the mental misery she had undergone, prevented her setting out until several days after the departure of the Earl of Moray and his knights for Aberdeen. Hepborne could now no longer doubt of the attachment of the Lady Beatrice. The thought that he had ignorantly thrown away a heart so valuable as that which his intercourse with his page had given him ample opportunity to know, was a source of bitter distress to him. His spirits fled, he loathed society, and he industriously shunned the huntings, hawkings, dancings, and masquings that were going merrily forward in honour of his friend’s nuptials with his sister the Lady Isabelle.

But Assueton was not so selfishly occupied in his own joys as not to be struck with the change in his beloved Hepborne. He besought him to unbosom the secret sorrow that was so evidently preying on his mind, and Sir Patrick, who had hitherto generously concealed it, that he might not poison the happiness in which he could not participate, at last yielded to the entreaty, and told him all. Sir John had but little of comfort to offer: the subject was one that hardly admitted of any. He saw that the only way in which friendship could be useful was by rousing him to do something that might actively divert his melancholy.

Sir David de Lindsay having returned from his captivity in England, had lately arrived at Hailes, where Sir William de Dalzel and Sir John Halyburton had remained, to witness Assueton’s marriage. They were now about to proceed to London, to make good the pledge given to Lord Welles. Hepborne would have fain excused himself from the engagement he had so cheerfully made with them at Tarnawa, but Assueton contrived to pique his chivalric spirit, and at length succeeded in inducing him to become one of the party. Sir John even offered to accompany his friend, but Hepborne would by no means permit him to leave his newly-married Lady.

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Chapter LXIII

The Scottish Knights at the English Court—The wealthy London Merchant—Combat on London Bridge.

Everything that art could achieve, by means of steel, gold, embossing, embroidery, and emblazoning, was done to give splendour to the array of Sir David Lindsay, and his companions and attendants, that Scotland should, if possible, be in no whit behind England upon this occasion. A safe-conduct was readily granted them by the English court, and they departed, all high in spirits, save Hepborne alone, who seemed to suffer the journey rather than to enjoy it. They travelled very leisurely, and frequently halted by the way, that their horses might not be oppressed; and they were everywhere received with marked respect.

It was towards the end of the third week that they found themselves crossing a wide glade among those immense forests which then covered the country, lying immediately to the north of the English metropolis, when they were attracted by an encampment of gay pavilions, pitched among the thin skirting trees. A strong guard of archers and well-mounted lances, that patrolled around the place, proved that there was some one there of no mean consequence. Within the circle was a vast and motley crowd of people, moving about in all the rich and varied costumes which then prevailed. There could be descried many nobles, knights, and esquires, some equipt in fanciful hunting-garbs, and others in all the foppery of golden circlets, flowing robes, party-coloured hose, and long-pointed shoes, attached to knee-chains of gold and silver; and these were mingled with groups of huntsmen, falconers, pages, grooms, lacqueys, and even hosts of cooks and scullions. Many were on horseback, and whole rows of beautiful horses were picketted in different places, and their neighing mingled cheerily with the baying of tied-up hounds and the hum of many merry voices.

It was a spectacle well calculated to arrest the attention of the Scottish knights, and accordingly they halted to enjoy it, and to listen to the trumpets and timbrels that now began to sound. In a little time they observed a party of horsemen leave the encampment, and they were soon aware that it came to meet them. At the head was a knight clad in a white hunting-coif richly flowered with gold, and a sky-blue gippon of the most costly materials, thickly wrought with embroidery, while the toes of his tawny boots, being released from their knee-chains, hung down nearly a yard from his stirrup-irons. On his wrist sat a falcon, the badge of a knight. He rode a superb horse, and his housings corresponded in grandeur with everything else belonging to him.

“Ha!” exclaimed he, as he reined up his steed affectedly in front of the group, raised himself in his high-peaked saddle, and, standing in his stirrups, put his bridle-hand to his side, as if selecting the attitude best calculated to show off his uncommonly handsome person; “ha! so I see that my divination doth prove to have been true to most miraculous exactitude. My Lord of Welles must forfeit an hundred pieces, in compliment to my superior accuracy of vision and of judgment. Sir David de Lindsay, I knew thy banner. I do give thee welcome to England, beausir; nay, I may add, welcome to London too, seeing thou art barely two leagues from its walls, and that the very spirit of its greatness is here in these sylvan solitudes, in the person of the Royal Richard, attended as he is by his chivalrous Court.”

“Sir Piers Courtenay,” exclaimed Sir David de Lindsay, “perdie, it doth rejoice me to behold thee, strangers as we are, in these parts.”

“Trust me, ye shall be strangers no longer, gentle sir,” replied Sir Piers, with a condescending inclination of body, that he now deigned to continue round, with his eyes directed to the other knights severally, whom he had not noticed until now. “When I, with singularly fortunate instinct, did assert that it was thee and thy bandon we beheld, the Lord Welles did wager me an hundred pieces that I did err in sagacity; but as I parted from him to ride hither, to bring mine accuracy to the proof, he charged me, if I were right, to invite thee and thy company to the Royal camp.”

“Travel-worn and dust-begrimed as we are,” said Sir William de Dalzel, “meseems we shall be but sorry sights for the eyes of Royalty, especially amid a crowd of gallants so glittering as the sample thou hast brought us in thine own sweet and perfumed person, beausir.”

“Nay, nay,” replied Sir Piers Courtenay, glancing with contempt at Dalzel’s war-worn surcoat, and taking his ironical remark as an actual compliment, “we are but accoutred, as thou seest, for rustic sport; we are shorn of our beams among the shades of these forests. But let us not tarry, I pray thee; the sports of the morning are already over; the sylvan meal is about to be spread in the grand pavilion, and rude though it be, it may not come amiss to those who have already travelled since dawn. Let us hasten thither, then, for the King doth return to London after feeding.”

Under the guidance of this pink of fashion, the Scottish knights advanced towards the Royal hunting-encampment; and long ere they reached it, the Lord Welles, who already saw that he had lost his wager, came forth to meet them, and received them with all that warmth of hospitality which characterized the English people of all ranks even in those early days, and for which they were already famed among foreign nations. He led them through a mass of guards, who, though they appeared but to form a part of the pageantry of the Royal sports, were yet so completely armed, both men and horses, that it was manifest security from sudden surprise was the chief object of their being placed there.

Sir David Lindsay and his companions, after quitting their saddles, were led by the Lord Welles to his own tent, where they soon rendered themselves fit to appear before Royal eyes. They were then conducted to the King’s pavilion, which they found surrounded by a strong body of archers, and they had no sooner entered the outer part of it than they were introduced to the Earls of Kent and Huntingdon, half-brothers to the King, who were in waiting. These were now Richard’s chief favourites since the late banishment of De Vere, Duke of Ireland, and others. By these noblemen they were immediately introduced into the Royal presence.

The young Richard was not deficient in that manly beauty possessed by his heroic father, the nation’s idol, Edward the Black Prince, but his countenance was softened by many of those delicate traits which gave to his lovely mother the appellation of the Fair Maid of Kent. His eyes, though fine and full, were of unsteady expression, frequently displaying a certain confidence in self-opinion, that suddenly gave way to doubt and hesitation. Though the dress he had on was of the same shape as that worn by his courtiers, being that generally used by noblemen of the period when hunting, yet, costly as was the attire of those around him, his was most conspicuous among them all, by the rich nature of the materials of which it was composed, as well as by the massive and glittering ornaments he wore. The gorgeous furniture of his temporary residence too, with the endless numbers of splendidly habited domestics who waited, might have been enough of themselves to have explained to the Scottish knights whence that dissatisfaction arose among his subjects, who were compelled to contribute to expenditure so profuse.

The King’s natural disposition to be familiar with all who approached him would of itself have secured a gracious reception to Sir David de Lindsay and his companions, but the cause of their visit made them doubly welcome. Their coming ensured him an idle show and an empty pageant which would furnish him with an apology for making fresh draughts on his already over-drained people. Every honour, therefore, was paid them, as if they had been public ambassadors from the nation to which they belonged, and the most conspicuous places were assigned them at that luxurious board where the Royal collation was spread, and where, much as they had seen, their eyes were utterly confounded by the profusion of rarities that appeared.

The King had been hunting for nearly a week in these suburban wilds, and he was now about to return to his palace in the Tower, which he at this time preferred as a residence to that of Westminster. But the pleasures of the table, seasoned by dissolute conversation with the profligate knights and loose ladies, who were most encouraged at his Court, together with that indolence into which he was so apt to sink, had at all times too great charms for him to permit him easily to move from them. He therefore allowed the hours to pass in epicurean indulgence, whilst he gazed on the wanton attitudes of the women who danced before him, or on the feats of jugglers and tumblers.

At length the camp was ordered to be broken up, and then the whole Royal attention became occupied in the arrangement of the cavalcade, so that it might produce the most imposing effect, and the humblest individuals were not considered as unworthy of a King’s notice on so important an occasion. All were soon put into the wished-for order, and Richard himself figured most prominently of all, proudly mounted on a magnificently-caparisoned horse, having housings that swept the ground. A canopy was borne over him by twelve esquires, and he was surrounded by his archers. Sir David de Lindsay and his companions formed a part of this pageant, which they failed not to remark was carefully defended on all sides by well-armed horsemen.

From the summit of an eminence the Scottish knights caught their first view of London, then clustered into a small space within its confined walls. It seemed to be tied like a knot, as it were, on the winding thread of the majestic Thames, which, after washing the walls of the Palace of Westminster, flowed thence gently along its banks, fringed by the gardens and scattered country-dwellings of the nobility and richer citizens, until it was lost for a time amid the smoke arising from the dusky mass of the city, to appear farther down with yet greater brilliancy. The sun was already getting low, and was shooting its rays aslant through the thick atmosphere that hung over the town. They caught on its most prominent points, and brought fully into notice the venerable tower and spire of the then Gothic St. Paul’s, and the steeples of the few churches and monasteries which the city contained, together with its turreted walls and its castles. All between the partially wooded slope they stood on and the gates, was one wild pasture, partly covered with heath, interspersed with thickets, and partly by swamps, and a large lake.

As they drew nearer to the city, they passed by crowds of young citizens engaged in athletic exercises. Some were wrestling; others, mounted on spirited horses and armed with lances, were tilting at the quintaine, or jousting with wooden points against each other. In one place they were shooting with bows at a mark; and in another, groups of young men and damsels were seen dancing under the shade of trees, to the gratification of many a father and mother who looked on. Besides these, the ground was peopled by vendors of refreshments; and, in diverse corners, jugglers and posture-masters were busy with their tricks before knots of wondering mechanics. So keenly were all engaged, that the Royal hunting party, carefully as the order of its march had been prepared, passed by unheeded, or, if noticed at all, it was by a secret curse from some of the disaffected, who grudged to see that Richard had been hunting in that part of the forest which it was more particularly the privilege of the citizens of London to use. Nor did the haughty courtiers regard these humbler people, except to indulge in many a cutting jest at their expense, which Richard’s ready laugh of approbation showed they were thoroughly licensed to do.

“We have seen some such jousting as this before,” said Courtenay, with a sly toss of his head, immediately after an awkward exhibition that had accidentally attracted notice.

“Yea, so have I too,” observed Dalzel calmly; “I did once see ane English knight tilt so on the Mead of St. John’s.”

