The old hall was warm and comfortable; the great, wide, open hearth displayed some half-dozen logs of blazing wood; and the fitful flame of the fire, outshining the two candles that stood upon the table, flickered round the whole room, glancing upon the quaint old carvings that surrounded the panels, prying into the deep bays of the windows, and catching here and there upon some well-polished casque, breastplate, or other piece of ancient armour, which, suspended by hooks and brackets, ornamented the walls. The ceiling, which was of old oak, like the wainscot, was lost in the obscurity above; but the rich mantelpiece was fully seen by the light of the candles near it, and was the pride of the room and that part of the country. It had been carved by a famous Flemish artist, and presented by him to good Sir Harry West for some kindly service rendered during the time of the Low Country wars. What was the deed that merited the gift we do not, indeed, know; but it is probable that the oaken sculpture had some reference to the cause of the sculptor's gratitude, as on either side of the chimney stood the figure of an armed knight, in full relief, bearing upon his shoulder a corner of the entablature, on which was represented, in a smaller size, the history of the good Samaritan.
Before the fire-place, at a convenient distance, stood a round table, covered with the relics of the evening-meal. Drinking-cups are there, and flagons, and it would seem that in that squat, flat-sided, long-necked bottle, there is some precious and much-esteemed liquor, from the tall glasses, gilt and bedizened, which stand by, and can never be destined for the conveyance of any unworthy fluid. Between the table and the fire, so near the former that the elbow could rest comfortably upon it, sat the good knight the master of the house, and his young kinsman; and between them, again, and the chimney, lay a large, shaggy hound, such as would have delighted the soul of a Landseer, or a Scott, and who may have been a remote connexion of one of those immortalized by Rubens. Stretched out like a trussed hare, with his paws before him, and his long muzzle gracefully leaning over the ankle next to the fire, the good dog seemed to be asleep; and, perhaps, had his head been in a position to accomplish such a feat, he might have nodded from time to time; but, nevertheless, he was evidently only in a state of pleasant drowsiness, for ever and anon he opened his keen eyes, and gazed into the fire, as if wondering what that extraordinary element could be, and twice lifted up his head, and looked in his master's face, to see that all was right, speedily settling himself down to his doze again.
It is a sweet and pleasant thing for two old, familiar friends to spend together a long hour after the sun has gone down, and when all the world is quiet, in a warm room, with a blazing fire, and with the moderate use of the pure juice of the grape to fill the intervals of conversation. No haste is upon them, no hurry, no hateful pressure of importunate business; there they can sit as long as they choose; it matters not whether they rise the next minute, or three hours hence. They are free--in short, free from the bondage of worldly affairs, and can do what they think fit with their little treasure of time. No liberty is more pleasant than the emancipation, from all the chains, and shackles, and bars, and bonds of business; and there, when Memory, sweet Memory, takes us by the hand, and leads us back into the flower garden of other years, and points out all the blossoming things that we loved, looking as fresh and beautiful as ever, how sweet are the sensations, how entrancing would they be, were it not for the subdued consciousness that it is all a part of the dream that is passing away.
Nor is the pleasure of such intercourse lessened when there exists some difference in age between the two companions. Youth brings its eager fancy, its bright expectations, its energetic rashness, to the mithridate; and Age its sober reason, its bright remembrances, its calm knowledge, and its tried powers. The party must never extend beyond two, however; a dog, indeed, you may admit, a friendly, faithful dog, the image of unbought attachment and unvarying love; but there must be no one else.
Thus had Sir Harry West and his young friend been passing the last hour--now turning their thoughts to the days when William Seymour was a mere boy, and, as the second son of a noble family, had been left greatly to the care of his maternal relations; now talking of those days of strange adventure, when, under the guardianship of the good knight, he had first mounted horse for the battle-field in that beautiful neighbouring island to which England has been "little more than kin, and less than kind"--when about half-past nine o'clock, which was, indeed, half an hour later than Sir Harry West's usual bed time in the country, the dog, who lay upon the hearth, gave signs of being awake by raising one ear perpendicularly from his head, without, however, moving from his place, or lifting his muzzle from his paw.
"He hears some sound without," observed his master, whose eyes had been fixed contemplative upon him.
"And yet," said William Seymour, who understood that he spoke of the dog, for he had been looking in the same direction, without any visible cause for his eyes being turned towards the animal, except that those of his friend were resting upon it, "and yet the rain is dropping so hard and heavily that I should suppose no sound from without but a very loud one, would drown its noise and the crackling of the fire, for ears that lie so near the blaze as his."
"They are quicker than our own even in youth," replied his friend; "it is wonderful how dogs will catch the lightest sound, and distinguish in a moment whether it is one they are accustomed to or not. They are learned in sounds, these triangular-headed gentry. See! he looks up; if it were a moonlight night, I should think some of the young neighbouring vagabonds had come to plunder the rookery or the dovecot."
As he spoke, the dog gazed in his master's face for a moment, as if for encouragement, and then gave a short growl.
"What is the matter, Mark'em?" asked the old knight, patting his head; and instantly the dog sprang forward into one of the bay-windows, with a loud, angry bark, which was repeated more fiercely still the next moment, when a thundering heavy blow upon the door of the house announced that some visitor sought admission.
"Down, Mark'em!--down!" cried Sir Harry West. "On my life, this is a stormy night for any one to venture out. Those blue-bottles of mine must not keep the man waiting, whoever he be;" and, advancing to the door of the room, he called loudly to several of the servants by name.
Before they could come, however, he himself had crossed to the hall-door, and opened it, saying, "Come in, whoever you are!--What is it you want, good fellow? I know your face. Whose servant are you?"
"The Lady Arabella's, Sir Harry," replied the man; "but we want help quickly. Her horse has fallen in this dark night; and, though she says she is not hurt, yet we all fear it is but to give us comfort."
"Bring lanterns! bring lanterns!" cried Sir Harry, vehemently. "Lakyn! Matthew! Dick! Here, William Seymour, come with me. Here is that dear, beautiful girl, with her horse down, and herself hurt. Patience and mercy! what made her ride out in such a night as this?"
But William Seymour was by this time at the hall-door.
"I will go, I will go!" he exclaimed. "Stay you, Sir Harry. Send down the lanterns. I will go."
And, without waiting to catch up cloak or hat, he ran out over the terrace and through the garden, passed the little gate, and hurried on down the narrow road which kept along the stream. He had not far to go, however; for about half way between the house and the London road, he came suddenly upon a group of three human beings and five horses standing together, with the rain pouring down upon them in as heavy a stream as our somewhat weeping and uncertain skies ever let flow upon a hapless traveller.
