[Contents]CHAPTER VI.Making Love on the Ramparts.When Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton arose in the morning, they found their own squires and lacqueys in attendance. The busy note of preparation was in the Castle-yard, and they were told that the Bishop of Durham was just taking his departure.The mitred ecclesiastic went off on an ambling jennet, accompanied by the knights and churchmen who had come with him, and followed by a long cavalcade of richly-attired attendants; and he was saluted by the garrison drawn up in array, and by the guards as he passed outwards. He was, moreover, attended by Sir Walter and his principal officers, who rode half a day’s journey with him. The two friends were thus left to entertain themselves until the evening. Assueton occupied himself in studying the defences of the place, whilst Hepborne loitered about the exterior of the keep, and the walls commanding a view of its various sides, in the hope of being again blessed with a sight of the Lady Eleanore.As he was surveying the huge mass of masonry, so intently that a bystander might have supposed that he was taking an account of the number of stones it was composed of, the lady appeared at one of the high windows on the side facing the Tweed. The knight had his eyes turned in a different direction at the moment, so that she had a full and undisturbed view of him, as he stood nearly opposite to her on the rampart, for some time ere he perceived her. He turned suddenly round, and she instantly withdrew; but not before he had enjoyed another transient glimpse of that face which had already created so strong a sensation in his breast.“Provoking!” thought Hepborne; “yet doth the very modesty of this angelic lady lead me the more to admire her. Unbending spirit, said that knave at the hostel? She is as gentle as a dove. Would I could behold her again.”Sir Patrick stepped back upon the rampart so as to have a better view inwards, and he was gratified by observing that her figure was still within the deep window, though her face was obscured by its shade. He recognized the rose-coloured mantle she had formerly appeared in. He kissed his hand and bowed. He saw her alabaster arm relieve itself from the mantle, and[55]beheld the falcon he had rescued seated on her glove. She stepped forward in such a manner to return his salute, that he enjoyed a sufficient view of her face to make him certain that he was not mistaken in the person. The lady pointed with a smile to her falcon, kissed it, waved an acknowledgment of his courtesy, and again retreating, disappeared.As Sir Patrick was standing vainly hoping for her re-appearance, the old minstrel, Adam of Gordon, chanced to come by. Hepborne saluted him courteously.“Canst thou tell me whose be those apartments that do look so cheerily over the Tweed into Scotland?” demanded he.“Ay,” said the old man, “’tis, as thou sayest, a cheering prospect; ’tis the country of my birth, and the country of my heart; I love it as lover never loved mistress.”“But whose apartments be those?” demanded Hepborne, bringing him back to the question.“Those are the apartments of the Lady Eleanore de Selby,” replied the minstrel.“Is it thy custom to play thy minstrelsy under the moonlight on the rampart, as thou didst yestere’en?” demanded Hepborne.“Yea, I have pleasure in it,” said Adam, with a shrewd look.“And art thou always so attended?” demanded Hepborne; “is thy music always wont to call that angel to thy side whom I last night beheld there?”“So thou dost think her an angel, Sir Knight?” cried Adam, with pleasure glancing in his eyes.“I do,” said Sir Patrick. “Already hath my heart been wounded by the mere momentary glances to which chance hath subjected me, and eagerly do I look for a cure from those eyes whence my hurt doth come. She is beautiful.”“Yea,” said old Adam, “and she is an angel in soul as well as in form. But St. Andrew keep thee, Sir Knight, I must be gone;” and he hurried away without giving Hepborne time to reply.Assueton now came up, and Sir Patrick detailed to him the occurrences we have just narrated, after which he walked about, looking every now and then impatiently towards the window.“Would I could have but one more sight of the Lady Eleanore,” cried he; “her features have already become faint in my mind’s eye; would I might refresh the picture by one other gaze.” But the lady appeared not; and he became vexed,[56]and even fretful, notwithstanding all his resolution to the contrary.“Hepborne, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl? A knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere picking up; let it not irk thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach. Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than of the thorn.”“Pshaw!” repliedHepborne, “thou knowest not what it is to love.”“No, thank my good stars,” answered Assueton, “I do not, and I hope I shall never be so besotted; it makes a fool of a man. There, for instance, thou art raving about a damosel, of whose face thou hast seen so little that wert thou to meet her elsewhere thou couldst never tell her from another.”