Volume Two—Chapter Seventeen.During all that day had the imprisoned patriot been chafing under his confinement. Since his capture he had been treated like a criminal—housed and fed, as if he were a criminal already convicted.There was no furniture in the small apartment in which he had been locked up. Only some articles of storage and lumber; but neither chair, table, nor bed. A rough bench was the substitute for all these. On this he sate, sometimes reclined; though he did not often change from one attitude to the other—on account of the difficulty attending the operation: for like a criminal was he also bound. His wrists were crossed behind his back, and there tightly tied; while as an additional security against any attempt to escape, his ankles were lashed together by a piece of splicing rope.He had made no effort to free himself. The thing appeared hopeless. Even could he have got rid of his rope fastenings, there was a locked door, with a sentry all the time standing, or pacing, outside.Though keenly feeling the indignity thus put upon him—and sensible of the great danger in which his life was now placed—he had other thoughts that were still more bitter to bear.Marion Wade was the object of these reflections—she, and her white gauntlet. Not that one, he had himself so proudly worn; but its fellow, which he had seen so tauntingly set on the helmet of the cuirassier captain.All day long—and it had appeared of endless length—as well as during the hours of the night already passed, scarce for a moment had his mind been able to escape from that harassing thought.Notwithstanding his efforts to repudiate the suspicion—despite that reckless disavowal of it before Scarthe himself—he could not hinder its recurrence. A hundred times did he ask himself the questions: whether Scarthe had come surreptitiously by the glove, or whether it had been given him as a love-token, like his own?Over and over did he review the various circumstances, that had transpired between himself and Marion Wade; from the hour when riding listlessly along the forest road, he had been startled into a quick surprise at the sight of her peerless beauty—a surprise as rapidly changing into admiration. Then the after encounters upon the same road—which might have appeared accidental to any other mind than one quickened with love; the dropping of the gauntlet, that might have been deemed a thing of chance, but for the after interview, and confession that it wasdesign; and those fervent speeches, that had passed between them—were they not vows, springing from the profoundest depths of her soul? And had she not, on that same occasion, made to him a complete surrender of her heart—as he to her? If words were to be believed, he had won the heart of Marion Wade. How could he doubt it?He could, anddiddoubt; not that she had spoken love-words to him, and listened to his, with apparent complaisance. He could not doubt that—unless under the belief that he had been dreaming. His uncertainty was of a different character—far more unpleasant. It was the suspicion that Marion Wade could give love-looks, speak love-words, and drop love-tokens at pleasure! That which she had done to him, she might do to another. In short he had given way to the beliefthat she had been coquetting with him.Of all the pangs that passion may inflict upon the heart of man, this is the most poignant. Love, unrequited, stings sharply enough; but when it has been promised requital—caressed to full fervour, and deluded by a pseudo-reciprocation—afterwards to have its dust-bedimmed eyes opened to the delusion—then indeed does jealousy become what it has been the fashion to call it—a monster.There is no cruelty to be compared with that of the coquette.Was Marion Wade one of this class?A hundred times did Holtspur ask the question. A hundred times did he repudiate the suspicion; but alas! as often did a voice speaking harshly within his soul give forth the response:—“It is possible.”Ay, and probable too! So ran his imaginings.Perhaps its probability was more conceivable to the mind of Henry Holtspur, from a sad experience of woman’s deceitfulness, that had clouded the sky of his early life—just at that period when the sun of his fortune was ascending towards its zenith.“Surely,” said he—for the twentieth time indulging in the conjecture, “she must know that I am here? She cannot help knowing it. And yet, no message from her—not one word of inquiry! I could not be more neglected in a dungeon of the Inquisition. Is it that they are hindered—forbidden communication with me? I would fain believe it so. They cannot have so suddenly abandoned a friendship commencing so cordially, and which, though only of yesterday, promising to be permanent? Why do they, all at once, thus coldly turn from me?“Ah! what have men not done—what will they not do, to stand clear of the ruin that threatens to fall? It may be that one and all of them have repudiated me—she, too, disclaiming a connexion that could but disgrace her?“Perhaps at this hour—on the other side of those massive walls—there is a scene of gaiety in which all are taking part—both the family and its guests? Perhaps at this moment she may be the gayest and happiest of all? Her new fancy seated by her side, or hovering around her, whispering honeyed speeches into her ear—beguiling her with those words of wickedness, whose usage he well understands? And she, all the while, smiling and listening? Oh!”The final exclamation was uttered in a groan—betraying how painful was the picture which his jealous fancy had conjured up.And a fancy it was. Could his eye at that moment have pierced the massive walls, mentioned in his soliloquy, he might have discovered how unjust—how groundless—were his hypothetical accusations. He would have seen Marion Wade a sufferer like himself—suffering from almost a similar cause.She was in her sleeping chamber, and alone. She had been there for hours; but still her couch remained unpressed. The silken coverlet lay smoothly over the pillow of down, without any sign of having been upturned. Nor was there in her attitude aught that would indicate an intention of retiring to that luxurious place of repose.On the night before, in the same chamber, had she been equally the victim of unrest—though not to the same degree. Then had she been only apprehensive of danger to her lover, but still undisturbed by a doubt of his fidelity. Now the danger had descended—the doubt had arisen. Then her apprehensions had been relieved; and she had fallen into a slumber—so profound, that the hoof-strokes of a single horse—heard, half an hour afterwards, passing over the same path traversed by Scarthe and his subaltern—did not awake her. Neither had the trampling of thirty steeds, ridden by the same number of steel-clad cuirassiers—with tinkling spurs and clinking sabres—as several hours after they filed under the casement of her chamber, taking their departure from the park.It was after daybreak on that morning when Marion Wade awoke from a prolonged slumber. Then only on hearing noises without, that might have aroused even the heaviest sleeper: the braying of a bugle—the quick word of command loudly pronounced—the shrill neighing of horses—in short, all those sounds that indicate the proximity of a cohort of cavalry.Marion sprang from her couch—her cousin close following her example.They stood trembling in the middle of the room. Modesty forbade a nearer approach to the window; while curiosity—and in the mind of Marion a far stronger sentiment—urged them towards it.Only for an instant had she hesitated. Thepresentimentwas upon her—then more impressive than ever. She could not resist it; and, snatching the first garment that came within reach—a scarf it chanced to be—she threw it over her shoulders, already enrobed in her ample chevelure of golden hair; and silently glided into the embayment of the window.Not long stayed she there. The terrible tableau, that came under her eyes, prevented her from protracting that daring reconnoissance.A squadron of cuirassiers, formed in line, with the heads of their horses turned towards the window—on the right flank, their captain, Richard Scarthe—on the left, his subaltern, Stubbs—this was the spectacle presented to her view.In the centre—and there alone had dwelt the glance of Marion Wade—was a man mounted upon a coal-black horse—conspicuous above all the rest for noble mien, and proud bearing—but, alas! conspicuous also asa prisoner.It required no scrutiny to tell who he was—at least on the part of Marion Wade. A single glance had been sufficient for the recognition of Henry Holtspur.The long look she gave was scarce one of inquiry. Its object was not to identify the prisoner. It was not directed either upon his figure, or his face; but upon a spray of withered red blossoms that hung drooping over the brim of his beaver.The look of chagrin with which this token was regarded by Marion Wade, changed to one of absolute anguish—as her eye fell upon the brown but beautiful face of a young girl, seen standing in the background, and whose crimson cloak, and gipsy features, proclaimed her the daughter of Dancey, the deer-stealer!Marion Wade receded from the window with as much suddenness, as when, some hours before, her modesty had taken alarm at the exposing flash of the electric light.Far different, however, was the fashion of her retreat. She fell fainting upon the floor!With such a shaft rankling in her bosom, no wonder that Marion Wade had now no inclination for sleep, and showed no signs of an intention to retire to her couch.On the contrary, she was equipped as for a journey—at all events, as if she intended going forth into the open air. A dark velvet cloak of large dimensions completely shrouded her figure; while her head was enveloped in a hood, which, by means of its draw-string, almost concealed her face—at the same time covering those luxuriant locks, like streams of molten gold, that gave a sort of divine character to her countenance.Had her face been seen at that moment, it would have appeared pale—that is, paler than its wont: for the cheeks of Marion Wade could never have shown colourless. Even in death one might have fancied they would preserve that luminous roseate hue; which, like a halo, seemed constantly suspended over her countenance.Her eyes more truthfully told the tale. They were swollen, and scarce dried of recent tears. Only one had seen them fall. Only one—her cousin Lora—knew why Marion Wade had been weeping. She had kept her chamber all the day, with Lora as her companion; but long before midnight, the latter had been desired to withdraw, and leave her alone. Lora had not been made the confidant of all her secrets. There was one she had reserved.All day had she been thinking over the spectacle of the morning. The man she loved—worshipped with all the warm wild fervour of her maiden heart—that man a prisoner in the power of a cruel and vindictive enemy; paraded before all the world—before herself—as a criminal; rudely dragged along by a guard of ruffianly soldiers; disgraced—no, not disgraced, for such treatment could not bring disgrace upon a noble patriot; but in danger of his life!And yet it was not this that had drawn from the eyes of Marion Wade those hot scalding tears! It was not this which had caused her to fall fainting upon the floor. Alas! no. Both the tears and the syncope had a different origin than the beholding Henry Holtspur in bonds. They were not tears of sympathy; but of bitterness—springing from the fountain of Love, that had become defiled with Jealousy. They could be traced to those flowers, borne upon the beaver of the black horseman. The faded blossoms had been seen; and, in Marion’s beguiled imagination, had been recognised.To think he should be wearing them, and at such a time! In the hour of his adversity: as if to sanctify them by a greater regard!It was this thought that had momentarily deprived Marion Wade of her senses.She had recovered them; but not along with them her tranquillity of spirit. To her that day had been one of fearful reflections. Every hour had its chapter of stinging thoughts—every minute its miserable emotion. Love and jealousy—sympathy and spite—had alternated all day long; each in turn holding possession of her tortured soul.It was now the hour of midnight, and the wicked passions had succumbed; the virtuous emotions had triumphed. Love and sympathy were in the ascendant! Marion Wade was upon the eve of attempting the accomplishment of a purpose that would prove, not only the depth of her love, but its noble unselfishness.Could Holtspur have beheld her at this moment—could he have guessed her design—he would have withheld that recrimination, which in the bitterness of spirit he had permitted to pass from his lips.End of Volume Two.