"Are you hurt?--are you hurt?" exclaimed the young gentleman, addressing the taller of the two women who formed parts of the group.
"No, indeed," replied the lady; "very little, if at all. I know your voice, sir, though I see you are not my old friend, Sir Harry West. Good heaven! can it be Mr. Seymour?"
"The same, lady, and ever the humblest of your servants," replied the young gentleman. "Pray, let me assist you to the house. There are people coming with lanterns directly. Let me support you."
Arabella gave him her hand without any sign of unwillingness; and he led her on with care, asking again, in a low voice, as soon as they were some ten or twenty steps from her attendants, "Are you hurt?"
The question was put in one of those tones that give peculiar value and meaning to words, otherwise of no import,--those tones that may be called a second language, an universal tongue, in which all the comments of the heart are written upon the colder and more abstruse dialect in which we carry on our conversation with the ordinary world. He had asked her before the same question, and received an answer. What was it, then, he now said? A vast deal more, though without using any other than the words he had first employed. He told her, then, with the thrilling anxiety of deep interest, that he feared she was more hurt than she would allow; that he was alarmed, grieved, pained by what had happened; that he was rejoiced to see her again; that the lightest injury to her was of deep importance to him. Yes, although he only used those few words, that brief question, like Lord Burleigh's famous shake of the head, meant all this. Luckily, it so happens that there is no instruction required to learn the language of which we speak; the key to the cipher is in the hearts of every one, but more especially in the breast of woman; and Arabella, whatever were her own feelings, easily translated the tone of William Seymour into express terms. Not that he had ever said one word to her which the most distant acquaintance might not justify; not that one phrase had ever passed between them which the ear of the whole world might not have heard, but he had often spoken as he now spoke, and the tones had often made her heart thrill. She was, however, accustomed to inspire interest and excite admiration; she could not but know it; and, though in many cases she cared little about it, perhaps William Seymour's was not the instance in which she valued it the least.
Arabella Stuart fancied herself in no degree ambitious. She had seen princes at her feet, without estimating them in the least by the crowns they offered, or the territories they possessed. She had willingly seen the proposals of some of the highest men in Europe rejected by those who ruled her fate; and yet she was perhaps the most ambitious person that it is possible to conceive; for she sought to obtain that which is the most difficult for any human being to gain--especially of royal blood. The object of her ambition was happiness! that glorious crown which all the jewels of the world cannot enrich, which, studded with the diamonds of the heart, can receive no additional lustre from such paltry things as power, or wealth, or station.
In reply, she assured her companion that she was not hurt, and in her tone she thanked him much more than by mere words. She even let him know in some degree that she understood the interest he felt towards her, and was grateful to him for it.
Not much time, however, was allowed them for conversation of any kind; for ere they had proceeded a hundred yards they were met by Sir Harry West, with his servants bearing lanterns; and the good knight, with William Seymour, accompanied her back to the house, while the attendants went on to give assistance to the party left behind.
The same question which she had already answered, was of course addressed to Arabella by her old friend, and he too showed almost as deep an interest as his companion had displayed, though it was of a different sort. Satisfied on that head, he put a number of other inquiries to her: whence she last came--whither she was going--how she happened to be riding forth at such a time of night, especially as it had been raining hard for several hours.
"Nay, nay, Sir Harry," cried the lady, gaily, "this is a catechism, and I will not answer you on all these heads now. You shall give me lodging in your castle for the night, if you be a gallant gentleman and true; and when I have once more cast off my wet garments, I will come and reply to all interrogatories as faithfully and discreetly as if I were before the Star Chamber."
"So shall it be, dear lady; so shall it be," replied Sir Harry West. "My good old housekeeper, Dame Cicely, has been called out of the still-room to tend upon you; and, thanks to this young gentleman's arrival this afternoon, the best chamber is ready prepared for your reception."
The lady, of course, said something apologetic for the trouble that she gave. "She was sorry, too," she said, "to deprive Mr. Seymour of his chamber." But the young gentleman assured her that he would sleep more sweetly for knowing that she was lodged in safety and in comfort; and Sir Harry answered laughingly, that he had taught the boy, in years long past, to put up with hard beds and scanty lodging.
Thus talking, they soon reached the house, where a good matronly old woman, in a long stiff bodice, serge petticoat, and flowered gown, whose years would have had to roll back again some way to reach the age of sixty, accompanied by a handmaiden, who prided herself upon being at least five years younger than Dame Cicely, were waiting in the hall to give whatever help and tendance might be needed by the Lady Arabella. To their hands her two male companions consigned her, and then returned into the chamber where they had been passing the evening, when their conversation had been interrupted by the events which we have described. Without sitting down, both took their places before the fire again; and William Seymour brushed the wet with his hand from the curls of his hair, murmuring to himself,
"I trust she will not suffer from this."
"It is, indeed, a terrible night," said his old friend, "for such frail creatures as womankind to be out. There is nothing, William, that I thank God for more, amongst all the blessings he has showered upon me, than for not making me a woman."
"And yet, my dear sir," replied William Seymour, "you were always a most devoted admirer and humble servant of the fair."
"At a respectful distance, William, at a respectful distance," said the old knight, smiling. "When I was of your age, it is true, I had some impulses of matrimony upon me, which, like other diseases of children, by a strong constitution and good management, I got over easily."
"Nay," cried William Seymour, "surely you do not call love a disease."
"Just as much the disease of youth," answered Sir Harry, with that slight touch of sarcasm in his look which we have already noticed--"just as much a disease of youth as measles, or chin-cough, or mumps amongst children, or the distemper amongst dogs. True, it sometimes attacks us in mature age, and even in later life; but the cases are rare, and then it goes hard with the patient. Take care of thyself, my dear boy. Thou art just about the age to catch it; but if ever you do, come to me, and I will be your physician. Ha! Lakyn. Bring them in, bring them in! Show that pretty maiden to her mistress's chamber. Is the horse much hurt?"
"Both his knees as full of holes as a beggar's coat, Sir Harry," replied the old man.
"That is bad, that is bad," said Sir Harry West. "Have them well bathed with hot water, Lakyn; then take a gill of Bordeaux wine, an ounce of salt, and a little sweet oil to anoint them with."
"I know, I know, Sir Harry," answered the man. "'Tis a marvellous receipt; but this horse is a mighty deal worse than the grey gelding."