“It is indeed true, Assueton,” replied Hepborne, “that I have seen but too little of her face; but I have seen enough of it to know that it is the face of an angel.”In such converse as this did they spend the day until the evening’s banquet. Then Sir Walter exhibited the same hospitality towards his guests that had characterised him the night before; but he seemed to be less in spirits, nay, he was even sometimes peevish. Hepborne, too, being restless and unhappy, mirth and hilarity were altogether less prevalent at the upper end of the festal board than they had been the previous evening. The minstrel, however, was not forgotten, and was treated with the same personal attention as formerly; but he sang and played without eliciting more than an ordinary meed of applause. At last he struck some peculiarly powerful chords on the instrument, and as Hepborne turned his head towards him, in common with others, at the sound, old Adam caught his eye, and looking significantly, began to pour forth the following irregular and unpremeditated verse:—’Twas thus that a minstrel address’d a young knight,Who was love-lorn, despairing, and wan with despite,What, Sir Knight, canst thou gain by these heart-rending sighs?The hero ne’er pines, but his destiny tries,And pushes his fate with his lance in the rest,Whether love or renown be his glorious quest.Let not those who droop for LoveFly in grief to wild Despair,She, wither’d witch, can ne’er removeThe cruel unkindness of the fair.Then with the gladd’ning rayOf Hope’s bright star to cheer thee,[57]Do thou still press thy way,Nor let obstructions fear thee.True love will even bearA hasty moment’s slighting,And boldly will it dare,Nor ever fear benighting.’Twill often and againReturn, though ill entreated;’Twill blaze beneath the rain;Though frozen, ’twill be heated.When least thy thoughts are turn’d on joy,The smiling bliss is nigh;No happiness without alloyBeneath the radiant sky.But haste to-night, to meet thy loveUpon the Castle-wall;Thou know’st not what thy heart may prove,What joy may thee befal.These seemingly unmeaning verses passed unnoticed by all at table except by Hepborne, on whom they made a strong impression. He was particularly struck by the concluding stanza, containing an invitation which he could not help believing was meant to apply to himself. He resolved to visit the ramparts as soon as he could escape from the banquet. This he found it no very difficult matter to accomplish, for Sir Walter was abstracted, and evidently depressed with something that weighed on his spirits; so, taking advantage of this circumstance, Hepborne rose to retire at an early hour. His friend followed him, and, when left to the secresy of their own apartments—“Assueton,” said Sir Patrick, “didst thou remark the glance, full of meaning, which the minstrel threw on me to-night? or didst thou note the purport of his ditty?”“As for his glances,” replied Sir John, “I noticed nothing particular in them; your bards are in use to throw such around them, to collect their barren harvest of paltry praise; and as for his verses, or rather his rhymes, I thought them silly enow in conscience. But thou knowest I do rarely listen when love or its follies are the theme.”“But I saw, and I listened,” replied Hepborne. “By St. Denis, they carried hints to me that I shall not neglect. I go to take the air on the ramparts, and hope to meet the angelic Eleanore de Selby there.”“Art thou mad?” said Assueton. “What can old Adam have looked or said that can induce thee to go on such a fool’s errand? Thou hast but fancied; thy blind passion hath deceived thee.”“I shall at least put his fancied hints to the proof,” said Hepborne, “though I should watch all night.”“Then I wish thee a pleasant moonlight promenade,” said[58]Assueton. “I’ll to my couch. To-morrow, I presume, we shall cross the Tweed, and yede us into Scotland. By St. Andrew, I would gladly meet again with those well-known faces whose smiles once reflected the happiness of my boyhood!”“Go to-morrow!” exclaimed Hepborne, as if their so speedy departure was far from being agreeable in the contemplation; “surely thou wilt stay, Assueton, if thou seest that thy so doing may further my happiness?”