During all that day had the imprisoned patriot been chafing under his confinement. Since his capture he had been treated like a criminal—housed and fed, as if he were a criminal already convicted.
There was no furniture in the small apartment in which he had been locked up. Only some articles of storage and lumber; but neither chair, table, nor bed. A rough bench was the substitute for all these. On this he sate, sometimes reclined; though he did not often change from one attitude to the other—on account of the difficulty attending the operation: for like a criminal was he also bound. His wrists were crossed behind his back, and there tightly tied; while as an additional security against any attempt to escape, his ankles were lashed together by a piece of splicing rope.
He had made no effort to free himself. The thing appeared hopeless. Even could he have got rid of his rope fastenings, there was a locked door, with a sentry all the time standing, or pacing, outside.
Though keenly feeling the indignity thus put upon him—and sensible of the great danger in which his life was now placed—he had other thoughts that were still more bitter to bear.
Marion Wade was the object of these reflections—she, and her white gauntlet. Not that one, he had himself so proudly worn; but its fellow, which he had seen so tauntingly set on the helmet of the cuirassier captain.
All day long—and it had appeared of endless length—as well as during the hours of the night already passed, scarce for a moment had his mind been able to escape from that harassing thought.
Notwithstanding his efforts to repudiate the suspicion—despite that reckless disavowal of it before Scarthe himself—he could not hinder its recurrence. A hundred times did he ask himself the questions: whether Scarthe had come surreptitiously by the glove, or whether it had been given him as a love-token, like his own?
Over and over did he review the various circumstances, that had transpired between himself and Marion Wade; from the hour when riding listlessly along the forest road, he had been startled into a quick surprise at the sight of her peerless beauty—a surprise as rapidly changing into admiration. Then the after encounters upon the same road—which might have appeared accidental to any other mind than one quickened with love; the dropping of the gauntlet, that might have been deemed a thing of chance, but for the after interview, and confession that it wasdesign; and those fervent speeches, that had passed between them—were they not vows, springing from the profoundest depths of her soul? And had she not, on that same occasion, made to him a complete surrender of her heart—as he to her? If words were to be believed, he had won the heart of Marion Wade. How could he doubt it?
He could, anddiddoubt; not that she had spoken love-words to him, and listened to his, with apparent complaisance. He could not doubt that—unless under the belief that he had been dreaming. His uncertainty was of a different character—far more unpleasant. It was the suspicion that Marion Wade could give love-looks, speak love-words, and drop love-tokens at pleasure! That which she had done to him, she might do to another. In short he had given way to the beliefthat she had been coquetting with him.
Of all the pangs that passion may inflict upon the heart of man, this is the most poignant. Love, unrequited, stings sharply enough; but when it has been promised requital—caressed to full fervour, and deluded by a pseudo-reciprocation—afterwards to have its dust-bedimmed eyes opened to the delusion—then indeed does jealousy become what it has been the fashion to call it—a monster.
There is no cruelty to be compared with that of the coquette.
Was Marion Wade one of this class?
A hundred times did Holtspur ask the question. A hundred times did he repudiate the suspicion; but alas! as often did a voice speaking harshly within his soul give forth the response:—
“It is possible.”
Ay, and probable too! So ran his imaginings.
Perhaps its probability was more conceivable to the mind of Henry Holtspur, from a sad experience of woman’s deceitfulness, that had clouded the sky of his early life—just at that period when the sun of his fortune was ascending towards its zenith.
“Surely,” said he—for the twentieth time indulging in the conjecture, “she must know that I am here? She cannot help knowing it. And yet, no message from her—not one word of inquiry! I could not be more neglected in a dungeon of the Inquisition. Is it that they are hindered—forbidden communication with me? I would fain believe it so. They cannot have so suddenly abandoned a friendship commencing so cordially, and which, though only of yesterday, promising to be permanent? Why do they, all at once, thus coldly turn from me?
“Ah! what have men not done—what will they not do, to stand clear of the ruin that threatens to fall? It may be that one and all of them have repudiated me—she, too, disclaiming a connexion that could but disgrace her?
“Perhaps at this hour—on the other side of those massive walls—there is a scene of gaiety in which all are taking part—both the family and its guests? Perhaps at this moment she may be the gayest and happiest of all? Her new fancy seated by her side, or hovering around her, whispering honeyed speeches into her ear—beguiling her with those words of wickedness, whose usage he well understands? And she, all the while, smiling and listening? Oh!”
The final exclamation was uttered in a groan—betraying how painful was the picture which his jealous fancy had conjured up.
And a fancy it was. Could his eye at that moment have pierced the massive walls, mentioned in his soliloquy, he might have discovered how unjust—how groundless—were his hypothetical accusations. He would have seen Marion Wade a sufferer like himself—suffering from almost a similar cause.
She was in her sleeping chamber, and alone. She had been there for hours; but still her couch remained unpressed. The silken coverlet lay smoothly over the pillow of down, without any sign of having been upturned. Nor was there in her attitude aught that would indicate an intention of retiring to that luxurious place of repose.
On the night before, in the same chamber, had she been equally the victim of unrest—though not to the same degree. Then had she been only apprehensive of danger to her lover, but still undisturbed by a doubt of his fidelity. Now the danger had descended—the doubt had arisen. Then her apprehensions had been relieved; and she had fallen into a slumber—so profound, that the hoof-strokes of a single horse—heard, half an hour afterwards, passing over the same path traversed by Scarthe and his subaltern—did not awake her. Neither had the trampling of thirty steeds, ridden by the same number of steel-clad cuirassiers—with tinkling spurs and clinking sabres—as several hours after they filed under the casement of her chamber, taking their departure from the park.
It was after daybreak on that morning when Marion Wade awoke from a prolonged slumber. Then only on hearing noises without, that might have aroused even the heaviest sleeper: the braying of a bugle—the quick word of command loudly pronounced—the shrill neighing of horses—in short, all those sounds that indicate the proximity of a cohort of cavalry.
Marion sprang from her couch—her cousin close following her example.
They stood trembling in the middle of the room. Modesty forbade a nearer approach to the window; while curiosity—and in the mind of Marion a far stronger sentiment—urged them towards it.
Only for an instant had she hesitated. Thepresentimentwas upon her—then more impressive than ever. She could not resist it; and, snatching the first garment that came within reach—a scarf it chanced to be—she threw it over her shoulders, already enrobed in her ample chevelure of golden hair; and silently glided into the embayment of the window.
Not long stayed she there. The terrible tableau, that came under her eyes, prevented her from protracting that daring reconnoissance.
A squadron of cuirassiers, formed in line, with the heads of their horses turned towards the window—on the right flank, their captain, Richard Scarthe—on the left, his subaltern, Stubbs—this was the spectacle presented to her view.
In the centre—and there alone had dwelt the glance of Marion Wade—was a man mounted upon a coal-black horse—conspicuous above all the rest for noble mien, and proud bearing—but, alas! conspicuous also asa prisoner.
It required no scrutiny to tell who he was—at least on the part of Marion Wade. A single glance had been sufficient for the recognition of Henry Holtspur.
The long look she gave was scarce one of inquiry. Its object was not to identify the prisoner. It was not directed either upon his figure, or his face; but upon a spray of withered red blossoms that hung drooping over the brim of his beaver.
The look of chagrin with which this token was regarded by Marion Wade, changed to one of absolute anguish—as her eye fell upon the brown but beautiful face of a young girl, seen standing in the background, and whose crimson cloak, and gipsy features, proclaimed her the daughter of Dancey, the deer-stealer!
Marion Wade receded from the window with as much suddenness, as when, some hours before, her modesty had taken alarm at the exposing flash of the electric light.
Far different, however, was the fashion of her retreat. She fell fainting upon the floor!
With such a shaft rankling in her bosom, no wonder that Marion Wade had now no inclination for sleep, and showed no signs of an intention to retire to her couch.
On the contrary, she was equipped as for a journey—at all events, as if she intended going forth into the open air. A dark velvet cloak of large dimensions completely shrouded her figure; while her head was enveloped in a hood, which, by means of its draw-string, almost concealed her face—at the same time covering those luxuriant locks, like streams of molten gold, that gave a sort of divine character to her countenance.
Had her face been seen at that moment, it would have appeared pale—that is, paler than its wont: for the cheeks of Marion Wade could never have shown colourless. Even in death one might have fancied they would preserve that luminous roseate hue; which, like a halo, seemed constantly suspended over her countenance.
Her eyes more truthfully told the tale. They were swollen, and scarce dried of recent tears. Only one had seen them fall. Only one—her cousin Lora—knew why Marion Wade had been weeping. She had kept her chamber all the day, with Lora as her companion; but long before midnight, the latter had been desired to withdraw, and leave her alone. Lora had not been made the confidant of all her secrets. There was one she had reserved.