Thus saying he withdrew, taking with him to the buttery the two servants of the Lady Arabella, with the hospitable design of comforting each with a cup of humming ale; and the conversation was renewed between Sir Harry West and his young friend, much in the same strain as before, till the lady herself made her appearance in the old hall.
She was somewhat paler than usual, and her step had less of its buoyant lightness, as she was led by her good host with ceremonious respect to a chair by the fire. She owned, too, that she felt somewhat bruised with her fall, and expressed her determination soon to retire to rest.
"I am afraid, Sir Harry," she said, "that I cannot say my catechism to-night; but, to satisfy you on one head before I go, I will tell you the cause of my journey. The king, you know, is already on his way from Scotland, and has crossed the border, I understand, some days. 'Twas only yesterday, however, that my aunt of Shrewsbury gave me notice that such was the case, and urged me strongly, by her letters, to hasten to meet his majesty, my royal cousin, and offer him my loyal duty. As she knew I was but poorly attended, she told me that some ten of her own people should meet me at Stamford, if I would come thither with all speed. Thus, you see, I set out but with two men and my girl, Marian; and, as the day was fine, I hoped to have a moonlight ride for an hour or two during the night."
"I fear, dear lady," answered the knight, "that the good Countess has led you to a needless, as well as unlucky, journey. She does not seem to know that the king has issued a proclamation, forbidding all persons resort to the court during its progress towards London. It were wise of you, ere you proceed, to send a messenger to his majesty, asking permission to wait upon him."
"Nay," exclaimed the Lady Arabella, "surely he will not refuse to receive his poor kinswoman?"
"Dear lady," replied her old counsellor, "you surely should know something of royal personages; and yet, methinks, you are ignorant of how small a thing with them may turn love into disliking. A light word spoken, an act of deference forgotten, the slightest disobedience, even when it springs from affection, may deprive one of favour, and never be forgiven. No after devotion, no penitence will wipe away the impression; and dark looks and a cloudy brow, whenever you appear, will be all that you can expect for life."
"Oh!" cried Arabella, "how differently would I act if I were a queen! Love should to me stand in place of duty, truth should well supply respect, honour should be the courtesy that I would prize, and merit have its reward, not fawning. I would be bountiful,--not only in deeds, but in words and looks,--would break no promise that I made, and never inflict upon hope the agony of delay. When I refused, it should be with gentleness; when I gave, it should be at once. I should be loath to punish, punishing my own heart at the same time. I would be careful of my lightest word, knowing that no words are light upon a monarch's lips."
"I am sure you would," exclaimed William Seymour, in a tone that made Arabella raise her eyes to his face, with a slight increase of colour in her cheek.
But good Sir Harry West did not seem to enter into the enthusiasm of his young friend.
"You would be a very sweet lady, then," he said; "but perhaps not a good queen. Royalty is a rough thing, lady; it has to deal with hard matters, and must be somewhat hard itself. True, sovereigns often think that they are exempt from the milder duties of mankind, and in that are wrong; for they require more qualities than other men, not less. They should want no kindly affections of the heart, but have the greater strength to rule them, from the greater need. The acts of ordinary men affect but a narrow circle; the acts of sovereigns spread round to every human being throughout their whole dominions. An individual may make any sacrifice he pleases of that which is his own property, without injuring any one; a monarch is the property of his people, and can make no sacrifice without affecting all. Stern facts, lady, stern facts; but no less true than stern."
"Thank God I am not a queen!" said Arabella, after a moment's pause. "But, to return," she continued; "what would you have me do, Sir Harry, in this business with the king? He may take offence if I go not forward to meet him, and think me wanting in duty; and, as you say, if I do approach the court, after the proclamation, I may be held as disobedient. What shall I do? I will be guided by your advice."
"Stay here, dear lady," replied Sir Harry West, "and send a messenger to ask permission of the king. You will thus show both obedience and duty. Here is our young friend, William Seymour, doubtless he will willingly perform your behest, and be back in a day or two."
William Seymour, however, did not look so well satisfied as the old knight expected; and Arabella Stuart paused for a few moments without reply, as if not quite willing to take advantage at once of the proposal.
"I could scarcely venture to ask Mr. Seymour," she said, at length, raising her soft eyes to his face; "and perhaps he may not be inclined to go."
William Seymour could not find in his heart so far to belie his own feelings as to say he was willing, and yet he dared not explain what those feelings were. Perhaps Arabella was not willing to send him; but of that we know nothing, although, if she was very anxious that he should be her messenger, she did not quite display a woman's skill in carrying her point. On the contrary, indeed, she was the first to furnish him with a fair excuse for declining the commission.
"On second thoughts," she continued, after the young gentleman had made a somewhat hesitating tender of his services,--"on second thoughts, I must not even ask Mr. Seymour; for, if disobedience to the proclamation might bring the king's anger upon me, the same act would, of course, affect him in the like manner. There is the royal blood," she added, with a smile, "flowing in his veins as well as mine; and, of course, our sovereign's indignation would fall more heavily upon a man than upon a poor girl like me."
"True," said the old man, "true; I had forgotten that; you must send some inferior person, lady. If you will write a letter to his majesty to-night, I will despatch it by a messenger to-morrow, who shall put into the hands of Sir Robert Cecil, to be laid before the King."
"I will do it at once," replied Arabella, "and then hie me to my bed; for, to speak truth, I am somewhat weary with my journey, with the rain, and with my fall."
The letter was accordingly written in all due form, beseeching the king to suffer his poor cousin to pay her duty to him, by meeting him on the road to London; and on the following morning, before Arabella had left her bed, a trusty messenger was bearing it towards the north.
Whether the fair writer slept well that night matters not to our history; William Seymour scarcely closed an eye, and for two long hours after he had sought his chamber, he sat almost in the same attitude, with his head resting on his hand, in deep thought. As his meditation ended, he murmured a few words to himself. "Now or never," he said. "Oh! golden opportunity! I will not suffer doubt or dismay to snatch thee from me."
Although duty and propriety, and a number of other considerations, should lead us to follow the messenger of Sir Harry West to the busy and bustling scene which was taking place at Newark-upon-Trent, on the occasion of King James's entrance into that very respectable city, yet, yielding to temptation like other men, we feel ourselves so well pleased in the company of Arabella Stuart and William Seymour in the old knight's house, that we cannot resist our inclination to remain a little longer with them, and to shun the noise and hurry of the court.