“Nay,” replied Assueton, “thou needst hardly fear that I will scruple to sacrifice my own wishes to thy happiness, Hepborne; but I confess I would that my happiness depended on some more stirring cause, and one in which we both could join.”Here the friends parted. Hepborne, wrapped up in a cloak, stole gently down stairs, and slipping unperceived from the keep, bent his steps towards that part of the ramparts where he had formerly seen the lady. To his inexpressible joy, he saw the minstrel already on the spot. There were two ladies in company with the old man. As Sir Patrick passed near the base of the tower under which he and his friend had concealed themselves the night before, a huge figure began to rear itself from under it, throwing a shadow half-way across the court-yard. It looked as if the tower itself were in motion. He stood undaunted to observe it, as it gradually arose storey over storey. It was the Ancient Fenwick. His enormous face looked downwards upon Hepborne, and his red cinder-like eyes glared upon him as he sputtered out some unintelligible sounds from the corners of his mouth, and then moved away like a walking monument.Whilst Hepborne’s attention was occupied in observing the retreat of the monster, who seemed to have secreted himself there for no good purpose, the minstrel, and the two ladies who were with him, had already walked down the rampart until they were lost within the shade of a projecting building. He began to fear that they were gone, but he soon saw one of them, whom he believed to be the attendant, emerge from the shadow and retire by a short way to the keep, whilst the other returned along the wall with the minstrel. As they stopped to converse, the lady leaned on one of the engines of war. A breeze from the Tweed threw back the hood of her mantle, and Hepborne could no longer doubt it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby he saw. Her long and beautiful hair streamed down, but she hastily arranged it with her fingers, and then came onwards with Adam of Gordon. Sir Patrick flew to the rampart and sprang on the wall. The lady was alarmed at first by his[59]sudden appearance, but perceiving immediately that it was Sir Patrick Hepborne, she received him graciously yet modestly.“The soft and perfumed air of this beauteous night,” said Hepborne, “and yonder lovely moon, lady, tempted me forth awhile; but what bliss is mine that I should thus meet with her who, in softness, sweetness, and beauty, doth excel the Queen of Night herself!”“Sir Patrick Hepborne, thou art at thy fustian again,” replied the lady seriously. “This high-flown phrase of thine, well suited though it may have been to the pampered ears of Parisian damsels, sorteth but ill with plainness such as mine. Meseems,” continued she somewhat more playfully, “meseems as if the moon were thy favourite theme. Pray Heaven that head may be right furnished, the which hath the unstable planet so often at work within it.”“And if I am mad, as thy words would imply,” said Hepborne, smiling, “’tis thou, lady, who must answer for my frenzy; for since I first saw thee last night, I have thought and dreamt of thee alone.”“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the lady, blushing, “methinks it savours of a more constitutional madness to be so affected by so short a meeting. We were but some few minutes together, if I err not.”“Ay, lady,” said Adam of Gordon, significantly; “but love will work miracles like this.”“’Tis indeed true,” said the lady, with a sigh; and then, as if recollecting herself, she added, “I have indeed heard of such sudden affections.”“Ay,” said Sir Patrick, “and that fair falcon of thine! Depardieux, I begin to believe that he was Cupid himself in disguise, for ever sith I gave the traitor lodgment in my bosom, it hath been affected with the sweet torment the urchin Love is wont to inflict. My heart’s disease began with thy hawk’s ensayning.”“Nay, then, much as I love him,” said the lady, “yet should I hardly have purchased his health, I wot, at the price of that of the gallant knight who did so feelingly redeem it.”“Heaven’s blessings on thee for thy charity, lady,” exclaimed Hepborne; “yet should I rejoice in my disease were it to awaken thy sympathy, so that thou mightest yield me the healing leechcraft that beameth from those eyes.”“Verily, my youth doth lack experience in all such healing skill,” said the lady.“Nay, ’tis a mystery most easily learned by the young,”[60]replied Hepborne. “Thou dost possess the power to assuage, if not to heal, my wound,” added he tenderly. “Let me but be enlisted among the humblest of the captives whom thine eyes hath made subject to thy will; and albeit thy heart may be already given to another, spurn not the adoration of one whose sole wish is to live within the sphere of thy cheering influence, and to die in thy defence.”“In truth, Sir Knight, these eyes have been guiltless of any such tyranny as thou wouldst charge them withal,” replied the lady, artlessly; “at least they have never wilfully so tyrannized. As for my heart, it hath never known warmer feeling than that which doth bind me to him to whom I owe the duty of a daughter.”“Then is thy heart unenthralled,” cried Hepborne in an ecstacy, in the transport of which he threw himself on one knee before her who had produced it. “Refuse not, then, to accept my services as thy true and faithful knight. All I ask is, but to be allowed to devote my lance to thy service. Reject not these my vows. Cheer me with but one ray of hope, to nerve this arm to the doing of deeds worthy of the knight who calleth himself thy slave. I swear——”“Swear not too rashly, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with a deep sigh, and with more of seriousness than she had yet displayed, “to one such as me, to one so obscure——”“Obscure, lady!” cried Hepborne, interrupting her; “Hath not high Heaven stamped thee with that celestial face and form to place thee far above all reckonings of paltry pedigree? What, then, is that obscurity which may have dimmed the birth of so fair a star? What——”“Nay,” said the lady, interrupting him with an air of uncommon dignity and animation, “obscure though mine origin may be, Sir Patrick, yet do I feel within me that which doth tell me that I might match with princes.”