All day had she been thinking over the spectacle of the morning. The man she loved—worshipped with all the warm wild fervour of her maiden heart—that man a prisoner in the power of a cruel and vindictive enemy; paraded before all the world—before herself—as a criminal; rudely dragged along by a guard of ruffianly soldiers; disgraced—no, not disgraced, for such treatment could not bring disgrace upon a noble patriot; but in danger of his life!
And yet it was not this that had drawn from the eyes of Marion Wade those hot scalding tears! It was not this which had caused her to fall fainting upon the floor. Alas! no. Both the tears and the syncope had a different origin than the beholding Henry Holtspur in bonds. They were not tears of sympathy; but of bitterness—springing from the fountain of Love, that had become defiled with Jealousy. They could be traced to those flowers, borne upon the beaver of the black horseman. The faded blossoms had been seen; and, in Marion’s beguiled imagination, had been recognised.
To think he should be wearing them, and at such a time! In the hour of his adversity: as if to sanctify them by a greater regard!
It was this thought that had momentarily deprived Marion Wade of her senses.
She had recovered them; but not along with them her tranquillity of spirit. To her that day had been one of fearful reflections. Every hour had its chapter of stinging thoughts—every minute its miserable emotion. Love and jealousy—sympathy and spite—had alternated all day long; each in turn holding possession of her tortured soul.
It was now the hour of midnight, and the wicked passions had succumbed; the virtuous emotions had triumphed. Love and sympathy were in the ascendant! Marion Wade was upon the eve of attempting the accomplishment of a purpose that would prove, not only the depth of her love, but its noble unselfishness.
Could Holtspur have beheld her at this moment—could he have guessed her design—he would have withheld that recrimination, which in the bitterness of spirit he had permitted to pass from his lips.
Volume Three—Chapter One.It has been deemed strange that two individuals should conceive the same thought, at the same instant of time. Those who are skilled in psychology, will not be surprised by such coincidence. Like circumstances produce like results, in the world of mind, as in that of matter; and an instance may be found in the similar idea conceived at the same time by Marion Wade and Elizabeth Dancey—a lady of high rank, and a lass of low degree.Both were in love with the same man—Henry Holtspur, the prisoner. Both had bethought them of a plan for delivering him from his prison; and if there was anything singular, it was, that their schemes were in almost exact correspondence.The velvet-hooded cloak under which was concealed the face and form of Marion Wade, had been put on with the same design, as that garment, of somewhat similar make, but coarser material, that shrouded the shapes of Dick Dancey’s daughter.Both were bent upon one and the same errand.There may have been some difference as to the means and hopes directed towards its accomplishment; but none as to the motive—none as to the time intended for its trial. Both had chosen the hour of midnight.Neither was this an accidental coincidence. No more than Bet Dancey, had Marion Wade trusted to chance as to the hour for making the attempt. During the day she had made her inquiries, and resolved upon her measures. Through the medium of a confidential maid—also an old acquaintance of the soldier Withers—she had ascertained that the latter would be on post over the prisoner from twelve till two at night. She had learnt, moreover, some things about the character and disposition of this trustworthy sentinel—leading her to believe that he would not prove an exception to the general rule of mankind; and that gold would overcome his scruples—if administered in sufficient quantity. For this sufficiency had she provided.Even without regard to these considerations, the hour of midnight was one that might have been chosen on its own account. All the dwellers within the mansion—as well as its stranger guests—would be then a-bed; and there would be less chance of her design being frustrated by discovery.It was a mere accident that caused a difference of some ten minutes of time, between the arrival of his two deliverers at the door of Holtspur’s prison; and in this the lass had gained the advantage over the lady.At the moment when Bet Dancey was standing before the wicket, Marion Wade was stealing softly from her chamber to make her way through darkness down the great staircase, and along the silent halls and corridors of the paternal mansion.Inside his silent cell, Holtspur had heard the clock striking the hour of twelve, in solemn lugubrious tones—too consonant with his thoughts.It was the twelve of midnight.“I wish it were twelve of to-morrow’s noon,” soliloquised he, when the tolling had ceased. “If I have correctly interpreted the conversation I overheard this morning, ere that hour I shall be far from this place. So—the Tower is my destination. After that—ay, what after that? Perhaps—the block? Why fear I to pronounce the word? I may as well look it boldly in the face: for I know that the vengeance of that vile woman—that has pursued me all through life, since she could not have my heart, will be satisfied with nothing less than my head. It isherhand I recognise in this—her hand that penned the postscript to that despatch; or, at all events, was it she who dictated it.“I wish it were the hour to depart hence. There can be no dungeon in the Tower so terrible as this—on one side of the wall Hell, on the other Paradise. I can think only of Paradise, where Marion is present. She so dear to me—so near to me—almost breathing the same atmosphere; and yet oblivious of my existence! Perhaps—“Ha! footsteps stirring outside? The sentry talking to some one! ’Tis the voice of a woman!“One of the domestics of the mansion, I suppose, who has stolen forth to exchange the day’s gossip with the guard? ’Tis a late hour for the girl to be gadding; but perhaps ’tis the hour of her choice? I can envy this wench and her soldier sweetheart their easy opportunities. Perhaps equally to be envied is the free and easy fashion, with which they enter upon a love affair, and escape out of it? With them there is no such terrible contingency as a broken heart. To-morrow he may be gone; and the day after she will be as gay as ever!“How different with a passion like mine! Absence can have no effect upon it. Not even the terrors of the Tower can bring it to a termination. It will end only under the axe of the executioner—if that is to be my fate.“These gossips are getting nearer the door. Though they are talking in a low tone, I might hear what they say, by placing my ear to the keyhole. I have no inclination to make myself the depository of their coarse love secrets; but perhaps I may hear something of myself, or ofher! That may make it worth my while to play eavesdropper.”The prisoner rose from his seat; and succeeded in getting himself into an erect attitude. But all at once he sank back upon the bench; and only by adroitly balancing his body did he save himself from falling upon the floor.“By the good Saint Vitus!” he exclaimed, rather amused at his misadventure, “I had forgotten that my feet were not free. After all, what I should hear might not be worth the effort. I’ll leave them to keep their secrets—whatever they be—to themselves.”So resolving, he resumed his sedentary attitude upon the bench, and remained silent, but as before, listening.By this, the speakers had approached nearer to the door; and their words could now be distinctly heard inside the store-room.“So!” resumed Holtspur, after listening for a short while; “lovers, as I suspected. He talks of kissing her! I can hear that word above all the others. Ho! they are pressing against the door! What! Surely the key turns in the lock? Can they be coming in?”The question was answered by the unlocking of the door; which upon the next instant swung silently upon its hinges, until it stood half open. Against the glimmer of the lamp outside, Holtspur could dimly distinguish two forms—one of them a woman.The male figure was the nearer one; though the woman was close behind.On opening the door, the sentry had thrust his head inside the room—but evidently without any design of introducing his body.“Are you sleepin’, Master?” interrogated he, speaking in a tone that did not seem unkindly, and only a little louder than a whisper.“No,” replied the prisoner, answering the man frankly, while imitating his cautious tone.“All right, then!” said the sentry: “for there be a lady here as wants to have a word with ye; and as I suppose ye don’t care to do your talkin’ i’ the dark, I’ll lend you my lamp for a bit. But don’t make your dialogue a long ’un: there be danger in what I’m doin’.”So saying, the trooper walked back into the archway, for the purpose of fetching his lamp; while the woman, pushing past him, stepped inside the room.As the phrase, “there be a lady,” fell from the lips of the sentinel, the heart of Henry Holtspur, throbbed quick within his bosom. Sweet thoughts welled up at the words.Could he have been mistaken in believing his midnight visitor a domestic of the mansion?Might it not be its mistress?In the dim light he saw a female form closely wrapped in hood and cloak. In that guise, she might be either a peasant or a princess. The figure was tall, upright, commanding. Such was that of Marion Wade!Holtspur’s fond fancy was destined to a short indulgence. The lamp was passed through the half-opened door; and placed upon a stool that stood near. Its glare fell upon the form of his visitor—lighting up a crimson cloak—lighting up features of a gipsy type, with dark, flashing eyes—beautiful features, it is true, but altogether unlike the angelic countenance he had been conjuring up—the countenance of Marion Wade.“It is not she—only Maid Marian!”Holtspur’s hopeful glance suddenly changed to one of disappointment, as he identified the daughter of the deer-stealer. Perhaps it was well for him—for both—that Betsey did not observe the transformation. The obscure light of the lamp hindered the girl from having a chagrin, equal, if not greater, than his.“Mistress Betsey!” he exclaimed, on recovering from the first flutter of his surprise. “You here! What has brought you to my prison?”“Hush!” ejaculated the girl, moving rapidly forward from the door—which the sentry had taken the precaution to shut behind him—“Speak only in whispers! I’ve come to save you—to get you out of this ugly place.”“But how? ’Tis not possible, I fear? The door is guarded—the sentry is outside? I could not go forth without being seen?”“Youwillbe seen—that’s true. But it won’t matter a bit. If you’ll follow my directions, you’ll get out without being hindered. That’s sufficient. Father and Master Garth planned it all, before we left home. They are waiting for you on the edge of the wood—up the hill, just behind the house.”“Ah! a plan for me to escape? What is it, my brave Betsey?”“You’re to take my cloak. It’s a long one; and will reach nigh down to your feet. But, for fear it wouldn’t, I brought an extra skirt along with me. Here it is.”Saying this, the girl whipped the cloak from her shoulders—disclosing at the same time a skirt of some kind of coarse stuff, which she had been carrying under her arm.