Oh, how sweetly, when we think of all that noise and hurry, do the calm and tranquil scenes of the country come upon the heart!--the sunshine slumbering upon the green field, the waving branches of the old trees, the free and dancing brightness of the rapid stream, the whispering of the soft-breathed wind, the singing of the joyous birds, how sweet they all fall upon the eye and ear--ay, even the cawing of the glossy rooks amongst the tall elms, heard through the open casement in which Seymour and Arabella now stand together, gazing out upon the bright aspect of the valley, as it glistens in the morning sunshine after the heavy rains of night.
The mild air of the May morning is wooing her soft cheek, the tender graces of the spring are saluting her bright eye, the music of the woodland songsters is thrilling on her ear, the harmony of all is sinking into her heart.
They are alone together; the old knight in his justice room, busy in reconciling differences, and in spreading peace, has left them to themselves; there is no ear to listen but that of nature; no eye to mark the emotions of their bosoms but His who made them to feel and to enjoy. Have a care, have a care, you two young and inexperienced beings! Have a care of the gulf that is before you, and stand no longer on the giddy brink! Oh, perilous hour! Why could it not be averted? Why could the words spoken never be blotted out from the record of things done? But it is all in vain to wish, or to regret. Fate was before them, and hand in hand they went upon the way that led them to destruction.
There had been a long, silent pause, after some words of common courtesy; a pause such as takes place when people feel and know that they are upon the eve of things which may affect their whole future life. Arabella was anxious to say something upon matters totally indifferent to them both; but, busy with deeper thoughts, could find no such indifferent topic. Seymour, on the contrary, longed to talk of thoughts and feelings which had rested in his heart unchanged since last he saw her, but hesitated how to begin, lest the very first word should alarm her.
At length, however, Arabella spoke, for she felt that such long silence might seem to have more meaning than any words.
"It is nearly two years, I think," she said, "since you went to Flanders?"
"Fully," he replied; "and a long, dull time it has been."
"Nay," answered the lady, "I think that, were I a young man, nothing I should like so much as seeing foreign lands and mingling with strange people. There must be a great delight in watching all their habits, and in the adventures one meets with amongst them."
"When the heart is at ease," replied William Seymour; "but mine was not so."
"Indeed!" said Arabella, fixing her eyes upon him. "I should have thought no heart more light."
"Truly, then, you have never seen it," rejoined the young gentleman, "for it is often heavy enough."
"I grieve to hear it," replied the lady, with a look of interest; and then in a gayer tone she added, with that attraction towards dangerous subjects which is to woman as the light to the moth, "Come, what is it weighs it down? Make me your father confessor. Woman's wit will often find a way to attain that which man's wisdom fails to reach."
"Well then, I will," said William Seymour. "I could not have a fairer confessor, nor one who has more right to assign the penance for my sins. Lady, my heart is heavy, from an hereditary disease, which has caused much mischief and much grief amongst my race already. You may probably have heard of it."
"Nay, never," answered Arabella, with real astonishment. "I always thought the very name of Seymour implied health and strength, and long life.--What is this sad malady?"
"That of loving above our station," replied William Seymour; and instantly her face became deadly pale, her frame trembled, and her eyes sought the ground.
He proceeded, however. "This sad ambition," he said, "cost my grandfather nine years' imprisonment, and well nigh his head; but he, as you well know, little cared or sorrowed for what he had suffered, though grieved deeply for the sweet lady on whom their mutual love had brought so severe a punishment."
"And she,"--replied Arabella, looking up, with the colour mounting in her cheek,--"and she grieved for him, not for herself. The Greys were an unfortunate race, however. How strange is the will of God, that of two so beautiful and excellent, Jane should perish on the scaffold, and Catherine waste her best days in prison! Yet methinks they must have been both happy even in their misfortunes, both suffering for those they loved."
"'Twas a sad trial and test of affection," said William Seymour.
"Yet one that any woman would take who truly loves," replied Arabella.
"Ay, that is the point," he answered, looking down. "Such love may, to her who feels it, compensate for all suffering, and, to him who possesses it, repay the sacrifice of all, even of life itself. But, what must be the fate, lady, of one who loves as deeply as man can love, yet sees the object far above his reach, without one cheering hope to lead him on, one cause to think the passion in his own heart has awakened any return in the being, for whom he could cast away his life, as a gambler does his coin?"
"It must be sad, indeed," said Arabella, in a low and hesitating tone,--"sad, indeed," she repeated. "But yet, perhaps--" and there she paused, leaving the sentence incomplete, while her colour varied like the morning sky as the sun rises in the east.
"Yet such is my fate," rejoined her companion; "such has been the weight upon my heart, which has crushed its energies, quelled its hopes, made the gay scenes of other lands all dull and empty, and even in the field deprived my arm of one-half its vigour. Oh! had the light of happy love been but before me, what deeds would I have done, what things accomplished--Arabella," he continued, taking her hand, and gazing in her face--"Arabella?"
She did not withdraw it; but she turned away her head, and with the fair fingers of the other hand chased away a bright drop from her dark eyelashes.
It was enough; his arm stole round her slight waist. She did not move. His lips pressed her soft cheek. A gasping sob was her only reply. "Arabella, Arabella! speak to me!" he said; "leave me not in doubt and misery!"
One moment more she remained still and silent; then, starting from his arms, she brushed her hair back from her forehead, with a sad and bewildered look, exclaiming, "Oh, Seymour, spare me!--This takes me by surprise--this is unkind;--think--think of all the risk, the danger, the sorrow----"
"I have thought, beloved," he replied, "through many a long and weary night, through many a heavy and irksome day. I have paused, and pondered, and doubted, and trembled, and accused myself of base selfishness, and asked if I could bring danger, and perhaps unhappiness, on her whom I love far, far before myself. Arabella, I have sought you not. I would never have sought you! But we have met; and in your presence, I am a poor, weak, irresolute creature, powerless against the mastery of the passion in my heart. Rebuke, revile, contemn, tread upon me, if you will; I am at your feet, to do with as it pleases you."
She shook her head with a sorrowful smile, murmuring, "It is for you I fear!" But, then, suddenly raising her eyes towards heaven, while her lips moved for a moment, she added, "No, Seymour, no; I will not plunge you in misery or danger. Your bright career shall not be cut off or stayed by me. No, no; it is better not to speak or think of such thing. My life may pass, cold and cheerless, in the hard bonds of a fate above my wishes; but you must cast off such feelings.--You must forget me, and in the end----"
"Forget you, Arabella?" he interrupted,--"forget you? You little know the man who loves you. Whether you be mine or another's, I will remember you till life's latest hour;" and he kept his word.