Crossing the broad ditch of the city by a drawbridge, they made their entry between the towers of Cripplegate, having its name from the swarms of beggars by which it was generally infested, and they immediately found themselves in narrow streets of wooden houses, uncouthly projecting as they rose upwards, and detached shops, which were already shut up for the day. Here and there the windows were decorated with coloured cloth or carpets, and some few idle vagabonds ran after the cavalcade crying out, “Long live King Richard!” looking to be recompensed for their mercenary loyalty by liberal largess. But the respectable citizens were already enjoying their own recreation in the Moorfields, those who did remain having little inclination to join in the cry where the Monarch was so unpopular; and many a sturdy black muzzled mechanic went scowling off the street to hide in some dark lane as he saw the procession approaching, bestowing his malediction on that heartless prodigality and luxury which robbed him and his infants to supply its diseased appetite. Hepborne and Halyburton, who rode together, could not help remarking this want of loyal feeling towards the young English Monarch; and, calling to mind the enthusiasm with which they had seen the aged King Robert of Scotland, in his grey woollen hose, greeted by his people, they began to suspect that there must be faults of no trifling sort in a Prince to whom nature had given so pleasing an exterior.

Having got within the fortifications of the Tower, the Scottish knights were astonished with the immense army of the minions of luxury who filled its courts. The King himself signified his pleasure to Sir David Lindsay and his friends that they should enter the Royal apartments, where they partook of wine and spices, handed about in rich golden cups; after which a banquet followed in a style of magnificence calculated to make everything they had before seen to be altogether forgotten in comparison with it. The King honoured them with his peculiar attention, and even deigned to attend to making provision for their proper accommodation. For this purpose, he called for the Lord Welles, and gave him a list of those persons who were to be honoured with the expense of lodging and entertaining these strangers and their people. With singular contradiction to his own wish that they should be treated with exemplary hospitality, he chose to select as their hosts certain persons who had offended him, and whom he had a desire to punish, by thus exposing them to great expense; and so the strangers were thrown into situations where anything but voluntary kindness might be looked for.

When the King gave them their leave, they found their esquires in waiting for them. Mortimer Sang led Hepborne into the Vintry, to the house of a certain Lawrence Ratcliffe, a wine merchant. His dwelling was within a gateway and courtyard, on each side of which there were long rows of warehouses and vaults extending nearly quite down to the river wall.

It was dark when Sir Patrick entered the court-yard, and as he passed onwards to where he saw a lamp burning within the doorway of the dwelling house, he heard the voice of a man issuing from an outbuilding.

“Jehan Petit,” said the person, who spoke to some one who followed him, “see that thou dost give out no wine to this Scot but of that cargo, the which did ship the sea water, and that tastes brackish. An the King will make us maintain all his strange cattle, by St. Paul, but as far as I have to do with them they shall content themselves with such feeding as it may please me to bestow. Let the esquire and the other trash have sour ale, ’tis good enow for the knaves; and I promise thee it will well enow match the rest of their fare, and the herborow they shall have. Alas, poor England! ay, and above all, alas, poor London! for an we have not a change soon, we shall be eaten up by the King’s cormorants—a plague rot ’em!”

By this time Hepborne and his landlord met in the stream of light that issued from the open doorway. Hepborne made a courteous though dignified obeisance to Master Ratcliffe, a stout elderly man, whose face showed that he had not been at all negligent during his life in tasting, that he might have personal knowledge of what was really good before he ventured to give it to his friends. The wine merchant was taken somewhat unawares. He had made up his mind to be as cross and as rude as he well could to the guest that had been thus forced upon him. But Hepborne’s polite deportment commanded a return from a man who had been in France, and he bent to the stranger with a much better grace than he could have wished to have bestowed on him.

“I do address myself to Master Lawrence Ratcliffe, if I err not?” said Hepborne, in a civil tone.

“Yea, I am that man,” replied the other, recovering something of his sulky humour.

“Master Ratcliffe,” said Hepborne, with great civility of manner, “I understand that His Majesty the King of England’s hospitality to strangers hath been the cause of throwing me to thy lot. But I cannot suffer his kindness to a Scottish knight to do injury to a worthy citizen of his own good city of London. To keep me and my people in thy house, would run thee into much trouble, not to talk of the expense, the which no man of trade can well bear. I come, therefore, to entreat thee to permit me to rid thee and thy house of unbidden guests, who cannot choose but give thee great annoy, and to crave thine advice as to what inn or hostel I should find it most convenient to remove to. By granting me this, thou wilt make me much beholden to thee.”

Master Lawrence Ratcliffe looked at Hepborne with no small astonishment. This was a sort of behaviour to which he had been but little used, and for which he was by no means prepared.

“Nay, by St. Stephen, Sir Knight, thou shalt not move,” said he at last; “by all the blessed saints, thou shalt have the best bed and the best food that London can furnish; yea, and wine, too, the which let me tell thee, the King himself cannot command. Go, get the key of the trap cellar, Jehan Petit,” said he, turning briskly to his attendant; “bring up some flasks of the right Bourdeaux and Malvoisie. Thou dost well know their marks, I wot.”

“Nay, send him not for wine, I pray thee, good Master Ratcliffe,” cried Hepborne; “I trow I have already drank as much as may be seemly for this night.”

“Chut,” cried the wine merchant, with a face of glee, “all that may be; yet shall we drain a flask to our better acquaintance. Fly, sirrah Jehan! This way, Sir Knight. Would that Heaven mought send us a flight of such rare birds as thou art; thine ensample mought peraunter work a change on these all-devouring vultures of King Richard’s Court. This way, Sir Knight. Have a care, there be an evil step there.”

Master Lawrence Ratcliffe ushered Hepborne into a very handsomely furnished apartment, the walls of which were hung round with costly cloths. It was largely supplied with velvet and silk covered chairs, and with many an ancient cabinet, and it was lighted by a small silver lamp. They were hardly seated, when a lacquey brought in a silver basket of sweetmeats and dried fruits, and soon afterwards Jehan Petit appeared with the venerable flasks for which Master Ratcliffe had despatched him. It was with some difficulty that Hepborne could prevent the liberal Englishman from ordering a sumptuous banquet to be prepared, by declaring that repose, not food, was what he now required; but he made up for this check on his hospitality by giving ample directions for the comfort of all the members of Hepborne’s retinue, quadrupeds as well as bipeds. The wine was nectar, yet Hepborne drank but little of it; but Master Ratcliffe did ample duty for both.

“I fear, Sir Knight, that thy people were but scurvily treated ere thou camest,” said he to Hepborne; “but, in good verity, I have too much of this free quartering thrust upon me by the Court. I promise thee, King Richard is not always content with his two tuns out of each of my wine ships. By’r Lady, he doth often help himself to ten tuns at a time from these cellars of mine, and that, too, as if he were doing me high honour all the while. It did so happen lately that he lacked some hundred of broad pieces for his immediate necessities. Down came my Lord of Huntingdon with his bows and fair words. ‘Master Lawrence Ratcliffe,’ said he, ‘it is His Majesty’s Royal pleasure to do thee an especial honour.’ ‘What,’ cried I, ‘my Lord of Huntingdon, doth the King purpose to make an Earl of me?’ ‘Nay, not quite that,’ replied his Lordship, somewhat offended at my boldness, ‘not quite that, Master Ratcliffe, but, knowing that thou art one of the richest merchants of his good city of London, he hath resolved to prefer thee to be his creditor rather than any other. Lend him, therefore, five hundred pieces for a present necessity. And seeing it was I who did bring this high honour upon thy shoulders, by frequently enlarging to the King of thy princely wealth, thou mayest at same time lend me fifty pieces from thine endless hoards, for mine own private use.’ ‘My Lord,’ replied I, ‘seeing that thou thyself hast been altogether misinformed as to my wealth, thou mayest hie thee back speedily to undeceive the King, else may the Royal wrath peradventure be poured out upon thee, for filling his ear with that which lacketh foundation. I have no money hoards to play the Jew withal.’ ‘Nay, then,’ replied Huntingdon, with a threatening aspect, ‘thou mayest look for the King’s wrath falling on thine own head, not on mine. By St. Paul, thou shalt repent thee of this thy discourteous conduct to the King.’ The profligate Earl was hardly gone when I felt that I had permitted my indignation to carry me too far, and that it would have been wiser to have paid five times the demand, and I soon had proof of this. I judged it best to pay the money; yet hardly hath a week elapsed sithence that I have not been tormented in a thousand ways by orders from the Court. But, by’r Lady, such a state of things may not last,” said he, after a pause; and then starting, as if he thought he had perhaps said too much, “for what poor merchant’s coffers may stand out against such drafts as these? And now, Sir Knight, thou mayest judge why I was resolved to receive thee so vilely. But thou mayest thank thine own courtesy for so speedily disarming my resolution.”

On the ensuing morning the Lord Welles came, by the King’s order, to wait on Sir David Lindsay, and to invite him and his companions to a Royal banquet, to be given that day at the Palace of Westminster, whither they were to go in grand procession by land, and to return by water to the Tower at night. The Scottish knights, therefore, joined the Royal party, and leaving the city by Ludgate, descended into the beautiful country which bordered the Thames, their eyes delighted, as they rode along, by the appearance of the suburban palaces and gardens which lay scattered along the river’s bank. Passing through the village of Charing, they approached the venerable Abbey and Palace of Westminster, and were received within the fortified walls of the latter. The entertainment given in the magnificent hall was on a scale of extravagance perfectly appalling, both as to number of dishes and rarity of the viands; and the aquatic pageant of painted boats was no less wonderful. It was impossible for the poor commons to behold the money wrenched from their industry thus scattered in a useless luxury that but little nourished their trade or manufactures, or at least could not appear to their ignorance to have such a tendency, without their becoming disaffected; and, accordingly, every new pageant of this kind only added to the mass of the malcontents.

The handsome Courtenay had this day outshone all his former splendour of attire.

“Didst thou mark that popinjay Sir Piers Courtenay?” demanded Sir William de Dalzel, as they were returning in the boat; “didst thou mark the bragging device on his azure silk surcoat?”

“I did note it,” replied Halyburton; “a falcon embroidered in divers silks, that did cunningly ape the natural colours of the bird.”

“Yea, but didst thou note the legend, too?” continued Sir William de Dalzel. “It ran thus, methinks—

I bear a falcon fairest of flight: Whoso pinches at her his death is dight, In graith.”

“Ha,” said Hepborne, “by St. Andrew, a fair challenge to us all; the more, too, that it doth come after the many taunts he did slyly throw out against Scottish chivalry at Tarnawa. But he shall not lack a hand to pinch at his falcon, for I shall do it this night, lest the braggart shall change his attire.”

“Nay, nay, leave him to me, I entreat thee,” said Sir William de Dalzel. “He is mine by right, seeing I did first note his arrogant motto. Trust me, I shall not leave London without bringing down this empty peacock, so that he shall be the laughing-stock of his own companions.”

On the plea of giving sufficient repose to the Scottish champion, Richard ordained that yet three more days should pass ere the joust should take place between Sir David Lindsay and the Lord Welles; and the time was spent in divers amusements, and in balls, masquings, and feastings.

At length the day of the tilting arrived, and everything had been done to make the exhibition a splendid one. Triumphal arches had been erected in several parts of Thames Street; and the inhabitants were compelled by Royal proclamation to garnish their windows with flowers and boughs, and to hang out cloths and carpets; while many of those who had houses on London Bridge were forced by an edict to vacate their dwellings, for the use of the King and such of his courtiers and attendants as he chose to carry thither with him. These houses were wretched enough in themselves, being frail wooden tenements, arising from each side of the Bridge, partly founded on it, so as to narrow its street to about twenty-three feet, and partly resting on posts driven in to the bed of the stream, so that they hung half over the water, and were, in some cases, only saved from falling backwards into it by strong wooden arches that crossed the street from one house to another, and bound them together.