“Now, sir!” she continued, in a tone of urgency, “on with them as quick as you can: forhemay get impatient, and want to come in.”“What!” exclaimed Holtspur, whose surprise at the proposal was only equalled by admiration of her who had made it. “And do you mean that I am to pass out—disguised in your garments—and leave you here?”“Of course I do. What other way is there? We can’t both go out. He’d stop you for a certainty; and me too, may be, for trying to get you away. You must go outalone.”“And leave you behind—to be punished for aiding me to escape? No, generous girl! I had rather die, than do that.”“Oh, sir! don’t talk in that foolish way. Pray go as I tell you to. Have no fear for me! They can’t do much to a girl that’s got nothing to lose. Besides, I don’t feel much afeerd of getting him to pass me out afterwards. It’ll be no good his keeping me in. That won’t save him, from whatever they may do to him.”Thehimthus pointedly alluded to, was the amorous sentry; who was just then heard passing to and fro upon his round, with a step that denoted impatience.“O, sir, go! I beg of you go—or—I—we may never see you again.”There was a tone of sadness in the entreaty, which Holtspur could hardly have failed to notice. But the appeal had shaken his resolution to remain. From what she had said, he saw that in all probability the girl would get clear, or with some slight punishment. Perhaps she might succeed in deceiving the sentry still further, and escape without difficulty. Holtspur knew she was clever and quick-witted.“Never fear for me, sir!” said she, as if interpreting his thoughts. “I can managehim. He’ll do what I want him to; I know he will.”“If I thought that—”“Youmaythink it,” responded she, at the same time cutting the cords that bound the prisoner, “you may be sure of it. Leave him to me. Now, sir, the cloak. No, the skirt first. That’s the way to fix it. Now the cloak. Here! put your head into the hood—draw it well over your face. That’ll do. When you go out, don’t stop to speak to him. He’ll want to kiss you—I know that. You mustn’t let him, but keep quick on to the door. The wicket is on the latch. When you get outside you can run as fast as you like. Make for the trees at the top of the hill. There you will find father along with your own man, Master Garth. It’s dark as pitch outside. I’ll keep the lamp here till you get through the passage. I defy him to tell it isn’tme, if you don’t let him kiss you. Don’t do that; but pass him as rapidly as you can. Now you’re ready? Go!”This long chapter of directions was spoken more quickly than it can be read. Before the final word was uttered, Bet Dancey had succeeded in disguising the prisoner.She herself retained her complete dress—the only part of her left uncovered being her head and shoulders.Holtspur gazed for a moment upon the generous boldly beautiful girl; and with a glance that told of tenderness. She might have mistaken it for a look of love. Alas!—for her sake, alas!—it was only the gaze of gratitude.At that moment the sentry struck his halbert against the stoup—as if summoning them to a separation.“Coming, Master Withers! I’m coming,” cried the girl in an under tone, at the same time placing her lips close to the keyhole, “open, and let me out!”The bolt was turned briskly at the words. Withers was longing for that promised kiss. The door was reopened; and the cloaked figure glided forth into the darkness.Withers closed the door behind it—without going inside for his lanthorn. He did not desire light just then, nor the delay of getting one. He could return for the lamp at any time—after that pleasant occupation in which he anticipated engaging himself.He only waited to secure the bolt against any chance of the prisoner’s attempting to come forth.This occupied him scarce ten seconds of time; but short as was the delay, it lost him his expected pleasure.As he turned round after locking the door, he heard the click of the wicket latch; and the moment after saw the cloaked form of his supposed sweetheart outlined in the opening. In another instant she had passed through slamming the wicket behind her!Thinking there might still be a chance of securing the kiss, Withers ran to the front entrance; and, re-opening the wicket, stepped briskly outside.“Confound the vixen!” he muttered, as he stood peering into the darkness; “I believe she be clear gone away! Mistress Betsey! Mistress Betsey! where are you, girl? Won’t you come back and keep your promise?”As he made this appeal he fancied he saw her figure some score of yards out in front of the gateway; where the next moment it mysteriously disappeared, as if sinking into the earth!Neither of his interrogatories met with a response. From the low tone in which he spoke, it was scarce likely he had been heard. He dared not call aloud—lest his voice might summon the guard from the inner court.“Confound the vixen!” he once more muttered; “she be gone for certain, and’s tricked me out o’ that kiss.”“It an’t so much matter, after all,” continued he, making a feint at self-consolation, “I can make up for it the morrow, by taking as many as I want. She’s afeerd to keep the lady waiting—whoevershebe—and not getting the shiners that’s been promised her. She’s right, maybe. She knows she’ll see me again; so let her go.”And with this consolatory reflection, he turned back into the arched entrance—with the intention of recovering the lamp, left in the apartment of the prisoner.
It has been deemed strange that two individuals should conceive the same thought, at the same instant of time. Those who are skilled in psychology, will not be surprised by such coincidence. Like circumstances produce like results, in the world of mind, as in that of matter; and an instance may be found in the similar idea conceived at the same time by Marion Wade and Elizabeth Dancey—a lady of high rank, and a lass of low degree.
Both were in love with the same man—Henry Holtspur, the prisoner. Both had bethought them of a plan for delivering him from his prison; and if there was anything singular, it was, that their schemes were in almost exact correspondence.
The velvet-hooded cloak under which was concealed the face and form of Marion Wade, had been put on with the same design, as that garment, of somewhat similar make, but coarser material, that shrouded the shapes of Dick Dancey’s daughter.
Both were bent upon one and the same errand.
There may have been some difference as to the means and hopes directed towards its accomplishment; but none as to the motive—none as to the time intended for its trial. Both had chosen the hour of midnight.
Neither was this an accidental coincidence. No more than Bet Dancey, had Marion Wade trusted to chance as to the hour for making the attempt. During the day she had made her inquiries, and resolved upon her measures. Through the medium of a confidential maid—also an old acquaintance of the soldier Withers—she had ascertained that the latter would be on post over the prisoner from twelve till two at night. She had learnt, moreover, some things about the character and disposition of this trustworthy sentinel—leading her to believe that he would not prove an exception to the general rule of mankind; and that gold would overcome his scruples—if administered in sufficient quantity. For this sufficiency had she provided.
Even without regard to these considerations, the hour of midnight was one that might have been chosen on its own account. All the dwellers within the mansion—as well as its stranger guests—would be then a-bed; and there would be less chance of her design being frustrated by discovery.
It was a mere accident that caused a difference of some ten minutes of time, between the arrival of his two deliverers at the door of Holtspur’s prison; and in this the lass had gained the advantage over the lady.
At the moment when Bet Dancey was standing before the wicket, Marion Wade was stealing softly from her chamber to make her way through darkness down the great staircase, and along the silent halls and corridors of the paternal mansion.
Inside his silent cell, Holtspur had heard the clock striking the hour of twelve, in solemn lugubrious tones—too consonant with his thoughts.
It was the twelve of midnight.
“I wish it were twelve of to-morrow’s noon,” soliloquised he, when the tolling had ceased. “If I have correctly interpreted the conversation I overheard this morning, ere that hour I shall be far from this place. So—the Tower is my destination. After that—ay, what after that? Perhaps—the block? Why fear I to pronounce the word? I may as well look it boldly in the face: for I know that the vengeance of that vile woman—that has pursued me all through life, since she could not have my heart, will be satisfied with nothing less than my head. It isherhand I recognise in this—her hand that penned the postscript to that despatch; or, at all events, was it she who dictated it.
“I wish it were the hour to depart hence. There can be no dungeon in the Tower so terrible as this—on one side of the wall Hell, on the other Paradise. I can think only of Paradise, where Marion is present. She so dear to me—so near to me—almost breathing the same atmosphere; and yet oblivious of my existence! Perhaps—
“Ha! footsteps stirring outside? The sentry talking to some one! ’Tis the voice of a woman!
“One of the domestics of the mansion, I suppose, who has stolen forth to exchange the day’s gossip with the guard? ’Tis a late hour for the girl to be gadding; but perhaps ’tis the hour of her choice? I can envy this wench and her soldier sweetheart their easy opportunities. Perhaps equally to be envied is the free and easy fashion, with which they enter upon a love affair, and escape out of it? With them there is no such terrible contingency as a broken heart. To-morrow he may be gone; and the day after she will be as gay as ever!
“How different with a passion like mine! Absence can have no effect upon it. Not even the terrors of the Tower can bring it to a termination. It will end only under the axe of the executioner—if that is to be my fate.
“These gossips are getting nearer the door. Though they are talking in a low tone, I might hear what they say, by placing my ear to the keyhole. I have no inclination to make myself the depository of their coarse love secrets; but perhaps I may hear something of myself, or ofher! That may make it worth my while to play eavesdropper.”
The prisoner rose from his seat; and succeeded in getting himself into an erect attitude. But all at once he sank back upon the bench; and only by adroitly balancing his body did he save himself from falling upon the floor.
“By the good Saint Vitus!” he exclaimed, rather amused at his misadventure, “I had forgotten that my feet were not free. After all, what I should hear might not be worth the effort. I’ll leave them to keep their secrets—whatever they be—to themselves.”
So resolving, he resumed his sedentary attitude upon the bench, and remained silent, but as before, listening.
By this, the speakers had approached nearer to the door; and their words could now be distinctly heard inside the store-room.