"I will never be another's," replied Arabella. "Fear not that, Seymour. Happily, all the interests, and all the jealousies of whatever monarch may sit upon the throne of this realm, are certain to combine in withholding my hand from any one. I have no sufficient dower to make me worthy of the suit of princes; the only attraction in their eyes might be some very distant and unreasonable claim to a crown I covet not; and I shall find it no difficult task to persuade the King to refuse this poor person to any one to whom it might convey a dangerous, though merely contingent right. I will live on," she continued, resuming her lighter tone--though there was ever a certain degree of melancholy ran through her gayest moods,--"I will live on in single freedom, with a heart, perhaps, not unsusceptible of affection, had fate blessed me with a humble station, but one which will never load itself with the guilt of bringing sorrow and destruction upon the head of another.--Nay, Seymour, nay, say no more! I esteem you highly, regard you much--perhaps if out of all the world----But let that pass! Why should I make you share regrets I myself may feel? It is in vain, it is impossible; so you must utter no farther words upon this matter, if you would have my company, for I must hear no more.--Come, let us walk out and talk of other things. We will go watch the rivulet that dances along, like the course of a happy life, sparkling as it goes, to find repose, at length, in the bosom of that vast, immeasurable ocean, where all streams end.--Nay, not a word more, if you love me!"
"I do! I do!" cried William Seymour, pressing his eager and burning lips upon her hand,--"I do! I do, Arabella! better than anything else on earth."
"Well, then, peace!" she said, "peace! for your sake and for mine; for nothing is so hopeless on earth as the love we feel."
We feel!The confession was made! the words were spoken; and, though Seymour feared to urge her farther then, they sunk into his heart, a sweet solace for the years to come.
Poor Arabella Stuart! If she thought, by the walk along that gentle stream, through those soft fields, amidst the old trees waving over head, listening to the voices of the birds, feeling the tender air of spring, talking over a thousand subjects, in which the ever-present impression of their love was only repressed in words to find utterance in vague and fanciful allusions,--if she thought by such means to cure her lover or herself of the disastrous passion which he had so boldly, she so timidly, acknowledged, alas! she was very, very much mistaken. Like the spirit of the Universal Deity of the Pagans, their love was all around them in everything they saw, or heard, or felt, in every word they uttered, unseen, but powerful, throughout the whole creation.
Yet she thought she was seeking safety; and her spirits rose in the unconsciousness of danger, and the certainty of present happiness. Thus, when, some time after, they were joined by the master of the mansion, there was nothing whatsoever in her manner to show that she had been agitated or alarmed; and when they returned to the early dinner of those days, her heart seemed so light, that one might have thought not a drop of royal blood was running in her veins.
"You are very gay," said William Seymour, in a tone almost reproachful, as they entered the hall.
"So gay," she answered, "that I could sit down and sing;--but I fancy cold Sir Harry West," she continued, turning playfully to the old knight, "whose heart no fair lady could ever bring into tune with her own, has not an instrument of music in all his house--no virginals, no lute?"
"Nay," replied the old knight, "you do me great injustice, fairest lady. I have all my life been the devoted servant of bright eyes. 'Tis but that I have loved them all so well, I never could be such a niggard of my heart as to bind myself to one; and, as to instruments of music--that sweetest of all the many modes of poetry--though virginals, God bless the mark! with their dull tinkling, I have none, yet I possess a lute in my own chamber, such as all the rest of England cannot boast, framed with great skill in Venice, by the famous Mallesini, who taught me how to use it, too, when I was in the City of the Sea, and used to serenade all the Venetian dames."
"All?" exclaimed Arabella, shaking her finger at him. "Fie upon such democracy in love! In that, at least, I would be a monarch, and reign alone, or not at all. But, pray send for this rare instrument, Sir Harry; I would fain try how it will sound under my weak fingers."
"Add but your voice, and the music will be sweet enough," said William Seymour, while the old knight went himself to bring the lute. But Arabella replied not; and a shade of deep sadness passed across her fair face for a moment.
"He is tuning it," she said, the instant after, bending her ear to listen to some sounds which came from a neighbouring chamber. "He is a kind and excellent man." When Sir Harry re-entered the room, she took the lute, and after running her hand for a moment over the strings, sang one of those little ballads which perhaps obtained for her a place in Evelyn's list of fair poets.
SONG."Who is the boy comes stealing here,With looks demure and mild?Keep off! keep off! Let him not near!There's malice in that child."Yet, see, he plays amidst the flowers,As innocent as they;His smile as bright as summer hours,His eyes as soft as May."Beauty and Grace his vestments are;To sport seems all his joy.Gaze if thou wilt, but keep him far,There's danger in the boy."How various are his gladsome smiles,His every look is bright;Sure there can be no wicked wilesWithin that thing of light!"Lo, he holds out a flower to me,A rosebud like a gem!Keep him afar! Dost thou not seeThe thorns upon the stem?"Vain was the warning given; the maidClasped to her heart the boy;But could not pluck him thence. He stayed,And stayed but to destroy."Sweet Love, let others be beguiled,Thy treacherous arts I fear,Keep afar off, thou dangerous child!Thou shalt not come too near!"
"Who is the boy comes stealing here,
With looks demure and mild?
Keep off! keep off! Let him not near!
There's malice in that child.
"Yet, see, he plays amidst the flowers,
As innocent as they;
His smile as bright as summer hours,
His eyes as soft as May.
"Beauty and Grace his vestments are;
To sport seems all his joy.
Gaze if thou wilt, but keep him far,
There's danger in the boy.
"How various are his gladsome smiles,
His every look is bright;
Sure there can be no wicked wiles
Within that thing of light!
"Lo, he holds out a flower to me,
A rosebud like a gem!
Keep him afar! Dost thou not see
The thorns upon the stem?
"Vain was the warning given; the maid
Clasped to her heart the boy;
But could not pluck him thence. He stayed,
And stayed but to destroy.
"Sweet Love, let others be beguiled,
Thy treacherous arts I fear,
Keep afar off, thou dangerous child!
Thou shalt not come too near!"