The Royal procession was to be arranged in the Tower-yard, and in obedience to the commands of King Richard, the Scottish knights repaired thither to take their place in it. The banner of Sir David Lindsay, bearing gules, a fess cheque argent and azure, with his crest an ostrich proper, holding in his beak a key or, appeared conspicuous; and his whole party, esquires as well as knights, were mounted and armed in a style that was by no means disgraceful to poor Scotland, though in costliness of material and external glitter they were much eclipsed by the English knights. Of these Sir Piers Courtenay, who was to perform the part of second to the Lord Welles, seemed resolved to be second to none in outward show. His tilting-helmet was surmounted by a plume that was perfectly matchless, and there the falcon, which on this occasion he had chosen as his crest, was proudly nestled. His coat of mail was covered with azure silk. The belt for his shield, and the girdle-stead for his sword, were of crimson velvet, richly ornamented with golden studs and precious stones. The roundels on his shoulders and elbows were, or at least appeared to be, of gold. His mamillieres were of wrought gold ornamented with gems, and heavy golden chains, of sufficient length not to impede his full action when using the weapon, depended from them, so as to attach the hilt of his sword to his right breast, and the scabbard of it to his left. His sword and his dagger were exquisite both as to materials and workmanship; but what most attracted attention was the azure silken surcoat embroidered with the falcon upon it, and the vaunting motto—

I bear a falcon fairest of flight: Whoso pinches at her his death is dight, In graith.

Courtenay rode about, making his horse perform many a fanciful curvet, full of self-approbation, and throwing many a significant glance towards the Scottish party, as he capered by them, evidently with the desire of provoking some one among them to accept the mute and general challenge he gave, and winking to his friends at the same time, as if he believed that there was little chance of its being noticed. The sagacious Sir John Constable and some others said all they could to check his impertinent foolery, but their friendly advices were thrown away on the coxcomb.

All being prepared, King Richard was becoming impatient to move off, when it was signified to him that Sir William de Dalzel, who was to be second to Sir David de Lindsay, had not yet appeared. The King ordered an esquire to hasten to his lodgings to tell him he was waited for, when just at that moment a knight appeared attired in a style of splendour that was only to be equalled by Sir Piers Courtenay himself; but what was more wonderful, he seemed to be in every respect the very double of that magnificent cavalier. All eyes were directed towards him, and when he came nearer, the King himself gave way to immoderate fits of laughter, in which he was heartily joined by every one in the court-yard, down to the lowest groom; in short, by all save one, and that was Sir Piers Courtenay.

This second edition of the English exquisite was Sir William de Dalzel, who, having found out beforehand what Courtenay was to appear in, had contrived, with great exertion, pains, and expense, to fit himself with a surcoat and appendages exactly resembling those of the coxcomb; with this difference only, that his azure silk surcoat had on it a magpie, embroidered with divers coloured threads, with this motto—

I bear a pyet pykkand at ane piece: Whasa pykes at her I sall pyke at his nese, In faith.

The laugh continued, whilst the square-built Dalzel rode about with his vizor up, wearing a well-dissembled air of astonishment, as if he could by no means divine what it was that gave rise to so much merriment. But Courtenay could bear it no longer. He even forgot the Royal presence of Richard, which, however, was but seldom wont to throw much awe over those with whom he was in the habit of being familiar.

“By the body of Saint George,” exclaimed Courtenay, riding up to Dalzel, “thou hast attired thyself, Sir Scot, but in mockery of me. By the Holy St. Erkenwold, thou shalt speedily answer for thine unknightly rudeness.”

“Nay, by the body of St. Andrew, Sir Englishman, the which I do take to be an oath that ought to match thine,” said Dalzel, with great coolness, seasoned with an air of waggery, “I do in nowise insult thee by mine attire more than thine attire doth insult me. Perdie, on the contrarie, I do but give thee infinite honour, in the strict observance of thine excellent fashion. Didst thou not, with great condescension, bestow upon the Scottish chivauncie at Tarnawa, myself being one, full many a wise saw on the supereminent judgment of English knights, or rather of thyself, the cream of all English knighthood, in matters of dress and arming? Didst thou not discuss it, buckle by buckle? Hither then am I come, in all my clownishness, to profit by thy wisdom; and such being mine errand, how, I pray thee, can I do better than copy thee to the nail—thou, I say, who canst so well teach me to put on a brave golden outside, where peradventure the inner metal may be but leaden?”

“By the rood of St. Paul,” cried Courtenay, “thine evil chosen attirement was but small offence, compared to that thou hast now heaped on me by thy sarcastic commentary on it. I will hear no more. There!” said he, dashing down his gauntlet on the pavement. “With permission of the Royal presence, in which I now am, I do hereby challenge thee to combat of outrance, to be fought after the tilting-match.”

“Nay, sith that thou wilt fly thy fair falcon at my poor pie,” said Dalzel, “and run his head into my very talons with thy eagerness, by the blessed bones of St. Dunstan, I will pinch her as well as ever the monk did the beak of the Evil One;” and saying so, he leaped from his saddle, and taking up the gauntlet stuck it in his helmet.

The procession being now formed, moved off in order and with sound of trumpet by the Tower-gate, and so along Thames Street, towards the bridge, where the Royal party were accommodated in the balconies and windows of the central houses, close to where the shock of the encounter was expected to take place. The bridge was then cleared of all obstacles, and the gates at either end were shut so as to act as barriers to keep out all but the combatants or those who waited on them.

The scene was now very imposing. The antique wooden fronts of the houses, of different projections and altitudes, approaching nearer and nearer to each other, as they rose storey above storey, till they came so close at top as to leave but a mere riband’s breadth of sky visible; the endless variety of windows and balconies, decorated with webs of various-coloured cloths, tapestry, and painted emblazonments; the arches that crossed from one side of the way to the other, hung with pennons and streamers of every possible shade; the Gothic tower that rose from one part of the bridge, where the banner of England waved from a flag-staff set among the grizzly heads of many a victim of tyranny, as well as many a traitor, among which last that of Wat Tyler was then conspicuous; and these, contrasted with the crowds of gay knights and ladies who shone within the lattices and balconies, the gorgeous band of heralds, the grotesque trumpeters, and musicians of all kinds, and the whimsical attire of the numerous attendants on the lists were objects singularly romantic in themselves, and the effect of them was heightened by the courtly-subdued whisper that murmured along on both sides, mingling with the deafened sound of the river dashing against the sterlings of the bridge underneath.

It being signified to the King that the knights were ready, he ordered the speaker of the lists to give the word, “Hors, chevaliers!” and the heralds’ trumpets blew. The barriers at both ends of the bridge were then opened, and Sir David Lindsay entered from the north, attended by Sir William de Dalzel. The Lord Welles and Sir Piers Courtenay, who had purposely crossed into what is now Southwark, appeared from that direction. The trumpets then sounded from both ends of the lists, and the challenge was proclaimed by one herald on the part of the Lord Welles, and accepted by another on the part of Sir David de Lindsay, while the articles of agreement as to the terms of combat, which had been regularly drawn up and signed by both parties at Tarnawa, were read from the balcony of the heralds. The combatants then rode slowly from each end until they met and measured lances, when their arms were examined by the marshal, and their persons searched to ascertain that neither carried charms or enchantments about him. The knights then crossed each other, and each attended by his companion and one esquire, rode slowly along to the opposite end of the bridge, and then returned each to his own place, by this means showing themselves fully to the spectators. The Lord Welles was mounted on a bright bay horse, and Sir David Lindsay rode a chestnut, both of great powers. But the figures, and still more the colours, of the noble animals, were hid beneath their barbed chamfronts and their sweeping silken housings.

The King now gave his Royal signal for the joust to begin by the usual words, “Laissez les aller,” and the heralds having repeated them aloud, the trumpets sounded, and they flew towards each other with furious impetus, the fire flashing from the stones as they came on. An anxious murmur rushed along the line of spectators, eagerly were their heads thrust forward to watch the result. The combatants met, and both lances were shivered. That of Sir David Lindsay took his opponent in the shield, and had nearly unseated him, whilst he received the point of the Lord Welles’ right in the midst of his ostrich-crested casque; but although the concussion was so great as to make both horses reel backwards, yet the Scottish knight sat firm as a rock. The seconds now came up, and new lances being given to the combatants, each rode slowly away to his own barrier to await the signal for the next course.

It was given, and again the two knights rushed to the encounter, and again were the lances shivered with a similar result. Sir David Lindsay received his adversary’s point full in the bars of his vizor, yet he sat unmoved as if he had been but the human half of a Centaur. A murmur ran along among the spectators; with some it was applause for his steadiness of seat, but with by far the greater number it was dissatisfaction. It grew in strength, and at length loud murmurs arose.

“He is tied to his saddle—Sir David de Lindsay is tied to his saddle. Never had mortal man a seat so firm without the aid of trick or fallas. Prove him, prove him—let him dismount if he can!”

Sir David Lindsay soon satisfied them. He sprung to the ground, making the bridge ring again with the weight of his harness, and walking up opposite to the balcony where the King sat, he made his obeisance to Majesty. His well-managed horse followed him like a dog, and the knight, after thus satisfying the Monarch and every one of the falsehood of the charge that had been made against him, leaped again into his saddle, armed as he was. Hitherto the choice breeding of those who were present had confined the applause to the mere courtly clapping of hands. But now they forgot that they were nobles, knights, and ladies of high degree, and the continued shout that arose might have done honour to the most plebeian lungs.

The combatants now again returned each to his barrier. The trumpets again sounded, and again the generous steeds sprang to their full speed. But now it was manifest that Sir David Lindsay was in earnest, and that he had hardly been so before, was proved by the tremendous violence of the shock with which his blunt lance head came in contact with the neck-piece of the Lord Welles, who was lifted as it were from his saddle, and tossed some yards beyond his horse. So terrific was the effect of Sir David Lindsay’s weapon that the operation of the lance borne by the Lord Welles was so absolutely overlooked that no one could tell what it had been, and so admirably was Lindsay’s skill and strength displayed by this sudden and terrible overthrow of his opponent, that the spectators, with all the honest impartiality of Englishmen and Englishwomen, shouted as loudly as if the triumph had been with their own champion, when the trumpets proclaimed the victory of the Scottish Knight.

The gallant Lindsay leaped from his horse, and, altogether unheeding the praises that were showering upon him, ran to lift up his opponent, who lay without motion. With the assistance of the seconds and esquires, he raised him, and his helmet being unlaced, he was discovered to be in a swoon, and it was judged that he was severely bruised. A litter was immediately brought, and the discomfited knight speedily carried off to his lodgings in the Tower. Meanwhile Lindsay’s attention was called by the voice of the King.

“Sir David de Lindsay,” said he, addressing him from his balcony, “we do heartily give thee joy of thy victory. Thou hast acquitted thyself like a true and valiant knight. Come up hither that we may bestow our Royal guerdon on thee.”

Lindsay ran up stairs to the balcony where the King sat, and kneeling on one knee before him—

“Accept this gemmed golden chain, in token of Richard’s approbation of thy prowess,” said the Monarch, throwing the chain over his neck; “and now thou hast full leave to return to thine own country when thou mayest be pleased so to do, bearing with thee safe-conduct through the realm of England.”

“Most Royal Sir,” said Lindsay, “I shall bear this thy gift as my proudest badge; but may I crave thy gracious leave to tarry at thy Court until I do see that the Lord Welles is restored to health by the leeches? Verily, I should return but sadly into Scotland did I believe that I had caused aught of serious evil to so brave a lord.”

“Nay, that at thy discretion, Sir Knight,” replied Richard; “our Court shall be but the prouder while graced by such a flower of chivalry as thyself.”