“So!” resumed Holtspur, after listening for a short while; “lovers, as I suspected. He talks of kissing her! I can hear that word above all the others. Ho! they are pressing against the door! What! Surely the key turns in the lock? Can they be coming in?”
The question was answered by the unlocking of the door; which upon the next instant swung silently upon its hinges, until it stood half open. Against the glimmer of the lamp outside, Holtspur could dimly distinguish two forms—one of them a woman.
The male figure was the nearer one; though the woman was close behind.
On opening the door, the sentry had thrust his head inside the room—but evidently without any design of introducing his body.
“Are you sleepin’, Master?” interrogated he, speaking in a tone that did not seem unkindly, and only a little louder than a whisper.
“No,” replied the prisoner, answering the man frankly, while imitating his cautious tone.
“All right, then!” said the sentry: “for there be a lady here as wants to have a word with ye; and as I suppose ye don’t care to do your talkin’ i’ the dark, I’ll lend you my lamp for a bit. But don’t make your dialogue a long ’un: there be danger in what I’m doin’.”
So saying, the trooper walked back into the archway, for the purpose of fetching his lamp; while the woman, pushing past him, stepped inside the room.
As the phrase, “there be a lady,” fell from the lips of the sentinel, the heart of Henry Holtspur, throbbed quick within his bosom. Sweet thoughts welled up at the words.
Could he have been mistaken in believing his midnight visitor a domestic of the mansion?Might it not be its mistress?
In the dim light he saw a female form closely wrapped in hood and cloak. In that guise, she might be either a peasant or a princess. The figure was tall, upright, commanding. Such was that of Marion Wade!
Holtspur’s fond fancy was destined to a short indulgence. The lamp was passed through the half-opened door; and placed upon a stool that stood near. Its glare fell upon the form of his visitor—lighting up a crimson cloak—lighting up features of a gipsy type, with dark, flashing eyes—beautiful features, it is true, but altogether unlike the angelic countenance he had been conjuring up—the countenance of Marion Wade.
“It is not she—only Maid Marian!”
Holtspur’s hopeful glance suddenly changed to one of disappointment, as he identified the daughter of the deer-stealer. Perhaps it was well for him—for both—that Betsey did not observe the transformation. The obscure light of the lamp hindered the girl from having a chagrin, equal, if not greater, than his.
“Mistress Betsey!” he exclaimed, on recovering from the first flutter of his surprise. “You here! What has brought you to my prison?”
“Hush!” ejaculated the girl, moving rapidly forward from the door—which the sentry had taken the precaution to shut behind him—“Speak only in whispers! I’ve come to save you—to get you out of this ugly place.”
“But how? ’Tis not possible, I fear? The door is guarded—the sentry is outside? I could not go forth without being seen?”
“Youwillbe seen—that’s true. But it won’t matter a bit. If you’ll follow my directions, you’ll get out without being hindered. That’s sufficient. Father and Master Garth planned it all, before we left home. They are waiting for you on the edge of the wood—up the hill, just behind the house.”
“Ah! a plan for me to escape? What is it, my brave Betsey?”
“You’re to take my cloak. It’s a long one; and will reach nigh down to your feet. But, for fear it wouldn’t, I brought an extra skirt along with me. Here it is.”
Saying this, the girl whipped the cloak from her shoulders—disclosing at the same time a skirt of some kind of coarse stuff, which she had been carrying under her arm.
“Now, sir!” she continued, in a tone of urgency, “on with them as quick as you can: forhemay get impatient, and want to come in.”
“What!” exclaimed Holtspur, whose surprise at the proposal was only equalled by admiration of her who had made it. “And do you mean that I am to pass out—disguised in your garments—and leave you here?”
“Of course I do. What other way is there? We can’t both go out. He’d stop you for a certainty; and me too, may be, for trying to get you away. You must go outalone.”
“And leave you behind—to be punished for aiding me to escape? No, generous girl! I had rather die, than do that.”
“Oh, sir! don’t talk in that foolish way. Pray go as I tell you to. Have no fear for me! They can’t do much to a girl that’s got nothing to lose. Besides, I don’t feel much afeerd of getting him to pass me out afterwards. It’ll be no good his keeping me in. That won’t save him, from whatever they may do to him.”
Thehimthus pointedly alluded to, was the amorous sentry; who was just then heard passing to and fro upon his round, with a step that denoted impatience.
“O, sir, go! I beg of you go—or—I—we may never see you again.”
There was a tone of sadness in the entreaty, which Holtspur could hardly have failed to notice. But the appeal had shaken his resolution to remain. From what she had said, he saw that in all probability the girl would get clear, or with some slight punishment. Perhaps she might succeed in deceiving the sentry still further, and escape without difficulty. Holtspur knew she was clever and quick-witted.
“Never fear for me, sir!” said she, as if interpreting his thoughts. “I can managehim. He’ll do what I want him to; I know he will.”
“If I thought that—”
“Youmaythink it,” responded she, at the same time cutting the cords that bound the prisoner, “you may be sure of it. Leave him to me. Now, sir, the cloak. No, the skirt first. That’s the way to fix it. Now the cloak. Here! put your head into the hood—draw it well over your face. That’ll do. When you go out, don’t stop to speak to him. He’ll want to kiss you—I know that. You mustn’t let him, but keep quick on to the door. The wicket is on the latch. When you get outside you can run as fast as you like. Make for the trees at the top of the hill. There you will find father along with your own man, Master Garth. It’s dark as pitch outside. I’ll keep the lamp here till you get through the passage. I defy him to tell it isn’tme, if you don’t let him kiss you. Don’t do that; but pass him as rapidly as you can. Now you’re ready? Go!”
This long chapter of directions was spoken more quickly than it can be read. Before the final word was uttered, Bet Dancey had succeeded in disguising the prisoner.
She herself retained her complete dress—the only part of her left uncovered being her head and shoulders.
Holtspur gazed for a moment upon the generous boldly beautiful girl; and with a glance that told of tenderness. She might have mistaken it for a look of love. Alas!—for her sake, alas!—it was only the gaze of gratitude.
At that moment the sentry struck his halbert against the stoup—as if summoning them to a separation.
“Coming, Master Withers! I’m coming,” cried the girl in an under tone, at the same time placing her lips close to the keyhole, “open, and let me out!”
The bolt was turned briskly at the words. Withers was longing for that promised kiss. The door was reopened; and the cloaked figure glided forth into the darkness.
Withers closed the door behind it—without going inside for his lanthorn. He did not desire light just then, nor the delay of getting one. He could return for the lamp at any time—after that pleasant occupation in which he anticipated engaging himself.
He only waited to secure the bolt against any chance of the prisoner’s attempting to come forth.
This occupied him scarce ten seconds of time; but short as was the delay, it lost him his expected pleasure.
As he turned round after locking the door, he heard the click of the wicket latch; and the moment after saw the cloaked form of his supposed sweetheart outlined in the opening. In another instant she had passed through slamming the wicket behind her!
Thinking there might still be a chance of securing the kiss, Withers ran to the front entrance; and, re-opening the wicket, stepped briskly outside.
“Confound the vixen!” he muttered, as he stood peering into the darkness; “I believe she be clear gone away! Mistress Betsey! Mistress Betsey! where are you, girl? Won’t you come back and keep your promise?”
As he made this appeal he fancied he saw her figure some score of yards out in front of the gateway; where the next moment it mysteriously disappeared, as if sinking into the earth!
Neither of his interrogatories met with a response. From the low tone in which he spoke, it was scarce likely he had been heard. He dared not call aloud—lest his voice might summon the guard from the inner court.
“Confound the vixen!” he once more muttered; “she be gone for certain, and’s tricked me out o’ that kiss.”
“It an’t so much matter, after all,” continued he, making a feint at self-consolation, “I can make up for it the morrow, by taking as many as I want. She’s afeerd to keep the lady waiting—whoevershebe—and not getting the shiners that’s been promised her. She’s right, maybe. She knows she’ll see me again; so let her go.”
And with this consolatory reflection, he turned back into the arched entrance—with the intention of recovering the lamp, left in the apartment of the prisoner.