She ended, and turned a gay look upon Sir Harry West, saying, "That is your history, noble friend, is it not?" and then, ere he could answer, fell into a deep fit of thought, which gave to William Seymour the assurance, and it was a sweet one, that her heart was not so free as she would fain have made it appear. The rest of the day went by in varied and pleasant conversation, though over the mind of William Seymour and the Lady Arabella deep fits of thought, not unmingled with anxiety, came shadowy from time to time, like the clouds of an autumnal sky. Sir Harry West quitted them no more that day; and Seymour began to imagine that he had some suspicion of all that was passing in their hearts. But on the following day, again, they were once more left alone together for some hours; another and another day succeeded; and words were spoken that nothing could recal.
Neither good soldier nor good man was ever without love for his horse, if he had one; and the reader may have already divined, from certain words let fall by good Sir Harry West, that he was peculiarly careful and attentive to the four-hoofed creatures under his care. Every man on earth, probably, has his particular point of coxcombry, and Sir Harry West was not without his. It showed itself in his garden and his bowling green, in his old hall and in his old wine. In a slight degree it was apparent in the studious simplicity of his dress; but it was more evident than anywhere else in his stable, where six as fine horses as England could produce, two of them being old chargers who had borne him in battle, had as much care bestowed on their toilet and their meals as ever court-lady and reverend alderman.
Mounted on one of the stoutest of these well-fed animals, Matthew Lakyn, an old soldier, and an old servant, sped on towards the fair town of Newark-upon-Trent, intrusted by the knight, as his most confidential attendant, to carry the letter of the Lady Arabella to the Court of King James, which was then on its progress from the land of the monarch's birth towards the capital of his new kingdom. As usual in those days, the good old man bore upon his arm a badge to distinguish the family to which he belonged, representing, to use heraldic terms, on a field, argent, a fesse dancettée, sable. A buckler was on his shoulder, a stout sword by his side; and although, as we have said, he was not young, yet he was hale and hearty, and looked well capable of dealing a blow or biding a buffet.
His first day's journey went by quietly enough. For ten miles of his road he only saw one person whom he did not know, and that was a stout, dark-browed horseman, who passed him within five minutes after he had left his master's gate. They exchanged a word of salutation on the road, a courteous custom of those days, which, with many another, has gone by in our more civilized times; and then the stranger rode on, while old Lakyn pursued his course more slowly.
Towards three o'clock on the evening of the second day, the good knight's messenger turned into a small village-house of entertainment, in order to give his horse some food, and apply some of the good things of this life to his own support. The room which Lakyn entered, after seeing to his beast's accommodation, was not exactly like that in which we first introduced the reader to the Lady Arabella Stuart; but it was a small parlour, approached by two descending steps from the road side; and this he found tenanted by two men, sitting on either side of a small table, with a stoup of wine between them, and their heads close together, in earnest conversation.
One of these men we shall not describe, having done so on a former occasion, when he gave himself the name of Baron de Mardyke. The other was one of the personages who were with him at that time, whom he had then called his servants, and whom we did not honour with any particular remark. We must now, however, be more particular, and state that he was a tall, thin, black-bearded man, close-shaved, except a small mustachio, and a tuft of hair upon the chin, neither of which seemed to be the growth of many months. His dress, which was plain, consisted entirely of black and grey; but he wore sword and dagger, though there was a slouch in the shoulders, and an awkward disjointedness about the limbs, which spoke of no long military training. Both he and his companion were booted and spurred as if for a journey; and the moment that Lakyn entered the room they ceased their conversation abruptly, and looked round, as if not well pleased with his presence. The old man, however, was in no way disturbed by theirs; but, seating himself at another table, he stretched out his limbs, to rest them more conveniently, and waited patiently till the flagon was brought him. The strangers, in the meantime, sipped their wine together, and talked of the weather, of the appearance of the crops, and various other things, which were somewhat too evidently distant from their thoughts.
This had gone on some quarter of an hour, when suddenly the door of the room was again thrown open, and in strode the dark-browed horseman who had passed the old servant on the road. He cast a glance round the chamber as he entered, and his eye rested upon Lakyn for an instant; after which he passed on to the table where the other two were seated, and, bending over it, spoke with them for a few minutes in a low tone.
Sir Harry West's good servant was an old soldier, as we have said, and had many of the qualities of his class. He recognised his fellow-traveller immediately; but, seeing either that the other did not remember him, or affected not to do so, he gave not the slightest indication of having himself a better memory. He applied himself, on the contrary, diligently to his ale; and, though it must be confessed that he listened with all his ears, from a curious sort of mistrust or dislike which he felt towards the whole party, yet he heard nothing but the last words of their conversation, which were, "Find out!"
The moment these two monosyllables were pronounced by the Baron de Mardyke, the last-comer quitted the room. After being absent for about five minutes, he returned, and again spoke to the other two in as low a voice as before. Matthew Lakyn, however, thought that he caught the words, "Going on immediately;" and he said to himself, "If they are talking of me, they speak the truth. Neither shall I lose any time upon the road."
Thus thinking, he rose, quitted the room, paid his score, and, having tightened his horse's girths, and replaced the bit in his mouth, he rode on upon his way, at a more rapid pace than he had heretofore employed during his journey. He was now just entering Rutlandshire; and in those days a great quantity of common land, waste and dreary enough, lay between Stamford and Grantham, especially about Witham, where a large extent of dreary ground, some four miles across, according to the course of the high road, and spreading to five or six miles on either hand, presented not a single house, cottage, or hut, as far as the eye could reach. After riding on for about an hour and a half, Lakyn saw this wide heath extending before him, with nothing to relieve its bare monotony but a clump of tall trees, about two miles in advance.
Now, he was anything but a man of a faint heart; but still so many charges had been given him regarding the letter which he bore, that he had conceived that document to be of much greater importance than it really was; and, as the bearer thereof, he had risen to considerable importance in his own eyes. Those were somewhat lawless times, it must be remembered, when, notwithstanding the wisdom with which Elizabeth had ruled, the comparative thinness of the population, and the general state of society, left many opportunities for violent acts, of which there were not wanting persons to take advantage. Why or wherefore good Matthew Lakyn had taken a strong dislike to the party he had just left, we shall not attempt to explain to the reader, as, in truth, the good man could not explain it to himself; but certainly he had thought of them more than once as he rode along the highway; and, when he reached the edge of the common which we have mentioned, he turned in the saddle and gave a look behind him.