Lindsay bowed his thanks, and then retreated from the applauses which rang in his ears, that he might hasten to follow the Lord Welles to his lodgings, where he took his place by his bed-side, and began to execute the duties of a nurse, rarely quitting him for many days, that is, until his cure was perfected.

Lindsay was no sooner gone than the gay Sir Piers Courtenay, who had by this time mounted, and who had been all along writhing under the ridicule which Sir William de Dalzel had thrown upon him, now prepared to give his challenge in form. Bringing his horse’s head round to front the Royal balcony, and backing him with the most perfect skill, he rose in his stirrups, and made a most graceful obeisance to his King.

“What wouldst thou with us, Courtenay?” said Richard, with a smile playing about his mouth.

“My liege,” replied Courtenay, bowing again with peculiar grace, “I have to ask a boon of your Royal favour.”

“Speak, then, we give thee license,” replied the King.

“So please your Majesty, I do conceive myself grossly insulted by a Scottish knight; in such wise, indeed, that the blood of one of us must wash out the stain. May we then have thy Royal leave to fight before thee even now, to the outrance?”

“Name the Scottish knight of whom thou dost so complain,” said the King, with difficulty composing his features; “thou hast our full license to give him thy darreigne.”

“’Tis he who now rideth this way,” replied Courtenay, “Sir William de Dalzel.”

“Ha! what wouldst thou with me, most puissant Sir Piers?” said Dalzel, who just then returned from riding slowly along the whole length of the bridge, with his vizor up, a grave face, and a burlesque attitude, so as to show his pie off to the greatest advantage, bringing a roar of laughter along with him from the balconies and open lattices on both sides of the way, and who now approached Courtenay with a bow so ridiculous, that it entirely upset the small portion of gravity that the young King was blessed with; “what wouldst thou with me, I say, most potent paragon of knighthood?”

“I would that thou shouldst redeem thy pledge,” replied Courtenay, with very unusual brevity.

“What, then, Sir Piers,” replied Dalzel, “must it then be pie against popinjay? Nay, cry you mercy, I forgot. Thy bird, I do believe, is called a falcon, though, by St. Luke, an ’twere not for the legend, few, I wis, would take it for aught but an owl, being that it is of portraiture so villanous.”

“By the blessed St. Erkenwold, but thy bantering doth pass all bearing,” cried Courtenay impatiently, and perhaps more nettled at this attack on the merits of his embroidery than he had been with anything that had yet passed. “Depardieux, my falcon was the admiration of the Westminster feast. By the holy St. Paul, it was the work of the most eminent artists the metropolis can boast.”

“Perdie, I am right glad to hear thy character of them,” replied Dalzel, “for my pie is here by the same hands; nay, and now I look at it again, ’tis most marvellously fashioned. By the Rood, but it pecks an ’twere alive.”

“Thou hast contrived to turn all eyes upon me by thy clownish mockery,” cried Courtenay, getting still more angry, as the laugh rose higher at every word uttered by his adversary.

“Nay, then,” replied Dalzel, with affected gravity, “methinks thou shouldst give me good store of thanks, Sir Knight, for having brought so many bright and so many brave eyes to look upon the high perfections of thee and thy buzzard.”

“My liege,” replied Courtenay, no longer able to stand the laugh that ran around from window to window at his expense, “am I to have thy Royal license?”

“Go, then, without further let,” said the King; “let the heralds of the lists proclaim the challenge.”

The usual ceremonies were now gone through, and Sir Piers Courtenay rode off to the barrier lately tenanted by the Lord Welles. Dalzel sat looking after him for some seconds, until he was master of his attitude, and then turning his horse, cantered off to his own barrier, so perfectly caricaturing the proud and indignant seat of the raging Courtenay, that he carried a peal of laughter along with him. But the universal merriment was much increased when the banner of the falcon was contrasted with that of the pie, which was raised in opposition to it. It was silenced, however, by the trumpets of warning, that now brayed loudly from either side of the bridge.

A second and a third time they sounded, and Courtenay flew against his opponent with a fury equal to the rage he felt. Even the serious nature of the combat could not tame the waggery of the roguish Dalzel, who, though he failed not to give due attention to the manner in which he bore his shield, as well as to the firmness of his seat, rode his career in a manner so ludicrous as altogether to overcome that solemn silence of expectation that generally awaited the issue of a combat where death might ensue. The spectators, indeed, were made to forget the probability of such a consequence, and Courtenay’s ears continued to be mortified by the loud laugh which, though it followed his adversary, fell with all its blistering effect upon him. Though much disconcerted, the English knight bore his lance’s point bravely and truly against Dalzel’s helmet; but the cunning Scot had left it unlaced, so that it gave way as it was touched, and fell back on his shoulders without his feeling the shock; whilst his own lance passed high over the head of his antagonist.

This appeared to be the result of accident, and they prepared to run again. The signal was given, the encounter came, Dalzel’s helmet gave way a second time, whilst he with great adroitness pierced the silken wreath supporting the falcon that soared over Courtenay’s casque, and bore it off in triumph.

“Ha!” exclaimed he, “by St. Andrew, but I have the popinjay!” And so saying, he waited not for further talk, but rode off along the bridge with pompous air, and returned bearing it on high, to the great mortification of Courtenay, and the no small amusement of the spectators.

Courtenay’s ire was now excited to the utmost. The trumpet sounded for the third career, and he ran to Dalzel with the fullest determination to unhorse him; but again the treacherous helmet defeated him, while he received the point of his adversary’s lance so rudely on the bars of the vizor, that they gave way before it.

“Come hither, come hither quickly,” cried Courtenay to his esquire. “By the blessed St. George, I have suffered most fatal damage, the which the clownish life of that caitiff Scot would but poorly compensate.”

All eyes were now turned towards him; and his esquire having released him from his helmet, showed his mouth bleeding so profusely, that those who were near him began seriously to fear that he had really suffered some fatal injury.

“As I am a true knight, my liege, I shall never lift my head again,” said Courtenay. “I have lost the most precious ornaments of my face, two pearls from my upper jaw—see here they are,” said he, holding them out, “fresh, oriental, and shaped by nature with an elegance so surprisingly and scrupulously accurate, that they were the admiration of all who saw them. What shall I do without them?”

“Nay, in truth, thou must even make war on thy food with the wings of thine army, instead of nibbling at it with the centre, as I did remark thou were wont to do,” said Sir William Dalzel, looking over his shoulder.

“Dost thou sit there, my liege, to see one of thy native knights made a mock of? Had not the traitor’s helmet been left unclosed, by the holy shrine of St. Erkenwold, but he should have bit the dust ere now. I demand justice.”

“Nay, of a truth I did greatly err, most valiant sir,” said Sir William Dalzel, with mock penitence. “It was that hawk-shaped nese of thine that my pie would have pyked at.”

“Give me but one course all fair, and thou mayest pick as it may please thee,” replied Courtenay.

“Nay, I am willing to pleasure thee with six courses, if thou wouldst have them, good Sir Knight of the Howlet,” replied Dalzel; “but then, mark me, it must be on equal terms. Hitherto thou hast fought me with a secret vantage on thy side.”

“Vantage!” cried Courtenay with indignation; “nay, methinks the vantage hath been all thine own, Sir Scot.”

“In truth, it must be owned I have had the best of it, Sir Englishman,” said Dalzel with a sarcastic leer; “natheless, ’tis thou who hast had the secret vantage.”

“Let us be judged then by the Royal Richard,” said Courtenay.

“Agreed,” said Dalzel. “But let each of us first pledge in the Royal hands two hundred pieces of gold, to be incontinently forfaulted by him who shall be found to have borne the secret vantage.”

“Agreed,” cried Courtenay confidently.

A murmur of highly-excited curiosity now ran along the lists, and the knights despatched their esquires for the money. Dalzel gave a private hint to his as he went. In a short time the two esquires returned, each carrying a purse on a pole, both of which were put up in the balcony where the King sat. But what surprised every one was the appearance of a farrier, who followed Dalzel’s squire, bearing a burning brand in his hand.

“And now,” said Dalzel aloud, “I do boldly accuse Sir Piers Courtenay, the knight of the How——, nay, he of the Falcon, I mean, of having fought against me with two eyes, whilst one of mine was scooped out at Otterbourne, doubtless by one of the hot-spurring sons of Northumberland’s Earl. I do therefore claim his forfaulted purse. But as I do fully admit the bravery of the said Sir Piers, the goodness of whose metal is sufficiently apparent, though it be besprent with so much vain tinsel, I am willing to do further battle with him, yea, for as many as six courses, or sixty times six, if he be so inclined, but this on condition that he doth resign that unfair vantage the which he hath hitherto had of me, and cheerfully submit to have one of his eyes extinguished by the brand of this sooty operator.”

“Sir Piers Courtenay,” said Richard, laughing heartily at a joke so well suited to the times, and which had renewed the convulsions of laughter so severely felt by Dalzel’s antagonist, “art thou prepared to agree to this so reasonable proposal?”

But Sir Piers Courtenay was so chagrined that he wanted words. He hung his head, and was silent.

“Then must we of needscost forbid all further duel, and forthwith decide incontinently against thee. The purses are thine, Sir William de Dalzel, for, sooth to say, thou hast well earned them by thy merry wit.”

“Nay, then, Sir Piers Courtenay,” said Dalzel, riding up to his opponent, “let not this waggery of mine cause me to tyne thy good will. Trust me, I will have none of thy money; but if thou art disposed to confess that thou hast no longer that contempt for Scottish knights the which thou hast been hitherto so much inclined to manifest, let it be laid out in some merry masquing party of entertainment, the which shall be thine only penance. When all else, from the Royal Richard downwards, have been so hospitable, why should we have to complain of the despisal of one English knight? Let us shake hands, then, I pray thee.”

“Sir William de Dalzel, though thou hast worked me a grievous loss, the which can never be made good,” replied Courtenay, laying his hand on his mouth, “verily I do bear thee no unchristian ill-will; and sith that his Majesty hath absolved us of our duel, I do hereby cheerfully give thee the right hand of good fellowship.”

“’Tis well,” said Dalzel. “Instead of fighting thee, I will strive with thee in that for the which neither eyes nor teeth may be much needed. I will dance a bargaret with thee, yea, or a fandango, if that may please thee better, and there I shall ask for no favour.”

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Chapter LXIV

Lady de Vere and her Lovely Guest. Innocence and Purity endangered. The King’s Confessor and the Franciscan Friar.

After the spectacle was over, and whilst the homeward procession was forming, Sir Patrick Hepborne was surprised by the wave of a fair hand, accompanied by a smiling bow of acknowledgment from a very beautiful woman in one of the balconies close to that of the King. From the richness of her attire, and the place that had been allotted to her, she was evidently a lady of some consequence. He returned the compliment, but, whilst he did so, he felt unconscious of having ever spoken to her, although, upon re-perusing her face, he remembered her as one whom he had seen at the King’s banquets, where he had observed that she was particularly noticed by the Sovereign. Turning to Sir Miles Stapleton, who stood by him, he besought him to tell her name.

“What,” exclaimed Sir Miles in reply, “hast thou been at our English Court for so many days, Sir Patrick, and yet knowest thou not the Lady de Vere? Depardieux, it doth much surprise me that she hath not sooner sought thine acquaintance, for, by the Rood, she is a merry madam, and fond of variety. She hath been married but a short space, yet she already changeth her lovers as she doth her fancy robes.”

“Is it possible?” cried Hepborne, in astonishment.

“Possible, Sir Patrick!” returned the English knight; “perdie, I am surprised at thy seeming wonder. Are Scottish ladies then so constant to their lords that thou shouldst think this fickleness so great a marvel in the Lady de Vere? She hath been for some time an especial favourite of Majesty; that is, I would have thee to understand me, in friendship, not par amours, though there be evil tongues that do say as much.”