Volume Three—Chapter Two.While proceeding along the passage, it occurred to Withers that he had left the wicket on the latch. With this unlocked, and the door of the store-room open at the same time, there might be danger of the prisoner making his escape. He knew that the latter was fast bound, both hand and foot; but, in his soldiering experience, he had known more than one captive get free from such fastenings.To make safe, therefore, he turned back towards the outer gate—with the intention of securing it.As he stood holding the wicket in his hand, a thought influenced him to look once more into the darkness. Perhaps, after all, Betsey might come back? Her running away might have been only a frolic on her part—meant merely to tease him? He would take another look out at any rate. There could be no harm in that.With this resolve he remained—holding the door half open, and peering out into the darkness.He had been thus occupied, scarce ten seconds of time, when an object appeared before his eyes that elicited from him a series of joyful ejaculations. It was the figure of a woman wrapped in hood and cloak, coming round an angle of the wall, and evidently advancing towards the spot where he stood. Who could it be but Betsey?“Good!” cried Withers. “She has not gone after all. That be she comin’ back round the corner o’ the house. ’Tan’t the way I thought she went off; but I must ha’ been mistaken. Yes; she it be—cloak, hood, and all! I might ha’ knowed she wouldn’t go without gettin’ the kiss. I’m glad on’t hows’soever. A bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush.”As the soldier thus congratulated himself on the re-appearance of his sweetheart, and was chuckling over the near prospect of that promised “smack,” the cloaked figure arrived in front of the gateway, and stopped within a few paces of him.“I thought ye were gone, an’ hed gi’en me the slip, Mistress Betsey,” said he, stepping a pace or two outward to get nearer to her. “It’s very kind o’ ye to come back. Why, ye look as if ye were frightened? Don’t be scared to come near me. Come up, now, an’ gie me the kiss ye promised. Come, that be a good lass!”He was about opening his arms to offer what he supposed would be a welcome embrace, when at that moment the lightning gave forth a vivid flash, disclosing in the figure before him not the crimson-cloaked peasant girl, from whom he had so lately parted, but a lady richly enrobed in silk, satin, and velvet!On the slender white fingers, that protruding from her cloak held its hood closed over her chin, he had seen, under the electric light, the sheen of sparkling jewels.There was no mistaking the style of the personage that had thus presented herself.Without doubt some grand dame—a “lady of the land.”On perceiving his mistake, the surprised sentry gave way to a series of very natural reflections. “It be the one as sent Betsey? Sure it be! She’s growed impatient, and come herself. I supposeshe’llwant to go in, and see him too. Well, for a kiss, I don’t mind lettin’her; though I’d rather a had that buss from Betsey.”“Good-night, sir!” said the lady, speaking in a tone that courted conciliation, though indicative of some surprise at the style of the sentry’s first salutation.“The same to yourself, mistress!” rejoined the soldier, putting on his most courteous air; “May I be so bold as to ask your errand? It be a dark night for a fine lady to be abroad; and late too!”“If I mistake not,” said she, without heeding the interrogatory, “you are Withers?”On putting this question, she approached a little nearer to the sentry—as she did so, drawing her jewelled hand within the cloak, and letting the hood fall back from her head. Her beautiful face would have been visible, but for the absence of light; and trusting to this, she had no fear of being recognised.“Withers, madame! William Withers; that be my name, at your service.”“Thanks, Master Withers, for saying so: since in truth I want you to do me a service.”“Name it, fair lady!” gallantly challenged the young cuirassier.“You are on guard over a prisoner. I need not say who that prisoner is: since I believe there is but one. I want to see him. ’Tis on very important business.”“Oh! I understand,” said Withers, looking superlatively wise.“I want only a word with him. You can give me the opportunity?”“Certain I can,” replied the sentry, “if you think it be necessary for you to see himyourself.”“Oh! sir—it is necessary!”“Well, I didn’t know that. I thought the message you sent by the girl would be sufficient.She’sbeen, and seen him, and gone again. You han’t met her, then, I suppose?”“Met her! Whom?”“Why the young girl you sent to speak with him inside.”“I—I—sent no one.”These monosyllabic words were pronounced with a choking utterance, that betrayed something more than surprise.“O-ah!” muttered the sentry to himself, “there’s another, then, as has private business with my prisoner. Hang this Holtspur! All the fine ladies in the land appear to be runnin’ after him. Well; I won’t make fish o’ one and flesh o’ ’tother. This un shall have her chance as well as the one that sent Betsey; and since she’s come herself, instead of doing the thing by deputy, she desarves to have at least as good an opportunity as the tother. Fair play in love as well as in war—that be Will Withers’ way o’ thinking.”“I say Mistress,” continued he, once more addressing himself to the lady. “I have no objection to your going inside a minute—if ye promise me not to make it long.”“Oh! I promise it good Withers! You shall not go unrewarded. Take this in return for your generous kindness.”At these words, the jewelled hand reappeared outside the foldings of the velvet—this time with its palm held upward. Another gleam just then illuminated the atmosphere—enabling the sentry to perceive the bounteous bribe that was offered to him. The outspread palm was covered with coins—as many as could lie upon it. Surely it was not the electric light that had given to them their yellow tint? No. Withers could not be mistaken. The coins were gold!Without saying a word, he stretched out his own large paw till it touched the delicate fingers of the lady; and then, permitting the pieces of gold to slip into his palm, he quickly transferred them to his pocket.“Your hand, Mistress, for another purpose,” said he, holding out his own to take it; and as the trembling fingers were deposited within his, he stepped sideways inside the wicket, leading the lady after him.In this fashion, they traversed the dark archway—until they had reached the entrance to the store-room.There stopping, the sentry once more turned the key in the lock; and, as before, pushed the door partially open.“Ho! master!” said he, again directing his voice into the room, but without going in himself; “here’s another feminine come to speak with you; and I beg you won’t be so long about it, as you were before. Now, Mistress; go in! You’ll find the gentleman inside.”So saying he handed the lady over the threshold; closed and locked the door behind her; and walked back towards the wicket—partly to see whether Bet Dancey might not still be lingering outside; but also with the idea of submitting his treasure to the test of another flash of the lightning: in order to assure himself that the coins were gold!It is scarce necessary to say, that the second visitor to the cell of the imprisoned patriot, was Marion Wade. That will have been guessed already.Had the lamp remained, where the sentry had first set it, the daughter of Sir Marmaduke could not have been two seconds within the store-room, without discovering who was its occupant. As it was, a short interval elapsed before she became aware of the strange transformation that had taken place in thepersonnelof the prison.On hearing the key grating in the lock, the substitute of Henry Holtspur—believing it to be a visit of inspection on the part of the guard corporal—or some similar intrusion—had suddenly snatched the lamp from off the stool, and placed it in a less conspicuous position—behind some lumber in a corner of the room.The result was to make that portion occupied by herself, almost as obscure as if no light was in the place; and, the girl, who had glided back to the bench, and taken her seat upon it, might without close scrutiny have been taken for a man—for Henry Holtspur.And for him was she for a time mistaken. It was under this belief, that Marion made that timid and trembling approach; and this it was that caused her voice to quiver, as she faltered forth his name.The voice that spoke in response, at once dispelled the illusion. It was not that of Henry Holtspur—which would have been known to Marion Wade, despite the obscurity that surrounded her. It was not the voice of any man. It was a woman’s!Before the lady could recover from her surprise, the form of a woman—tall as her own—was seen rising erect from the bench; then stepping forth from the shadowed side of the room until the face was conspicuously displayed under the light of the lamp.Marion Wade recognised that countenance, as one that had often—too often—disturbed her dreams. It was Bet Dancey who was thus unexpectedly confronting her!The short, sharp scream that escaped from the lips of the lady, expressed an emotion stronger than surprise. It comprehended that, and far more. She who had uttered it, comprehended all!This was the girl who had been sent to speak with the prisoner! Who sent her? No one. She had come on her own errand.Shehad come, andhewas gone! She had rescued him, by remaining in his place!These thoughts followed one another so rapidly, as to be almost simultaneous. They had all passed through the mind of Marion Wade, before a word was exchanged between herself and the individual who stood before her.The latter, with equally quick comprehension, interpreted the presence of the lady in that apartment. She had come in the same cause as herself; though too late for a like success. Not a doubt had Bet Dancey that she in the dark velvet cloak had entered that room with the design of releasing the prisoner—in the same manner as she had herself done scarce five minutes before.She well knew who was her competitor in this self-sacrificing game. If the black hair and dark flashing orbs of Dick Dancey’s daughter had disturbed the dreams of Marion Wade, so too had the golden tresses and blue beaming eyes of Sir Marmaduke’s, more than once, rendered uneasy the slumbers of the forest maiden. The understanding was mutual. In her own thoughts each found a key to the actions of the other.The rivals stood face to face—Marion shrinking, chagrined—Betsy unabashed, triumphant.There was an interval of embarrassing silence. It was brought to an end by the girl; otherwise it might have remained unbroken, as the lady was turning to leave the room in silence.“You’ve named the name of Henry Holtspur? He’s not here, Mistress Marion Wade.”“I can perceive that without your assistance,” answered the proud daughter of Sir Marmaduke—who perhaps would not have deigned a reply, had she not been piqued by the tone of the interrogator.“You expected to find him, didn’t you?”Marion hesitated to make reply.“Of course you did; else why should you have come here? You intended to set him free; but you’re too late Mistress Wade. Master Holtspur has friends who think as much of him as you—perhaps more. One of them, you see, has been before you?”“You mean yourself?”Marion was constrained to put this question, by a thought that had suddenly occurred to her. She remembered the words of the sentry, who had spoken of “a girl having beensentby a lady.”After all, was Bet Dancey only a messenger? And was there a real rival—one of her own rank—in the back ground?Such a belief would to some extent have been consolatory to the heart of the questioner. But even this slight hope was crushed, by the reply to her interrogatory.“A strange question that, Mistress Marion Wade? You see me here? You see I have risked my life to savehis? Do you think I would do that for another? No—not for the queen herself—who I’ve heard likes him as much, as either you or me?”“There’s not much risk,” replied Marion becoming irritated in spite of herself, at the insolent tone of her rustic rival. “To you I should think, not much risk of anything.”