As he had been slightly ascending for some time, his view comprised nearly a mile of the road, and at about half that distance he perceived two horsemen following him at a very rapid rate. Recollecting a warning of his master, in times of old, to be always prepared for whatever might happen, the old man assured himself that his sword played easily in the sheath, and then spurred on, disdaining to quicken his pace to any great degree, but still keeping his horse at his very quickest trot, in the hopes of coming near some house before he was overtaken. Those who followed, however, whether out of sport or any more serious intention, did not spare the speed or wind of their beasts; and the moment they came upon the common ground, they quitted the sandy road for the turf at the side, and put their horses into a gallop. This pace soon brought them to the side of Sir Harry West's good servant, where they seemed inclined to pull up, giving him time to recognise the dark-browed gentleman whom he had twice before met with, and the tall, thin, ungainly man whom he had seen in the inn. The former now thought fit to give him a nod of recognition; and Lakyn, whose wit was upon the stretch, exclaimed, with a laugh,
"Ah! good evening, sir. If you are riding races, my masters, I'll beat you across the common for a stoup of wine;" and, without waiting for a reply, he struck his spurs into his good horse's sides, and was soon several lengths ahead. The others spurred after for some way, but did not succeed in catching him; and he was still going at the same rapid rate, when he approached the clump of oaks which we have already mentioned. There, however, he drew in his rein suddenly on the little knoll from which trees sprang, and which was covered with dry green turf. To his very great comfort and satisfaction, he had perceived as he approached a large party of men and women, in gay attire, seated with baskets and panniers in the shade, apparently resting their horses and asses--for several of both were there--and at the same time indulging their own appetites, at the expense of sundry pasties and cold joints of meat.
"Hallo!" cried one of the travellers, as the old servant approached, "are you riding for your life, or has your horse run away with you?"
"Neither, neither," cried Lakyn; "'tis but a race for a stoup of wine with those two gentlemen behind;" and with some difficulty he kept his horse from dashing forward, determined, now that he had met with company, not to lose sight of it again if he could help it.
"Why, you seem mighty happy, ladies and gentlemen," he continued. "May I ask which way your steps are bent?"
"We are going to meet the king as he comes from Newark," said a jolly-looking man. "We have got an address and petition from the town of Oakham, drawn up by our good clerk."
"Then, by your leave," cried Lakyn, springing to the ground, "I will go on with you. 'Tis not good riding alone in such days as these."
"Alone!" exclaimed the other. "Why, you have a queer notion of solitude, having two companions with you."
"One may have companions that are not comrades," answered Lakyn; "and, to say sooth, these are no friends of mine."
"Why, how now!" cried the black-browed man, riding up at this moment, about fifty yards in advance of his fellow-traveller; "why, how now, master serving-man, you have soon come to an end of your race. We shall be at the other side of the common first, and make you pay your losings."
"Ride on, then," said Lakyn, in a jeering tone. "With two such jades as yours I don't fear you. I'll give you a start half-way to the other side, and beat you, notwithstanding."
The man turned a grim look of a somewhat menacing character upon him, and replied, "We will make you pay, if you lose, depend upon it."
"No fear, no fear," answered Lakyn; "ride on, and spare your horses' wind till I come up with you. I'll make you use whip and spur before I have done with you."
As he spoke, the other stranger joined them; but he took no part in the conversation, only saying to his companion, "Come on, Slingsby, come on!" and forward they rode together.
"Why, you will lose your stoup of wine," said the jolly traveller under the trees, addressing Lakyn, while the others proceeded on their way.
"Small payment for good deliverance," rejoined the serving-man. "I love not the looks of those two gentlemen; and, as I am going on an errand from good Sir Harry West, my master, to his highness the king, I must risk nothing till it is accomplished.
"What, Sir Harry West, of Bourne?" cried a grave-looking gentleman in ruff. "If you be one of his people, right gladly will we have you in our company; for, in the question of the meadow at Merton, he decided in favour of Oakham, like a worthy good gentleman, as he is."
"Those are his arms, I think," said Matthew Lakyn, pointing with pride to the badge upon his sleeve.
"To be sure! to be sure!" replied the grave personage, putting a pair of large horn spectacles upon the bridge of his nose. "Polly, my dear, look, those are Sir Harry West's arms. Don't you remember how he said to me, 'Thou art a very sedate and reverend person, Master Smallit, and have given your evidence in a devout and proper manner?'"
The girl confirmed her father's recollection; and the good townspeople of Oakham seemed to think that they could not show too much civility and attention to the servant of Sir Harry West. They were rather slow, it is true, in their motions; but, nevertheless, Matthew Lakyn was willing to put up with a little tardiness, for the sake of the security their company afforded, and, accordingly, he not only proceeded in their company to Grantham that night, but begged leave to make one of the party to Newark the next day. His patience was somewhat tried, it is true, in the morning, by the very different proceedings of the good people of Oakham, from the military rapidity and precision which usually attended his master's journeys when they took place. The hour appointed for setting out was in itself somewhat late, being no earlier than nine; but Mrs. Polty, the wife of one of the principal personages in the company, had a queasy stomach, and could not travel till she had broken her fast. The morning-meal took more time than had been expected, and half an hour was spent in settling the landlord's score; then it was discovered that one of the horses had a shoe loose; and then half the baskets and panniers were still unpacked. Thus, what between eating, and drinking, and scolding, and grumbling, and shoeing the horse, and packing the panniers, and loading the asses, and mounting the steeds, the hand of Grantham dial pointed to twenty minutes past eleven; and then ten minutes more were spent in bidding good-bye to the host and hostess of the inn, and laughing and tittering at the parting jests.
The fourteen or fifteen miles which lay between Grantham and Newark occupied much more time than was required even by the slow pace at which they marched, for numerous parties were on the road, either coming or going to the good town upon Trent, where the king had arrived during the preceding morning, and with each person who would stop to indulge them, the good townsfolk of Oakham paused to gossip, making manifold inquiries as to the court, and the king's appearance and demeanour; on all of which points they received the same sort of satisfactory information which is usually afforded by common rumour. By some persons they were informed that the king was tall, and thin, and fair; by another, that he was a fat, swarthy man, with trunk-hose of prodigious dimensions, and a large Spanish hat upon his head. Again, they were assured that the court displayed great pomp, and was very unapproachable; and again, that all was freedom, and gaiety, and rejoicing.
Thus proceeding, it was near four o'clock before the little party entered Newark, and then it was with the greatest difficulty that they found accommodation in a fourth-rate inn, at the extreme verge of the town, on the side of Nottingham. All was bustle and confusion in the place, notwithstanding the proclamation; the court-yard was crowded with horses; and eating and drinking, which had begun at five in the morning, was still going on with undiminished voracity. A buzz of manifold voices came from every room in the house, above which arose, from time to time, various loud and angry calls for tapsters, ostlers, and landlord. Margery, the host's pretty daughter, had had more kisses ravished from her in one day than ever she bestowed willingly in her life; and the landlord, bustling about, and vowing that he should be ruined and undone by the confusion that reigned in his establishment, took ample care that if any one did, indeed, escape his vigilant eyes without paying their scores, the more honest, or less fortunate, should abundantly make up for the deficiency.