“Indeed?” cried Hepborne.

“Yea, they scruple not to say so,” continued Sir Miles; “but I, who better know the King, do verily believe that, albeit he is much given to idle dalliance with these free ladies of this licentious Court, there be but little else to accuse him of. Thou needst have no fear, therefore, Sir Patrick, that the dread of Majesty will interfere with thy happiness, if it be her will to receive thee as a lover; so I wish thee joy of thy conquest. Trust me, I do more envy thee than I do the brave conqueror of the Lord Welles, much glory as he hath gained.”

Sir Patrick turned away, at once confounded and disgusted. What! the Lady Eleanore de Selby, of whose excellence he had heard so much, the friend of the Lady Beatrice—was it possible that the contamination of a Court could have already rendered her a person of character so loose? He was shocked at the thought. He turned again to watch her motions, when he observed the King himself advance towards her as she was preparing to get into her saddle, and a private conversation pass between them, that drew the eyes of all the courtiers upon them; but Sir Patrick being called away to join the Scottish party, lost the opportunity of observing the conclusion of their conference.

Whilst the procession was dispersing in the court-yard of the Tower, the Lady de Vere entered, riding on a piebald palfry, richly caparisoned. She was surrounded by a group of gay chevaliers, with whom she was talking and laughing loudly; but she no sooner espied Hepborne than she broke from among them and advanced to meet him.

“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said she, smiling, “it erketh me that mine evil fortune hath hitherto yielded me no better than public opportunity to know him, who, by consent of all, is acknowledged to be the flower of Scottish chivalry. Trust me, my private apartments shall be ever open to so peerless a knight.”

“Nay, Lady,” replied Sir Patrick, “the title thou hast been pleased to bestow on me belongeth not to me but to Sir David Lindsay and Sir William Dalzel, who have this day so nobly supported the honour of Scotland.”

“They are brave knights, ’tis true,” replied the lady; “yet be there other qualifications in knighthood than mere brute strength or brute courage. That thou hast enow of both of these to the full as well as they, we who have heard of Otterbourne do well know. But in the graces of knightly deportment there be few who admit them to be thine equal, and of that few I do confess myself not to be one.”

Hepborne bowed; but, disgusted alike with her freedom and flattery, he gave token of approval neither by manner nor words.

“These are my apartments, Sir Knight,” continued the lady, pointing to a range of windows in a wing of the palace. “If thou canst quit the banquet to spend some merry hours with me this evening, trust me, thou shalt meet with no cold reception from the Lady de Vere.”

This invitation was seasoned by some warm glances, that spoke even more than her words; but Sir Patrick received both the one and the other with a silent and formal obeisance. The lady turned towards a flight of steps, and being assisted to dismount by an esquire, she tripped up stairs and along a covered terrace. A door opened at its farther extremity, and a lady appeared for a moment. It was the Lady Beatrice; he could not be mistaken; her image was now too deeply engraven on his heart. The blood bounded for a moment within his bosom, rushed through each artery with the heat and velocity of lightning, and then, as the thought of the Lady de Vere’s character arose within his mind, it returned cold as ice to its fountain-head, and froze up every warm feeling there. He felt faint, and his head grew giddy. He looked towards the door where the ladies were saluting each other with every mark of kindness, and his eyes grew dim as they vanished within the entrance.

Almost unconscious of what he was doing, Sir Patrick turned his horse to go to his lodgings. As he recovered from the stunning effect of the spectacle he beheld, his mind began to be agonized by the most distressing thoughts. It was impossible that the Lady Beatrice, whom he believed to be so pure, could be the willing guest of so vile a woman, knowing her to be such. Yet, though such was his impression, he knew not well what to think. It was most strange that the Lady de Vere should have thus urged him to visit her while Beatrice was with her; unless, indeed, the latter were privy to it, and that it was on her account. But be this as it might, he liked not the complexion of matters; and, in a state of great perplexity and unhappiness, he reached the wine merchant’s, where, having given his horse to a groom, he slowly sought his chamber, unwillingly to prepare for the banquet.

In going along the passage which led to his apartments, thinking of what so much occupied him, he, in a fit of absence, opened a door, believing it to be his own; and, to his great surprise, he found himself in a room, where some dozen or twenty persons were seated at a long table, on which lay some papers. His host was there among the rest, and the appearance of the knight threw the whole party into dismay and confusion. Hepborne drew back with an apology, and hastily shut the door; but he had hardly reached his own, when he heard the steps of his host coming hurrying after him.

“Sir Knight,” said Master Ratcliffe, “’twas but some of those with whom I have had money dealings, come to settle interest with me.”

As Hepborne looked in his face, he was surprised to notice that it had exchanged its generous ruby red for a deadly paleness; the wine merchant was evidently disturbed; but neither this observation, nor the confusion he had occasioned among the party whom he had seen surrounding the table, could then find room in his mind for a moment’s thought. He therefore hastily explained that the interruption had been quite accidental on his part, and the wine merchant left him apparently satisfied. It will be easily believed that Sir Patrick Hepborne was but ill attuned for the revelry of the Royal banquet. He sat silent and abstracted, ruminating on the monstrous and afflicting conjunction he had that day witnessed, and perplexing himself with inventing explanations of the cruel doubts that were perpetually arising in his mind. The King broke up the feast at an earlier hour than usual, and Sir Patrick, glad to escape from the crowd, stole away by himself.

As he was leaving the palace, he turned his eyes towards the casements of the Lady de Vere. They were eminently conspicuous, for they were open, and lighted up with great brilliancy, while the sound of the harp came from them. He thought of the invitation he had received, and hung about for some time, weighing circumstances, and hesitating whether he should immediately avail himself of it, that he might ascertain the truth, or whether he should, in the first place, endeavour to gather it by some other means. Passion argued for the first, as the most decided step, and prudence urged the second as the wisest plan; but whilst he was tossed between them, he was gradually drawn towards the windows by the unseen magnet within. As he got nearer, he ascertained that it was a man’s voice that sung the melody and words, to which the instrument was an accompaniment; and by the time he reached the bottom of the flight of steps, he could catch the remaining verses of a ballad, part of which had been already sung. They were nearly as follows:—

“And wilt thou break thy faith with me, And dare our vows to rend?” “Hence!” cried the angry sire; “with thee My Eda ne’er shall wend.

“Her name doth prouder match demand; Lord Henry comes to-night; He comes to take her promised hand, And claim a husband’s right.

“Then hence!”—The knight, in woful guise, Turned from the perjured gate; The maiden heard her lover’s sighs, All weeping where she sate.

“Now up and run, my bonnie page, Fly with the falcon’s wing, Fly swiftly to Sir Armitage, And give to him this ring.

“And tell him, when the rippling ford Shall catch the moonbeams light, I’ll leave the hated bridal board, To meet him there to-night.”

The boy he found Sir Armitage In greenwood all so sad; But when he spied his lady’s page, His weeping eyne grew glad.

And up leaped he for very joy, And kissed his lady’s ring, And much he praised the bonny boy Who did such message bring.

“I’ll meet my lady by the stream, So, boy, now hie thee home; I’ll meet her when the moon’s broad beam Comes dancing over the foam.”

And now to grace the wedding-feast The demoiselles prepare; There were the bridegroom, sire, and priest, But Eda was not there.

She left her tyrant father’s tower, To seek her own true knight; She met him at the trysted hour, Prepared to aid her flight.

“Sir Armitage, with thee I’ll ride Through flood, o’er fell so steep; Though destined for another’s bride, My vow to thee I’ll keep.”

“Oh bless thee, bless thee, lady mine, That true thy heart doth prove; Before yon moon hath ceased to shine, The priest shall bless our love.”

He raised her on his gallant steed, And sprang him to his selle; “Keep, keep thy seat, my love, with heed, And grasp my baldrick well.”

Beneath the moon the wavelets flash’d, Struck by the courser’s heel, And through the ford he boldly dash’d, Spurr’d by the pointed steel.

High up his sides the surges rose, And washed the blood away; They lav’d fair Eda’s bridal-clothes, And fill’d her with dismay.

“Alas, the stream is strong,” she cried. “Fear not, my love,” said he; “’Tis here the waters deepest glide, Anon we shall be free.”

Behind them rung a wild alarm, And torches gleam’d on high; Forth from the Castle came a swarm, With yells that rent the sky.

Again the knight his iron heel Dash’d in his courser’s side. He plung’d—his powerful limbs did reel— He yielded to the tide.

Down went both mailed horse and knight; The maid was borne away, And flash’d the moonbeam’s silver light Amid the sparkling spray.

His daughter’s shriek the father heard, Far on the moonlit wave; A moment Eda’s form appear’d, Then sunk in watery grave.

Peace never blest the sire again; He curst ambitious pride, That made him hold his promise vain, And sacred oaths deride.

Still in his eye his sinking child, Her shriek still in his ear, Reft of his mind, he wanders wild Midst rocks and forests drear.

But where that cross in yonder shade Oft bends the pilgrim’s knee, There sleep the gentle knight and maid Beneath their trysting tree.

When the musician had finished, Sir Patrick Hepborne still continued to loiter with his arm on the balustrade of the stair, when the door opened, and he heard a feeble step on the terrace above. He looked upwards, and the light of a lamp that was burning in a niche fell on the aged countenance of a man who was descending. It was Adam of Gordon.

“Adam of Gordon!” exclaimed Sir Patrick.

“And who is he, I pray, who doth know Adam of Gordon so far from home?” demanded the minstrel. “Ah, Sir Patrick Hepborne; holy St. Cuthbert, I do rejoice to see thee. Trust me, the ready help thou didst yield me at Forres hath not been forgotten; though thou didst sorely mar my verses by thine interruption. Full many sithes have I tried to awaken that noble subject, but the witchery of inspiration is past, and——”

“But how camest thou here?” demanded Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him.

“Sir Knight, I came hither with a lady from the Borders,” said Adam, hesitatingly; “a lady that——”

“Nay, speak not so mystically, old man,” replied Hepborne; “I am already well aware of the story of the Lady Beatrice, and heartily do I curse mine own folly for permitting jealousy so to hoodwink mine eyes as to make me run blindly away from mine own happiness. I already guess that it was she whom thou didst accompany hither, and I know that she is now an inmate of those apartments, with the Lady de Vere, the daughter of the late Sir Walter de Selby.”

“Nay, nay, so far thou art wrong, Sir Knight,” replied the Minstrel. “She to whom these apartments do belong is not the daughter of Sir Walter de Selby. True it is, indeed, that when the Lady Eleanore did leave Norham Castle, she did call the companion of her flight by the name of Sir Hans de Vere, a Zealand knight, kinsman to the Duke of Ireland; but some strange mystery doth yet hang over this affair, for he who doth own these gay lodgings, and who is the husband of this gay madam, is the identical Sir Hans de Vere I have just described, and yet he knoweth nought of the Lady Eleanore de Selby.”

“Thy speech is one continued riddle, good Adam,” said Hepborne; “canst thou not explain to me?”

“Nay, of a truth, Sir Knight, thou dost know as much as I do,” said the minstrel. “What hath become of the Lady Eleanore de Selby no one can tell. If he that she married be indeed a De Vere, he is at least no kin to the Duke of Ireland, as he or she would have us believe. There have been De Veres enow about the English Court since this King Richard began his reign, albeit that the day may be gone by with many of them, sith that their chief, the Duke of Ireland, hath been forced to flee into Zealand, where his race had its origin. But of all the De Veres, none doth answer the description of him whom the Lady Beatrice and I did see carry off the Lady Eleanore de Selby from Norham.”