“Indeed! And to you—had you been in time to set him free? How then?”Marion had turned her back upon her taunting interrogator, and was moving towards the door—to avoid the unpleasantness of any further parley with one whose words, as well as actions, had already given her so much pain.“Stay!” cried her tormentor, as if delighted to continue the persecution. “You appear disappointed, at not having an opportunity to show your friendship for Master Holtspur. You may do something yet, if you have a mind. I dare ye to take my place, and letmego out. If you do, I’ll lethimknow of it the first time I see him. I know that that would be doinghima service. Now?”“Away, rude girl! I decline your absurd proposition. I shall hold no further speech with you.”As the lady said this, she stretched forth her hand, and rapped against the door—making as much noise as her trembling fingers were capable of, and without any regard to the precautions with which she had been charged by the sentry.Withers was waiting outside. The key turned quickly in the lock; and the door was once more held open.The lady glided silently out, and on through the wicket, without staying to speak a word of thanks.But she had thanked the sentry in advance, and was thinking no more of his services.As she looked forth from the wicket, the storm, for some hours threatening, had burst; and the rain was descending like a deluge upon the earth.She stayed not under the shelter of the arched entrance—she did not think of staying; but stepped fearlessly over the threshold, and out into the open way—reckless of the rain, and daring the darkness.There was a storm in her own bosom; in violence equalling that of the elements—in blackness eclipsing them!There was not a gleam of light in the cloudy canopy of the heavens.So, on the horoscope of her own future, there was not a ray of hope.To her Henry Holtspur was no more—at least, no more to make her happy. She scarce felt gladness at his escape; though it would have been supreme joy, had she herself been the instrument that had secured it.After all her fond imaginings—after a sacrifice that brought shame, and a confession that made known to him the complete surrender of her heart—to be thus crossed in the full career of her passion—abandoned—slighted, she might almost say—and for a rival who was only a rustic! Oh! it was the veryacmeof bitterness—the fellest shape that jealousy could have assumed!It was not merely the last incident that was leading her into the depth of despair. It only overflowed the cup already at its full. Too many signs had appeared before her eyes—the report of too many circumstances had reached her ears—to leave her in doubt, about the relationship that existed between Henry Holtspur and his late deliverer. How cordial must it be, on the part of the latter, to stimulate her to such an act as that just performed; and how confident must she have been of being rewarded for her self-sacrifice!A woman would not do such a thing for one likely to treat her with indifference?So reasoned Marion Wade; though she reasoned wrongly.It might be aliaison, and not an honest love? Considering the relative position of the parties, this was probable enough; but to the mind of Marion it mended not the matter to think so. On the contrary, it only made the ruin appear more complete! Both men and women are more painfully affected by a jealousy of the former, than of the latter!Alas! that the statement should be true; but it is so. He who denies it knows not human nature—knows not human love!It would not be true to say, that Marion Wade reflected after this philosophic fashion; and yet it would be equally untrue, to allege that her mind was altogether free from such a reflection. Though beautiful as an angel, she was but a woman—imbued with all a woman’s sensibilities—her sensualities too, though divinely adorned!With the reckless air of one crossed in love, she strode forth into the darkness—taking no heed of the direction.She walked with hasty steps; though not to avoid the pelting of the rain, or shun exposure to the storm.On the contrary, she seemed to court these assaults: for, having arrived at the end of the verandah—whither she had strayed by chance—instead of seeking shelter under its roof, she stayed outside upon the open sward.Although within a very short distance of the door—by which she might have found easy ingress to the mansion—she refrained from entering. Flinging the hood back upon her shoulders, she turned her face upward to the sky, and seemed as if seeking solace from, the cold deluge that poured down from the clouds—the big drops dancing upon her golden tresses, and leaving them as if with reluctance to saturate the silken foldings that draped her majestic form.“Oh! that I could weep like you, ye skies!” she exclaimed, “and, like you, cast the cloud that is over me! Alas! ’tis too dense to be dissolved in tears. To-morrow ye will be bright again, and gay as ever! To-morrow! Ah! ’twill be the same to me—to-morrow and for ever!”“Marion!”The voice pronouncing her name came not from the sky she was apostrophising; though it was one that sounded in her ear sweet as any music of heaven!Were her senses deceiving her? Was it the distant thunder that muttered “Marion?”No thunder could have spoken so pleasantly: it was the voice of a lover, uttering the accents of love!Once more heard she the voice—once more pronouncing: “Marion!”She had listened for its repetition with an earnestness that brooked not ambiguity. She no longer suspected the thunder of having proclaimed her name. The voice was recognised. It was that of one not worshipped in Heaven, but upon Earth.The lightning aided in his identification. A favouring flash discovered a well-known form and face, Henry Holtspur was standing by her side!
While proceeding along the passage, it occurred to Withers that he had left the wicket on the latch. With this unlocked, and the door of the store-room open at the same time, there might be danger of the prisoner making his escape. He knew that the latter was fast bound, both hand and foot; but, in his soldiering experience, he had known more than one captive get free from such fastenings.
To make safe, therefore, he turned back towards the outer gate—with the intention of securing it.
As he stood holding the wicket in his hand, a thought influenced him to look once more into the darkness. Perhaps, after all, Betsey might come back? Her running away might have been only a frolic on her part—meant merely to tease him? He would take another look out at any rate. There could be no harm in that.
With this resolve he remained—holding the door half open, and peering out into the darkness.
He had been thus occupied, scarce ten seconds of time, when an object appeared before his eyes that elicited from him a series of joyful ejaculations. It was the figure of a woman wrapped in hood and cloak, coming round an angle of the wall, and evidently advancing towards the spot where he stood. Who could it be but Betsey?
“Good!” cried Withers. “She has not gone after all. That be she comin’ back round the corner o’ the house. ’Tan’t the way I thought she went off; but I must ha’ been mistaken. Yes; she it be—cloak, hood, and all! I might ha’ knowed she wouldn’t go without gettin’ the kiss. I’m glad on’t hows’soever. A bird in the hand’s worth two in the bush.”
As the soldier thus congratulated himself on the re-appearance of his sweetheart, and was chuckling over the near prospect of that promised “smack,” the cloaked figure arrived in front of the gateway, and stopped within a few paces of him.
“I thought ye were gone, an’ hed gi’en me the slip, Mistress Betsey,” said he, stepping a pace or two outward to get nearer to her. “It’s very kind o’ ye to come back. Why, ye look as if ye were frightened? Don’t be scared to come near me. Come up, now, an’ gie me the kiss ye promised. Come, that be a good lass!”
He was about opening his arms to offer what he supposed would be a welcome embrace, when at that moment the lightning gave forth a vivid flash, disclosing in the figure before him not the crimson-cloaked peasant girl, from whom he had so lately parted, but a lady richly enrobed in silk, satin, and velvet!
On the slender white fingers, that protruding from her cloak held its hood closed over her chin, he had seen, under the electric light, the sheen of sparkling jewels.
There was no mistaking the style of the personage that had thus presented herself.
Without doubt some grand dame—a “lady of the land.”
On perceiving his mistake, the surprised sentry gave way to a series of very natural reflections. “It be the one as sent Betsey? Sure it be! She’s growed impatient, and come herself. I supposeshe’llwant to go in, and see him too. Well, for a kiss, I don’t mind lettin’her; though I’d rather a had that buss from Betsey.”
“Good-night, sir!” said the lady, speaking in a tone that courted conciliation, though indicative of some surprise at the style of the sentry’s first salutation.
“The same to yourself, mistress!” rejoined the soldier, putting on his most courteous air; “May I be so bold as to ask your errand? It be a dark night for a fine lady to be abroad; and late too!”
“If I mistake not,” said she, without heeding the interrogatory, “you are Withers?”
On putting this question, she approached a little nearer to the sentry—as she did so, drawing her jewelled hand within the cloak, and letting the hood fall back from her head. Her beautiful face would have been visible, but for the absence of light; and trusting to this, she had no fear of being recognised.
“Withers, madame! William Withers; that be my name, at your service.”
“Thanks, Master Withers, for saying so: since in truth I want you to do me a service.”
“Name it, fair lady!” gallantly challenged the young cuirassier.
“You are on guard over a prisoner. I need not say who that prisoner is: since I believe there is but one. I want to see him. ’Tis on very important business.”
“Oh! I understand,” said Withers, looking superlatively wise.
“I want only a word with him. You can give me the opportunity?”
“Certain I can,” replied the sentry, “if you think it be necessary for you to see himyourself.”
“Oh! sir—it is necessary!”
“Well, I didn’t know that. I thought the message you sent by the girl would be sufficient.She’sbeen, and seen him, and gone again. You han’t met her, then, I suppose?”
“Met her! Whom?”
“Why the young girl you sent to speak with him inside.”
“I—I—sent no one.”
These monosyllabic words were pronounced with a choking utterance, that betrayed something more than surprise.
“O-ah!” muttered the sentry to himself, “there’s another, then, as has private business with my prisoner. Hang this Holtspur! All the fine ladies in the land appear to be runnin’ after him. Well; I won’t make fish o’ one and flesh o’ ’tother. This un shall have her chance as well as the one that sent Betsey; and since she’s come herself, instead of doing the thing by deputy, she desarves to have at least as good an opportunity as the tother. Fair play in love as well as in war—that be Will Withers’ way o’ thinking.”
“I say Mistress,” continued he, once more addressing himself to the lady. “I have no objection to your going inside a minute—if ye promise me not to make it long.”
“Oh! I promise it good Withers! You shall not go unrewarded. Take this in return for your generous kindness.”
At these words, the jewelled hand reappeared outside the foldings of the velvet—this time with its palm held upward. Another gleam just then illuminated the atmosphere—enabling the sentry to perceive the bounteous bribe that was offered to him. The outspread palm was covered with coins—as many as could lie upon it. Surely it was not the electric light that had given to them their yellow tint? No. Withers could not be mistaken. The coins were gold!
Without saying a word, he stretched out his own large paw till it touched the delicate fingers of the lady; and then, permitting the pieces of gold to slip into his palm, he quickly transferred them to his pocket.
“Your hand, Mistress, for another purpose,” said he, holding out his own to take it; and as the trembling fingers were deposited within his, he stepped sideways inside the wicket, leading the lady after him.