For some time it seemed, though the citizens of Oakham had acquired a somewhat importunate appetite on the road, that no provisions were to be had for love or money; and, leaving Masters Smallit and Polty to settle that affair as they might, and get all ready against his return, Matthew Lakyn, with due reverence for the business with which he was intrusted, went out at once on feet, to deliver the letter to Sir Robert Cecil.
Well aware of the difficulty of getting to a great man's presence in the midst of a court, Lakyn determined, in the first place, to inquire for one of the servants of the famous minister, with several of whom he had been acquainted when his master had frequented the gay scenes of the capital. On this errand he was bustling along through the crowds which nearly blocked up the principal street of the town, when, in a group of persons at one of the doors, he caught sight of the well-known colours of the Cecil family, and the badge, with its barry and escutcheoned field; and making his way through, he was soon shaking hands with an old compotator, whom he had not seen for several years. His business was easily explained; but, on hearing of the letter, the serving-man put on a wise and diplomatic look, such as official personages assume to nip a request in the bud before being driven actually to refuse it.
"Is it a petition?" he asked; "for 'tis not easy to bring petitions to my good master. He abhors them as a love-sick maiden hates cheese."
"Oh, dear, no," replied Lakyn, with a proud toss of the head. "My master is much too great a man, as you well know, to make petitions. If any one wants his services they must petition him, and are very likely to get refused even then. I do not know, for I have not seen, what the letter contains; but I rather think it is a civil excuse for not coming to wait upon the King. But, you know, he is tired of courts, and wishes to spend the rest of his life in peace, doing good to all around him by his wonderful wisdom."
"Oh, if that be all," cried the servant, "it will soon be done. It is of those who come to court great men are afraid, not those who stay away from it. Come away up with me to the house yonder; and, as Sir Robert gets off his horse after the hunting, you may deliver him the letter yourself."
Lakyn was in the midst of his reply, telling the servant that there was a party waiting for him at the inn, and that he would but give them notice, and return in a minute, when there was a sudden cry of "The King! the King!"
All was in a moment bustle and confusion. Some men on horseback, riding forward, drove back the crowd on either side of the road, making a lane for the royal cavalcade to pass; and, in the change of movements which took place,--as these harbingers were careful to treat more roughly those they did not know than those they did, it naturally happened that the servant of Sir Robert Cecil and his friend obtained a position in front of the rest.
"Now," said the man, "now! My master is coming just behind the King, on this side. Step forward with me as he passes, and give him the letter. I will tell him who you are."
Lakyn looked down the street, and, at the distance of about thirty yards beheld a somewhat corpulent and heavy-looking man, on horseback, riding with a slouching and uneasy air, coarse in feature, clumsy in person, with his broad lips partly open, and the tip of his tongue visible beneath his teeth. He had a small cap or bonnet on his head, and a long feather, clasped by a large jewel. His dress was of a bright, and somewhat glaring green; a hunting-horn hung at his side, and a long knife, but no sword; and ever and anon, as the people shouted, "God save the King! God save King James!" he bowed his head with a sidelong inclination, which was anything but graceful, though he seemed by his self-satisfied look to fancy it very gracious. Behind him came a crowd of gentlemen, amongst the first of whom appeared a personage, who, though slightly deformed, displayed the dignified carriage of an English gentleman, and sat his fiery horse with ease and grace. Lakyn immediately recognised Cecil, and was in the act of stepping forward to speak to him, when, putting his hand to the black velvet pouch, which, suspended by a belt over his shoulder, contained the important letter, he found the fingers of a stranger, armed with a knife, busily employed in cutting it away from his side.
Turning suddenly round, the old man caught the cut-purse by the throat, instantly recognising the black-browed Master Slingsby. Sir Robert Cecil's servant threw himself upon him also, having been watching quietly for the last half minute the man's proceedings in regard to his companion, Lakyn. Slingsby endeavoured to cast off his opponents and make his escape, while the people gathered round, exclaiming, "A cut-purse!--a cut-purse!--Away with him to prison, away with him!"
The tumult thus occasioned right in the King's path could not fail to attract his attention as he rode on; and, though several of the officers of the court hurried up to see what was the matter, and to remove the obstruction by driving back the crowd, in not the most ceremonious or temperate manner, the King himself rode forward, exclaiming, "What is it they cry? what is it?--A cut-purse?--Let the man be brought before us: we are the best judge of such matters."
These words were pronounced with a strong Scottish accent, and many an interjection peculiar to the monarch himself; but albeit we are not ourselves without drops of Scottish blood in our veins, we do not possess the tongue in sufficient purity to venture upon giving the monarch's expressions in their original dialect.
"Hold him fast," continued the King, "hold him fast; and let him be brought before us, with the witnesses against him. We will inquire into the case ourselves at nine o'clock this night, after we have had time to repose ourselves, and take some necessary sustenance."
Plenty of hands were ready to secure the unfortunate Master Slingsby, who, seeing that he was detected in the fact, affected to treat the matter as a jest, acknowledging that he cut the strap of the man's pouch, but only for the purpose of seeing what it contained. He was hurried away to prison, notwithstanding; and Sir Robert Cecil's servant remained in the midst of the crowd with Lakyn, answering the innumerable inquiries of the multitude, which were as vague and wide of the point as usual.
One man demanded, in a serious tone, if the culprit did not wear a brown beaver; and, on receiving a reply in the affirmative, shook his head ruefully, exclaiming, "Ah, the villain!"
Another made particular inquiries as to his beard; and a third was sure he had seen him somewhere, but could not tell where. A fourth wished to know whether he had cut the strap with a knife or a pair of shears, and opined that it would make a great difference in the judgment of the King.
Drawing his friend away from the mob as soon as he could, Sir Harry West's messenger asked in a doubtful tone, "Do you think the King will really examine him himself?"
"Ay, that he will, Matthew," answered the servant, "and perhaps judge him too. Nay, shake not your head: we have seen strange things done since the court crossed the border. So, at all events, you be ready to give your evidence; and I will call in for you at half-past eight, so that we be not late if his Majesty inquires for us."
Lakyn promised to be ready, and, with this appointment, they parted.