“Strange, most strange,” said Sir Patrick Hepborne; “but knowest thou aught of this Lady de Vere? Men’s tongues do talk but lightly of her.”

“Nay, in good truth, I have begun to entertain strange notions of her myself,” replied Adam. “By’r Lady, she would have had me sing some virelays to-night that were light and warm enow, I promise thee, had I not feigned that I knew them not; and, by my troth, she spared not to chide me for my sober minstrelsy, the which she did tauntingly compare to the chanting of monks. My Lady, quoth I, consider I am but a rude Border——”

“But say, old man,” cried Hepborne, impatiently interrupting him, “how did the Lady Beatrice seek shelter with such a woman? Quick, tell me, I beseech thee, for I must hasten to rescue the poor and spotless dove from the clutch of this foul howlet.”

“In the name of the Virgin, then, let us lose no time in thinking how it may best be done,” said Adam of Gordon earnestly; “St. Andrew be praised that thou, Sir Knight, art so willing to become the protector of an angel, who——Yet I dare not say how much thou art beloved. But, hush! we may be overheard here in the open air. Let us retreat to my garret yonder, where I will tell thee all I can, and then we may, with secrecy and expedition, concert what steps thou hadst best take.”

Hepborne readily followed the minstrel to his small chamber, and there he learned the following particulars.

The Lady Beatrice had no sooner recovered from the swoon into which she had been thrown by the appearance of the Franciscan at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral, than she sent for the Minstrel, of whose attachment and fidelity she had already had many a proof, and imparted to him her design of quitting Norham Castle immediately. Without communicating her intention to any one else, she mounted that milk-white palfrey which had been the gift of Hepborne, and travelled with all speed to Newcastle, where she sought shelter in the house of a widowed sister of Sir Walter de Selby. There she lived for a short time in retirement, until at last she adopted the resolution of visiting London in search of her friend the Lady Eleanore, whom she believed now to be the Lady de Vere, that she might communicate to her the death of her father, if she had not already heard of that event, and entreat from her a continuance of that protection which she had so long afforded her. She and the Minstrel, therefore, went on board a ship sailing for the Thames; but having been tossed about by contrary winds, and even compelled to seek safety more than once in harbours by the way, they had only arrived in the metropolis three days before that of which we are now speaking.

The Minstrel was immediately employed by the Lady Beatrice to make inquiry for the Lady de Vere, and he was readily directed to the lodgings of the lady of that name in the Tower. But he was no sooner introduced into her presence and that of her husband, Sir Hans de Vere, than he discovered that there was some strange mistake. To exculpate himself for his seeming intrusion on a knight and lady to whom he was an utter stranger, he explained the cause of his coming, and told whom he sought for, when, to his great dismay, he learned that no such persons as those he described were known about the Court. Filled with chagrin, he returned to the Lady Beatrice, whose vexation may be more easily conceived than described. She was a stranger in London, in a wretched hostel, without a friend but old Adam to advise her, and severed for ever, as she feared, from the only human being on whom she could say that she had the least claim for protection. Despair came upon her, and hiding her face in her hands, she gave full way to her grief.

Whilst she sat in this wretched situation, in which Adam in vain exerted himself to comfort her, a page arrived, with a kind message from Sir Hans and Lady de Vere, in which they offered her their house as a home, until she should have time to determine as to her future conduct. So friendly, so seasonable a proposal, was not to be rejected in her circumstances, even coming as it did from strangers, and the Lady Beatrice gladly became the guest of the Lady de Vere.

So far went the Minstrel’s knowledge; but leaving Sir Patrick to question him as he pleases, we shall ourselves more deeply investigate the circumstances, as well as the secret springs of action which produced this event. It happened that just after the Minstrel’s interview with the Lady de Vere, King Richard came to idle an hour with her as he was often wont to do to gather the gossip of the Court. The lady told him what had passed, and the Monarch joined with her in the laugh it occasioned. The Lady de Vere had extracted enough of Beatrice’s history from the Minstrel to be able to answer the King’s questions.

“And who may this Beatrice be?” demanded Richard.

“A damsel, I believe, whom old De Selby picked up at the door of a Scottish peasant, and whom he fancied to educate as a companion to his daughter Eleanore,” replied Lady de Vere; “doubtless, now that he is dead, she seeks to hang herself about the neck of the heiress of her patron.”

“And sith that she hath so come, might we not find some other neck for her to hang about?” said the King laughing. “Pr’ythee, send for her hither; we should be well contented to see this stray bird.”

The Lady de Vere well knew her advantage in humouring all the wild fancies that entered the King’s head, and accordingly gave immediate obedience to his wishes, by sending to Beatrice the message we have already noticed. Fatigued to death by her voyage, Beatrice had no sooner complied with the invitation she had received, than she was compelled to retire to the apartment the Lady de Vere had prepared for her; and she continued so long indisposed that she was unable to be present at the tilting.

Towards the evening of that day, however, she was so far recovered as to quit her room; and, accordingly, when the procession returned from London Bridge, she hastened to pour out her gratitude to the Lady de Vere for the hospitable reception she had given her.

Sir Hans went to the King’s banquet, but his lady remained with Beatrice; and the Minstrel was sent for to amuse them with his ballads. There was something free and bold in the manner of the Lady de Vere that was by no means agreeable to Beatrice; but believing that there was nothing worse in it than an unfortunate manner, she endeavoured to reconcile herself to it, in one who had shown her so much apparent friendship.

They were seated in a luxuriously-furnished apartment, hung with tapestry of the richest hues, and lighted up by silver lamps, when the door opened, and Sir Hans de Vere entered, ushering in a young man, whom he introduced as the Earl of Westminster. The Lady de Vere smiled on the young nobleman, and Beatrice, though she had never heard of such a title, was aware that new lords were created so frequently, that there was little wonder she should be ignorant of it. The young Earl, who was very handsome, seemed to be on habits of great intimacy with Sir Hans de Vere and his lady. He seated himself by the Lady Beatrice, and began to trifle pleasantly with her, mixing up a thousand courtly compliments with the agreeable nothings that he uttered. Spiced wine and sweetmeats were handed round, and soon afterwards a small, but very tasteful and exquisitely cooked supper appeared, with wines of the richest flavour. The Lady Beatrice ate little, and refused to touch wine. The night wore apace. The young Earl of Westminster became more and more earnest in his endeavours to make himself agreeable to Beatrice, who began to find considerable amusement in his conversation, and insensibly permitted him to absorb her whole attention. Suddenly he began, in a sort of half-serious manner, to address her in a strain of tenderness that by no means pleased her. She prepared to shift her place; but what was her astonishment, when, on looking up, she saw that she and the young Earl were alone. Sir Hans de Vere and his lady had stolen unnoticed from the apartment. Beatrice started up to follow them.

“Nay, stay to hear me, lovely Beatrice,” cried the Earl, endeavouring to detain her.

“Unhand me, my Lord,” cried she boldly, and at the same time tearing herself from him.

“Hear me, only hear me,” cried the Earl, springing to the door, so as to cut off her retreat.

This action still more alarmed her. She screamed aloud for help, and flying to the casement, threw it open; but the Earl dragged her from it by gentle force, and having shut it, he was vainly endeavouring to compose her, when the chamber door was burst open by a furious kick, and Sir Patrick Hepborne appeared, with his drawn sword in his hand.

“King Richard!” cried the knight, starting back with astonishment: “Doth England’s King so far forget the duty of the high office he doth hold, as to become the destroyer instead of the protector of innocence? Yet, by St. Andrew, wert thou fifty times a king, thou shouldst answer to me for thine insult to that lady. Defend thyself.”

The cool presence of mind exhibited by Richard whilst yet a stripling, on the memorable occasion of Wat Tyler being struck down by Walworth the Lord Mayor, showed that he was not constitutionally deficient in courage; but in this, as in everything else, he was wavering and uncertain, and no one was more liable than he to yield to sudden panic. Seeing Hepborne about to spring on him, he darted into an inner room, the door of which stood ajar.

“Sir Patrick Hepborne!” cried the Lady Beatrice, her lovely face flushing with the mingled emotions of surprise, joy, gratitude, and love.

“Yes,” cried the knight, throwing himself on one knee before her, “yes, Lady Beatrice, he who may now dare to call himself thine own faithful and true knight—he who hath now had his eyes cleared from the errors which blinded him—he who, whilst deeply smitten by those matchless charms, believed that in his adoration of them he was worshipping the Lady Eleanore de Selby—he who thus believing himself to be deceived and rejected, did yet continue to nourish the pure and enduring flame in his bosom after all hope had fled, and who now feels it glow with tenfold warmth, sith that hope’s gentle gales have again sprung up to fan it—he who will——But whither is my passion leading me?” cried he, starting up, and taking Beatrice’s hand; “this is no time for indulging myself in such a theme, dear as it may be to me. Lady, thou art betrayed. This is no fit place of sojournance for spotless virtue such as thine. The false Lady de Vere is one who doth foully minister to the King’s pleasures. Lose not a moment, I beseech you. I have seen Adam of Gordon, who waits for us without. Fly then,” cried he, leading her towards the door, “fly with me; I will be thy protector. Let us haste from the impure den of this wicked woman, who would have——”

Sir Patrick threw open the door as he pronounced these words, and in an instant he was prostrated on the floor by the blow of a halbert.

“Seize him and drag him to a dungeon,” cried the Lady de Vere, with eyes flashing like those of an enraged tigress; “I accuse him of a treasonable attack on the sacred person of the King of England. He shall die the death of traitor.” The guards obeyed her, and lifting up the inanimate body of the knight, bore him away.

“So,” cried the fury, “so perish those who shall dare to insult the love of the Lady de Vere; and as for thee, minion,” she said, turning round, “thou art a prisoner there during my pleasure.” And saying so, she pushed Beatrice into the room, and locked and bolted the door on the wretched damsel, who fell from her violence, and instantly swooned away.

When the Lady Beatrice recovered, and began to recollect what had passed, she arose in a tremor, and tottering to a seat, rested herself for some moments, throwing her eyes fearfully around the apartment. Everything in it remained as it was. No one seemed to have entered since. The lamps had begun to burn so faintly, that they appeared to tell of the approach of midnight, and this idea was strengthened by the silence that prevailed everywhere both without and within the palace. She tried the bolts of the door, but, to her great horror, she found them fast. A faint hope of escape arose, when she remembered that the King had disappeared by the inner apartment, whence there might be a passage leading to other chambers. She snatched up an expiring hand lamp, and hastened to explore it. But there was no visible mode of exit from the room, and she now became convinced that the King must have returned through the apartment whilst she lay insensible, and that some one had liberated him from without. The recollection of the cruel wound, which she almost feared might have been Sir Patrick’s death blow, together with the certainty of his captivity, and the probable issue of it, now filled her mind with horror; and this, added to the perplexity of her present situation, so overcame her, that she sat down and wept bitterly.

The lamps now, one after another, expired, until she was left in total darkness. She groped her way into the inner apartment, and, having fastened the door within, threw herself upon the couch, and abandoned herself to all her wretchedness.

Whilst the Lady Beatrice was lying in this distressing situation, she was startled by a noise. Suddenly a glare of light flashed upon her eyes; she rubbed them, and looked towards the spot whence it proceeded. A man in a friar’s habit stood near the wall; he held a lamp high, that its light might the better fill the room. Immediately behind him was an opening in the tapestry, the folds of which being held aside by a hand and arm, admitted the entrance of another shaven crowned head. To the terror of the Lady Beatrice, she recognized in this second monk the piercing eyes and powerful features of the very Franciscan whose dagger had so alarmed her at Lochyndorbe, and the sight of whom had so affected her at Sir Walter de Selby’s funeral. She attempted to scream, but fear so overcame her, that, like one who labours under a nightmare, her lips moved, but her tongue refused to do its office, and she lay with her eyes wide open, staring on the object of her dread, in mute expectation of immediate murder.