In this fashion, they traversed the dark archway—until they had reached the entrance to the store-room.
There stopping, the sentry once more turned the key in the lock; and, as before, pushed the door partially open.
“Ho! master!” said he, again directing his voice into the room, but without going in himself; “here’s another feminine come to speak with you; and I beg you won’t be so long about it, as you were before. Now, Mistress; go in! You’ll find the gentleman inside.”
So saying he handed the lady over the threshold; closed and locked the door behind her; and walked back towards the wicket—partly to see whether Bet Dancey might not still be lingering outside; but also with the idea of submitting his treasure to the test of another flash of the lightning: in order to assure himself that the coins were gold!
It is scarce necessary to say, that the second visitor to the cell of the imprisoned patriot, was Marion Wade. That will have been guessed already.
Had the lamp remained, where the sentry had first set it, the daughter of Sir Marmaduke could not have been two seconds within the store-room, without discovering who was its occupant. As it was, a short interval elapsed before she became aware of the strange transformation that had taken place in thepersonnelof the prison.
On hearing the key grating in the lock, the substitute of Henry Holtspur—believing it to be a visit of inspection on the part of the guard corporal—or some similar intrusion—had suddenly snatched the lamp from off the stool, and placed it in a less conspicuous position—behind some lumber in a corner of the room.
The result was to make that portion occupied by herself, almost as obscure as if no light was in the place; and, the girl, who had glided back to the bench, and taken her seat upon it, might without close scrutiny have been taken for a man—for Henry Holtspur.
And for him was she for a time mistaken. It was under this belief, that Marion made that timid and trembling approach; and this it was that caused her voice to quiver, as she faltered forth his name.
The voice that spoke in response, at once dispelled the illusion. It was not that of Henry Holtspur—which would have been known to Marion Wade, despite the obscurity that surrounded her. It was not the voice of any man. It was a woman’s!
Before the lady could recover from her surprise, the form of a woman—tall as her own—was seen rising erect from the bench; then stepping forth from the shadowed side of the room until the face was conspicuously displayed under the light of the lamp.
Marion Wade recognised that countenance, as one that had often—too often—disturbed her dreams. It was Bet Dancey who was thus unexpectedly confronting her!
The short, sharp scream that escaped from the lips of the lady, expressed an emotion stronger than surprise. It comprehended that, and far more. She who had uttered it, comprehended all!
This was the girl who had been sent to speak with the prisoner! Who sent her? No one. She had come on her own errand.Shehad come, andhewas gone! She had rescued him, by remaining in his place!
These thoughts followed one another so rapidly, as to be almost simultaneous. They had all passed through the mind of Marion Wade, before a word was exchanged between herself and the individual who stood before her.
The latter, with equally quick comprehension, interpreted the presence of the lady in that apartment. She had come in the same cause as herself; though too late for a like success. Not a doubt had Bet Dancey that she in the dark velvet cloak had entered that room with the design of releasing the prisoner—in the same manner as she had herself done scarce five minutes before.
She well knew who was her competitor in this self-sacrificing game. If the black hair and dark flashing orbs of Dick Dancey’s daughter had disturbed the dreams of Marion Wade, so too had the golden tresses and blue beaming eyes of Sir Marmaduke’s, more than once, rendered uneasy the slumbers of the forest maiden. The understanding was mutual. In her own thoughts each found a key to the actions of the other.
The rivals stood face to face—Marion shrinking, chagrined—Betsy unabashed, triumphant.
There was an interval of embarrassing silence. It was brought to an end by the girl; otherwise it might have remained unbroken, as the lady was turning to leave the room in silence.
“You’ve named the name of Henry Holtspur? He’s not here, Mistress Marion Wade.”
“I can perceive that without your assistance,” answered the proud daughter of Sir Marmaduke—who perhaps would not have deigned a reply, had she not been piqued by the tone of the interrogator.
“You expected to find him, didn’t you?”
Marion hesitated to make reply.
“Of course you did; else why should you have come here? You intended to set him free; but you’re too late Mistress Wade. Master Holtspur has friends who think as much of him as you—perhaps more. One of them, you see, has been before you?”
“You mean yourself?”
Marion was constrained to put this question, by a thought that had suddenly occurred to her. She remembered the words of the sentry, who had spoken of “a girl having beensentby a lady.”
After all, was Bet Dancey only a messenger? And was there a real rival—one of her own rank—in the back ground?
Such a belief would to some extent have been consolatory to the heart of the questioner. But even this slight hope was crushed, by the reply to her interrogatory.
“A strange question that, Mistress Marion Wade? You see me here? You see I have risked my life to savehis? Do you think I would do that for another? No—not for the queen herself—who I’ve heard likes him as much, as either you or me?”
“There’s not much risk,” replied Marion becoming irritated in spite of herself, at the insolent tone of her rustic rival. “To you I should think, not much risk of anything.”
“Indeed! And to you—had you been in time to set him free? How then?”
Marion had turned her back upon her taunting interrogator, and was moving towards the door—to avoid the unpleasantness of any further parley with one whose words, as well as actions, had already given her so much pain.
“Stay!” cried her tormentor, as if delighted to continue the persecution. “You appear disappointed, at not having an opportunity to show your friendship for Master Holtspur. You may do something yet, if you have a mind. I dare ye to take my place, and letmego out. If you do, I’ll lethimknow of it the first time I see him. I know that that would be doinghima service. Now?”
“Away, rude girl! I decline your absurd proposition. I shall hold no further speech with you.”
As the lady said this, she stretched forth her hand, and rapped against the door—making as much noise as her trembling fingers were capable of, and without any regard to the precautions with which she had been charged by the sentry.
Withers was waiting outside. The key turned quickly in the lock; and the door was once more held open.
The lady glided silently out, and on through the wicket, without staying to speak a word of thanks.
But she had thanked the sentry in advance, and was thinking no more of his services.
As she looked forth from the wicket, the storm, for some hours threatening, had burst; and the rain was descending like a deluge upon the earth.
She stayed not under the shelter of the arched entrance—she did not think of staying; but stepped fearlessly over the threshold, and out into the open way—reckless of the rain, and daring the darkness.
There was a storm in her own bosom; in violence equalling that of the elements—in blackness eclipsing them!
There was not a gleam of light in the cloudy canopy of the heavens.
So, on the horoscope of her own future, there was not a ray of hope.
To her Henry Holtspur was no more—at least, no more to make her happy. She scarce felt gladness at his escape; though it would have been supreme joy, had she herself been the instrument that had secured it.
After all her fond imaginings—after a sacrifice that brought shame, and a confession that made known to him the complete surrender of her heart—to be thus crossed in the full career of her passion—abandoned—slighted, she might almost say—and for a rival who was only a rustic! Oh! it was the veryacmeof bitterness—the fellest shape that jealousy could have assumed!
It was not merely the last incident that was leading her into the depth of despair. It only overflowed the cup already at its full. Too many signs had appeared before her eyes—the report of too many circumstances had reached her ears—to leave her in doubt, about the relationship that existed between Henry Holtspur and his late deliverer. How cordial must it be, on the part of the latter, to stimulate her to such an act as that just performed; and how confident must she have been of being rewarded for her self-sacrifice!
A woman would not do such a thing for one likely to treat her with indifference?
So reasoned Marion Wade; though she reasoned wrongly.
It might be aliaison, and not an honest love? Considering the relative position of the parties, this was probable enough; but to the mind of Marion it mended not the matter to think so. On the contrary, it only made the ruin appear more complete! Both men and women are more painfully affected by a jealousy of the former, than of the latter!
Alas! that the statement should be true; but it is so. He who denies it knows not human nature—knows not human love!
It would not be true to say, that Marion Wade reflected after this philosophic fashion; and yet it would be equally untrue, to allege that her mind was altogether free from such a reflection. Though beautiful as an angel, she was but a woman—imbued with all a woman’s sensibilities—her sensualities too, though divinely adorned!
With the reckless air of one crossed in love, she strode forth into the darkness—taking no heed of the direction.
She walked with hasty steps; though not to avoid the pelting of the rain, or shun exposure to the storm.
On the contrary, she seemed to court these assaults: for, having arrived at the end of the verandah—whither she had strayed by chance—instead of seeking shelter under its roof, she stayed outside upon the open sward.
Although within a very short distance of the door—by which she might have found easy ingress to the mansion—she refrained from entering. Flinging the hood back upon her shoulders, she turned her face upward to the sky, and seemed as if seeking solace from, the cold deluge that poured down from the clouds—the big drops dancing upon her golden tresses, and leaving them as if with reluctance to saturate the silken foldings that draped her majestic form.
“Oh! that I could weep like you, ye skies!” she exclaimed, “and, like you, cast the cloud that is over me! Alas! ’tis too dense to be dissolved in tears. To-morrow ye will be bright again, and gay as ever! To-morrow! Ah! ’twill be the same to me—to-morrow and for ever!”
“Marion!”
The voice pronouncing her name came not from the sky she was apostrophising; though it was one that sounded in her ear sweet as any music of heaven!
Were her senses deceiving her? Was it the distant thunder that muttered “Marion?”
No thunder could have spoken so pleasantly: it was the voice of a lover, uttering the accents of love!
Once more heard she the voice—once more pronouncing: “Marion!”
She had listened for its repetition with an earnestness that brooked not ambiguity. She no longer suspected the thunder of having proclaimed her name. The voice was recognised. It was that of one not worshipped in Heaven, but upon Earth.
The lightning aided in his identification. A favouring flash discovered a well-known form and face, Henry Holtspur was standing by her side!