“Is she there, Friar Rushak?” said he whom we have known by the name of the Franciscan.

“She is here,” said the first monk, who bore the lamp; “all is quiet too—thou mayest safely enter.”

The Franciscan who followed now stepped into the apartment, and came stealing forward with soft, barefooted tread.

“Give me the light, Friar Rushak, that there may be no mistake,” said he, taking the lamp from his companion.

The blood grew chill in the Lady Beatrice’s veins as the Franciscan approached the couch where she lay. He held the lamp so as to throw its light strongly upon her face.

“It is she indeed,” said he, in a muttering voice, while his features were lighted up by a grim smile of satisfaction, which gradually faded away, leaving a severe expression in his lightning eye.

“She trembles,” said Friar Rushak, advancing towards the couch with a terrible look; “conscious of her own depravity, she is guilt-stricken.”

“Ay, she may well be guilt-stricken,” said the Franciscan.

“Alas, of what am I accused, mysterious man?” cried the Lady Beatrice, clasping her hands together, and throwing herself on her knees before them. “Murder me not—murder me not. Let not the holy garments you wear be stained with the blood of innocence.”

“Innocence!” cried Friar Rushak, “talk not thou of innocence! Why art thou in these apartments if thou be’st innocent?”

“So help me the pure and immaculate Virgin, I am not here by mine own consent,” said the unhappy lady. “Murder me not without inquiry—I am a prisoner here—I was eager to escape—I should have escaped with Sir Patrick Hepborne, had not——”

“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said the Franciscan, with a ferocious look. “Ay, so! The curse of St. Francis be upon him!”

“Nay, nay, curse him not—oh, curse him not!” cried Beatrice, embracing the Franciscan’s knees. “Murder me if thou wilt, but, oh, curse not him, who at peril of his noble life would have rescued me from these hated walls.”

“Yea, again I do say, may he be accursed,” cried the Franciscan, with increased energy and ferocity of aspect. “Full well do we know thy love for this infamous knight—full well do we know why he would have liberated thee.”

“But to find thee here as a toil spread by the Devil to catch the tottering virtue of King Richard!” cried Friar Rushak.

“Yea,” said the Franciscan, striking his forehead with the semblance of intense inward feeling, “to find thee a monster so utterly depraved, is indeed even more than my worst suspicions.”

“What couldst thou hope, minion!” said Friar Rushak sternly; “what couldst thou hope from fixing thine impure affections on the Royal Richard.”

“Blessed Virgin,” cried the tortured Beatrice, clasping her hands and throwing her eyes solemnly upwards, “Holy Mother of God, thou who art truth itself, and who canst well search out the truth in others, if I do speak aught else than truth now, let thy just indignation strike me down an inanimate corpse. I am here as an innocent victim to the treachery of the Lady de Vere. She it was who inveigled me into these apartments by pretended friendship, that she might make a sacrifice of me. I knew not even the person of King Richard; and had it not been for Sir Patrick Hepborne, who so bravely rescued me from his hand——”

“Um,” said Friar Rushak, somewhat moved by what she had uttered; “thine appeal is so solemn, and it must be confessed that the evidence of those who did accuse thee of plotting against the King’s heart is indeed but questionable. It may be—But, be it as it may, it mattereth not, for thou shalt soon be put beyond the reach of weaving snares for Richard. Yet shall we try thee anon, for thou shalt see the King, and if by word or look thou dost betray thyself, this dagger shall search thy heart, yea, even in the presence of Richard himself.”

“King Richard!” cried Beatrice, with distraction in her looks. “Take me not before the King; let me not again behold the King. Where have they carried Sir Patrick Hepborne? In charity let me fly to him; he may now want that aid which I am bound to yield him.”

“Nay, thou shalt never see him more.” said the Franciscan.

“Oh, say not so, say not so—tell me not that he is dead,” cried the Lady Beatrice, forgetting everything else in her apprehension for Sir Patrick; “oh, if a spark of charity burns within your bosoms, let me hasten to him. I saw him bleeding, and on the ground—I heard him cruelly condemned to a dungeon—oh, let me be the companion of his captivity—let me watch by his pillow—let me soothe his sorrows—let me be his physician. If my warm life’s-blood were a healing balm, this gushing heart would yield it all for his minutest wound.” Her feelings overcame her, and she fell back, half fainting, on the floor.

“Raise her head,” said Friar Rushak to the Franciscan, who was bending over her with some anxiety; and he applied to her nostrils a small golden box, containing some refreshing odour, which speedily began to revive her.

“Alas!” said the Franciscan, “however innocently she may be here, as affects the King, her abandoned love for her seducer hath been too clearly confessed.”

“She reviveth,” said Friar Rushak; “raise her to her feet. And now let us hasten, brother; the moments fly fast, and we have yet to effect our perilous passage through the——”

“Is there no other way?” demanded the Franciscan.

“None,” replied the Friar Rushak; “and if the King should——”

“The King!” repeated Beatrice, with a thrill of dread.

“Ay, Lady, the King,” replied the Friar Rushak, with a strong emphasis and a desperate expression; “but thou must wear this disguise to conceal thee,” continued he, opening out a bundle containing a Franciscan’s habit. “Draw the cowl over thy head and face; follow me with caution; and whatever thou mayest see, utter no word, or give no sign, else——Nay, let not thy breath he heard, or——Come on.”

The Friar Rushak now led the way with the lamp, and the Lady Beatrice, shaking from a dread that even her loose disguise could not conceal, stepped after him through a spring door behind the tapestry, that led into a passage in the centre of the wall. The Franciscan followed, and shut the door behind him. The passage was so narrow, that one person only could advance at a time. It was strangely crooked also, frequently bending at right angles, so as to defy all Beatrice’s speculation as to where they might be leading her. A dead silence was preserved by both her attendants, and they moved with a caution that allowed not a step to be heard. Friar Rushak halted suddenly, and turned round; the lamp flashed upon his face, and showed his angry eye; the Lady Beatrice fell back in terror into the arms of the Franciscan behind her. Friar Rushak put his finger to his open mouth, and then told her, in a whisper, to suppress the high breathing which her fears had created. The Lady Beatrice endeavoured to obey. Friar Rushak motioned to her and the Franciscan to remain where they were; he advanced three or four paces with great caution, and, slowly opening a concealed door, listened for a moment; then gently pushing aside the tapestry within, he thrust forward his head, and again withdrawing it, motioned to Beatrice and the Franciscan to advance.

“They sleep,” whispered he. “Follow me—but no word, sign, or breath, as thou dost value thy life.”

Friar Rushak entered within the tapestry, and the Lady Beatrice followed him into a magnificent chamber, lighted by a single lamp. A gorgeous bed occupied one end of the apartment. Over it, attached to the heavy Gothic ceiling, was a gilded crown, whence descended a crimson drapery, richly emblazoned with the Royal Arms of England, under which lay a young man, his head only appearing above the bed-clothes. She hastily glanced at his features, which the lamp but dimly illuminated. It was King Richard. His dark eye-lashes were closed, but she trembled lest he should awaken. Around the room were several couches, where his pages ought to have watched, but where they lay as sound as their Royal master.

They had hardly stepped into the room, when a little dog came growling from under the King’s bed. The Lady Beatrice had nearly sunk on the floor, but the little favourite of the monarch instantly recognized Friar Rushak as a well-known friend, and quietly retreated to his place of repose. The pages showed no symptom of alarm, but the King turned in bed, and exposed his head more fully to view. The Lady Beatrice shook from head to foot as she looked towards him; but her apprehension was excited yet more immediately, when she beheld Friar Rushak at her side, with a menacing eye, and a dagger in his grasp. A sign at once conveyed to her that it was silence he wanted; and though she ventured not to breathe, her heart beat so against her side as she stood, that she felt as if the very sound of its pulsations would break the slumbers of all around her. Again the King was quiet, and Friar Rushak moved on towards the opposite door. The Lady Beatrice drew the cowl more over her face, and, without daring to repeat her glance at the King, followed with as much caution as her sinking knees would permit her to use.

The door was opened by Friar Rushak with the utmost gentleness, and they found themselves at one extremity of a suite of apartments, the long perspective of which was seen running onwards from one to another, and where they could perceive groups of dozing domestics lying on chairs, and stretched on benches, in every possible position. Through one of these rooms they passed, and then retreated by a side-door into a narrow circular stair, by which they descended to the hall of entrance, where they found about a dozen archers sitting slumbering by a great fire. These men roused themselves on their approach, and, starting up, sprang forward to bar their passage with their halberts. The Lady Beatrice became alarmed, and, in the trepidation that seized her, dropped the friar’s habit that had hitherto concealed her.

“Ha!” exclaimed one of the soldiers, “a woman and two monks! Who may that considerate lord have been who hath thus taken the shrift with the sin?”

“Silence, Barnaby,” cried another man; “that is the holy Father Rushak, the King’s Confessor.”

“Let me pass, knaves,” cried Rushak.

“Ay, ay, let him pass,” said another man; “he hath right of entrance and outgoing at all hours. I would not have thee try to stop him, an thou wouldst sleep in a whole skin to-morrow night.”

The passage was cleared in a moment. The Lady Beatrice, overpowered with apprehension, was supported by the Franciscan.

“Come on, brother,” cried Friar Rushak.

“She faints,” cried the Franciscan.

“Lift her in thine arms, then,” cried Rushak.

The Franciscan raised her from the ground, and carried her half senseless to the door. At that moment a man entered, and brushed by them in breathless haste. He looked behind him at the group.

“The Lady Beatrice!” cried he. “Ha, whither do ye carry her, villains?”

“Answer him not, but run,” said Rushak, flying off at full speed across the court, followed by the sturdy Franciscan, who carried his fair burden as if he felt not her weight. The steps of many people were heard following them. All at once the noise of a desperate scuffle ensued behind them, and the two monks, who stayed not to inquire the nature of it, pressed on towards a low archway that ran under the river-wall. The air blew fresh from the river on Beatrice’s cheek. She revived, and found that he who carried her was standing near an iron gate of ponderous strength, which Friar Rushak was making vain attempts to open.

“Holy St. Francis assist us!” cried he, “I fear that my hands have erred, and that I have unluckily possessed myself of the wrong key.”

“Hush,” said the Franciscan, “and keep close. The step of the sentinel on the wall above falls louder. He cometh this way.”

They drew themselves closer to the wall. The sentinel’s step passed onward to the extremity of his walk, and then slowly returning, it again moved by, and the sound of it sank along the wall.

“Try the key again, brother,” said the Franciscan; “the man is beyond hearing.”

Friar Rushak again applied the key; the great bolt yielded before it; the gate creaked upon its hinges, and the Franciscan deposited his trembling burden, more dead than alive, in a little skiff that lay in the creek of the river running under the vault.

“Thanks, kind brother,” said the Franciscan in a low tone of voice, to Friar Rushak; “a thousand thanks for thy friendly aid.”

“Hush! the sentinel comes again,” whispered Friar Rushak.

They remained perfectly still until the man had completed his turn, and was gone beyond hearing.

“Now thou mayest venture to depart,” said Friar Rushak—“away, and St. Francis be with thee!” And so saying, he waved his hand, shut the gate, and quickly disappeared.

The Franciscan got into the boat. A little crooked man, who had hitherto lain like a bundle of clothes in the bottom of it, started up, and began pushing it along by putting his hands against the side-walls until he got beyond the vault. Then he sat down and pulled the oars.

“Who goes there?” cried the sentinel, “who goes there?—Answer me, an thou wouldst not have a quarrel-bolt in thy brain.”

The Franciscan minded not, and the little figure went on, pulling with all his might. Beatrice sat trembling with affright. It was dark, but she heard the sentinel’s step running along the wall, as if following the sound of the oars. He halted; the click of the spring of his arbaleste reached her ear, and the bolt that it gave wings to had nearly reached her too, for it struck with great force on the inside of the boat that was opposite to the man who shot it. The rower pulled off farther into the stream. The sentinel’s cry for raising the guard was heard; but the tide was now running down, and it bore the little boat on its bosom with so much swiftness that they soon lost all sound of the alarm.

“Tell me, oh, tell me who art thou, and whither dost thou carry me?” cried Beatrice, her heart sinking with alarm as she beheld the walls of the city left behind them.

“Daughter, this is neither the time nor the place for the explanation thou dost lack,” replied the Franciscan; “methinks I do hear the sound of oars behind us. Let me aid thee, Bobbin,” cried he, taking one of the oars, and beginning to pull desperately.

The united strength of the two rowers now made the little boat fly like an arrow, and in a short time the eyes of the Lady Beatrice were attracted by five lights that burned bright in the middle of the river, and hung in the form of St. Andrew’s cross.

“St. Francis be praised,” cried the Franciscan; “we are now near the bark that is to give us safety. Pull, Bobbin, my brave heart.”

The lights grew in magnitude in the Lady Beatrice’s eyes, and the water beneath the shadowy hull blazed with the bright reflection.

“Hoy, the skiff!” cried a stern voice in a north-country accent.

“St. Andrew!” replied the Franciscan.

“Welcome, St. Andrew,” said the voice from the vessel. “Hast thou sped, holy father?”

“Yea, by the blessing of St. Francis and the Virgin,” replied the Franciscan.

The lights, which were suspended to a frame attached to the round top of the short thick mast, were at once extinguished. The skiff came alongside, and the Lady Beatrice was lifted, unresisting, into the vessel, and carried directly into the cabin, and in a few minutes the anchor was weighed.

“So, my brave men,” cried the master to his sailors, after they had got the anchor on board, “now, hoise up the mainsail. Take the helm, Bobbin; we shall drop slowly down till daylight doth appear.”

“Art thou sure of shaping thy course safely through all these intricate windings?” demanded the Franciscan.

“Yea,” replied the commander, “as sure as thou hast thyself seen me when running between the Bass and the May. What, dost thou think that I have been herrying these English loons so long without gathering sea-craft as well as plunder? And then, have I not crooked Bobbin here as my pilot, who was bred and born in this serpent of a river? By St. Rule, but he knoweth every sweep and turn, yea, and every sand and shoal bank, blindfold. Had I not had some such hands on board, how dost thou think I could have carried off that spice-ship so cunningly, having to steer her through so many villainous eel-knots?”

“I see thou art not a whit less daring than thy sire,” said the Franciscan.

“Nay, an I were, I should ill deserve the gallant name of Mercer,” replied the other. “Thou didst witness enow of his exploits, I ween, the while that thou wert aboard of him, to remember thee well that he did neither want head to conceive, boldness to dare, nor coolness to execute. Trust me, I lack not my father’s spirit; and though I have not the fortune to sail with a fleet of stout barks at my back, as he was wont to do, yet, while the timbers of the tough old Trueman do hold together beneath me, I shall work these Southrons some cruel evil, to revenge the loss of my father and his ships. Haul from the land, Bobbin; haul off, to weather that point. Climb the forecastle and look out there, he who hath the watch.”

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LXV. In the Dungeons of the Tower of London

Let us now return to Sir Patrick Hepborne, and inquire into his fate, as well as endeavour to explain how he was enabled to render so speedy aid to the Lady Beatrice.

After having heard everything from the Minstrel, he resolved to avail himself of the invitation he had received from the Lady de Vere; by doing which immediately, he hoped to have some happy accidental opportunity of seeing and conversing with the Lady Beatrice. He had no sooner presented himself at the door of her apartments, than a page, who seemed to have been on the watch for him, sprang forward, and ushered him into a small chamber, voluptuously furnished, and moderately lighted by a single lamp. In his way thither he heard voices and laughing in another place. The page left him, and in a very short time he heard the light trip of a woman’s foot. The door opened, and the Lady de Vere entered alone. She accosted him with an easy gaiety of manner, and, ordering her page to bring in spiced wine, she began to assail his heart with all the allurements of which she was mistress. Sir Patrick, still hoping for an opportunity of seeing her whom he so much loved, mustered up all his ingenuity to keep the lady in play, but his mind was so much employed in thinking of the Lady Beatrice, that he ministered but awkwardly to the coquetry of the Lady de Vere, and met her warm advances so coldly, that she began to think in her own mind that this phœnix of Scottish chivalry was little better than a frigid fool.

It was whilst he was engaged in playing this truly difficult game that the shrieks of the Lady Beatrice reached his ear. He started up at once from the Lady de Vere’s side, and, drawing his sword, made his way with the speed of lightning towards the chamber whence the screams proceeded, and, with the force of a thunderbolt centred in his foot, burst open the door as we have already seen. The Lady de Vere, boiling with indignation at being so abandoned by him, called for some of the King’s guards, and, arriving with them just in time to hear the language in which he was talking of her to Beatrice, her rage knew no bounds, and the reader is already aware to what a cruel extremity it carried her against the hapless lovers.

The blow which Sir Patrick received, though it effectually stunned him, was by no means fatal. When he recovered from the swoon into which it had thrown him, he found himself stretched on a heap of straw, on the floor of a dungeon. The grey twilight that peeped through a small grated window placed high in the wall, told him that morning was approaching. He arose, with a head giddy from the blow it had received, and found that the axe-wound in his scalp had bled so profusely as to have deluged his hair, and so clotted it together that it had of itself stopped the effusion. The knight then began to examine the place of his confinement, when, to his surprise, he beheld another prisoner in the vault, who seemed to sleep soundly. Sir Patrick approached to look upon him, and he was not a little astonished to discover that it was no other than his landlord, Master Lawrence Ratcliffe. He hesitated for a time to disturb so sound a repose; but at length curiosity to know how he came there got the better of everything else, and he gently shook him from his slumbers. The wine merchant started up—rubbed his eyes, and betrayed, by his look of terror, that he was awakened to a full recollection of his situation, and that he feared he was called to meet his doom; till, seeing that it was his Scottish guest whose countenance he beheld, his expression changed.

“So thou hast come to look upon the victim of thy traiterie,” said he, with a reproachful tone.

“What meanest thou, my good friend?” replied Hepborne; “I am a prisoner here, as well as thyself.”

“Ha, ha! So then, whilst they listened to thy tale, they did begin to suspect thee of having had some share in the treason,” said Ratcliffe.

“What treason?” demanded Hepborne; “I protest, on the honour of a knight, that I am altogether ignorant of what thou dost mean. Believe me, I am here for no matter connected with aught that thou mayest have done. My crime is the having dared to rescue a virtuous demoiselle from the wicked assault of King Richard. I was on the eve of springing forward to punish him on the spot for his villainy, when he fled. I was suddenly rendered senseless by a blow from the halberd of one of his guards, and I recovered not from my swoon until I found myself on yonder straw. But what, I pr’ythee, hath made thee the tenant of this gloomy dungeon?”

“And art thou really innocent of betraying me then?” demanded Ratcliffe, with a strong remnant of doubt in his countenance.

“I have already declared, on the faith of knighthood, that I know not what I could have betrayed thee in,” replied Hepborne, a little displeased that his truth should be thus questioned; “Depardieux, I am not wont to be thus interrogated and suspected.”

“Nay, pardon me, good Sir Knight,” cried Master Ratcliffe, starting up, and stretching out his hand to Hepborne; “by St. Paul, I do now most readily believe thee, and I am heartily ashamed of having ever doubted thee for a moment. But thou camest in on us so strangely, as we were in secret conclave assembled, that when my arrest came at midnight, I could not but believe that thou hadst betrayed me.”

“What could I have betrayed thee in?” said Sir Patrick. “I came in on thee and thy friends by an accident, and I neither did know, nor did I seek to know, the subject of your deliberation.”

“Nay, trust me, it was matter of no weight, Sir Knight,” cried Ratcliffe eagerly; “simple traffic, I promise thee. Yet men’s most innocent dealings be cruelly perverted in these slippery times; and some one, I trow, hath sorely misrepresented mine, else had I not been here. But right glad am I to find that thou art free from such suspicion; for verily the disappointment I felt in discovering that thou wert, as I did then think, a traitor, was even more bitter to me than the effect of the traiterie of the which I did suppose thee guilty. But tell me, Sir Knight,” said he, rapidly changing the subject, and speaking with an air of eagerness, “tell me how did King Richard escape thine arm? Methought that arm of thine mought have crushed him like a gnat. Ha! trust me, thou needst have no fear that England should have lacked a monarch, if thou hadst chanced to have rid her of him who now reigns. But, blessed St. Erkenwold, what noise is that I hear? Holy St. Mary, grant that there be not spies about us!”

The door of the dungeon opened, a man entered, and the guards who brought him retreated, after again locking the door.

“Mortimer Sang!” cried Sir Patrick Hepborne; “what, I pray thee, hath brought thee hither? There was at least some spark of kindness in their thus admitting thee to visit thy master.”

“Nay, not a whit, Sir Knight,” replied Sang; “for albeit I am right glad to have the good fortune thus to share thy captivity, by St. Baldrid, I came thither as no matter of favour, seeing I am a prisoner like thyself.”

“A prisoner!” cried Hepborne; “and what canst thou have done to merit imprisonment?”

“I sat up for thee yesternight, until I did become alarmed for thy safety, Sir Knight,” replied Sang; “and knowing those who had the guard at the Tower gate, I made my way in, and was in the act of entering the Palace to inquire about thee, when, as I crossed the threshold, I was met by two friars, one of whom bore a lady in his arms. She was disguised in a monk’s habit; but my recollection of Maurice de Grey, together with what your worship hath told me, made me recognize her at once as the Lady Beatrice. The Franciscan who carried her——”

“Franciscan!” cried Hepborne. “What! he who came to Lochyndorbe to denounce the Bishop of Moray’s threatened excommunication against Lord Badenoch?”

“The same,” replied Sang.

“Then,” cried Hepborne in distraction, “then hath the hapless lady’s murder been made the consummation of their guilt. That friar was an assassin. He did once attempt her life at midnight. Ah, would I could break through these walls, to sacrifice him who hath been the author of a deed so foul; would I were led forth to death, for that alone can now give relief to my misery. But,” continued he, turning reproachfully to his esquire, “how couldst thou behold her whom my soul adores thus borne to her death, and not strike one blow for her deliverance?”

“Nay, verily I did rush to her rescue, Sir Knight,” replied Sang; “but ere I could reach her, I was beset by some dozen of the guards from the Palace, and, ere I wist, I was beaten to the earth, captured, and thrown into a vault, where I lay for the remainder of the night, and whence I have been this moment brought hither, being accused of treason, in attempting to enter the Royal Palace at midnight, with intent to kill the King.”

Hepborne threw himself down on his straw, and yielded himself up to the full flood of the affliction that came on him with the thought of the Lady Beatrice’s fate. He reproached himself in a thousand ways for not having prevented that over which he could have had no control; and neither his esquire nor Master Lawrence Ratcliffe could succeed in giving him the smallest consolation.

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