“Lady, I well know thy high and justly-grounded pretensions,” said Hepborne, in a subdued tone; “yet scorn not mine humble devotion.”“I scorn thee not, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with combined modesty and feeling, and again sighing deeply; “it would indeed ill become me to scorn any one, far less such as thee; nor is my heart insensible to the courtesy thou hast been pleased to show to one who——”“Thanks, thanks, most peerless of thy sex,” cried Hepborne, gazing with ecstacy in her face, that burned with blushes even under the cold light of the moon.[61]“But in truth it beseemeth me not to stand talking idly with thee thus, Sir Knight,” said the lady, suddenly breaking off; “I must hie me to my chamber.”“Oh, stay, sweet lady, stay—one moment stay!” cried Hepborne; “rob me not of thy presence until thou hast left me the cheering prospect of meeting thee to-morrow.”“I hope Sir Walter hath induced thee and thy friend to tarry some longer space in Norham; if so, it will pleasure me to meet thee again,” said the lady, with a trembling voice.“Then trust me I go not from Norham, betide me what may,” cried Sir Patrick, energetically. “But tell me, lady, I entreat thee, when these eyes may be again blest with thy presence; give me hope, the which is now the food I feed on.”“Nay, in sooth, I can enter into no arrangements,” said the lady, with yet greater agitation; “but,” said she, starting away, “I have tarried here too long; in truth, Sir Patrick Hepborne, I must be gone; may the Holy Virgin be with thee, Sir Knight!”“And may thou be guarded by kindred spirits like thyself!” cried Sir Patrick, earnestly clasping his hands, and following her with his eyes as she hastily retreated with old Adam.Sir Patrick took several turns on the walls, giving way to the rapture which this meeting had occasioned him, and then hastened to regain his apartment, where he laid himself down not to repose, but to muse on the events of the evening.“The minstrel was right,” thought he; “the good Adam’s prophecy did not deceive me. She admitted that her heart was free, and she confessed, as far as maiden modesty might permit her, that she is not altogether without an interest in me. She was pleased with the idea of our farther stay at Norham; and in her confusion she betrayed, that to meet me again would give her pleasure. And she shall meet me again—ay, and again; mine excellent Assueton’s patience must e’en bear some days’ longer trial, for go, at least, I shall not. Days, did I say? ha! but let events determine.” With such happy reflections, and yielding to a train of the most pleasing anticipation, he amused himself till he fell asleep.
[Contents]CHAPTER VI.Making Love on the Ramparts.When Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton arose in the morning, they found their own squires and lacqueys in attendance. The busy note of preparation was in the Castle-yard, and they were told that the Bishop of Durham was just taking his departure.The mitred ecclesiastic went off on an ambling jennet, accompanied by the knights and churchmen who had come with him, and followed by a long cavalcade of richly-attired attendants; and he was saluted by the garrison drawn up in array, and by the guards as he passed outwards. He was, moreover, attended by Sir Walter and his principal officers, who rode half a day’s journey with him. The two friends were thus left to entertain themselves until the evening. Assueton occupied himself in studying the defences of the place, whilst Hepborne loitered about the exterior of the keep, and the walls commanding a view of its various sides, in the hope of being again blessed with a sight of the Lady Eleanore.As he was surveying the huge mass of masonry, so intently that a bystander might have supposed that he was taking an account of the number of stones it was composed of, the lady appeared at one of the high windows on the side facing the Tweed. The knight had his eyes turned in a different direction at the moment, so that she had a full and undisturbed view of him, as he stood nearly opposite to her on the rampart, for some time ere he perceived her. He turned suddenly round, and she instantly withdrew; but not before he had enjoyed another transient glimpse of that face which had already created so strong a sensation in his breast.“Provoking!” thought Hepborne; “yet doth the very modesty of this angelic lady lead me the more to admire her. Unbending spirit, said that knave at the hostel? She is as gentle as a dove. Would I could behold her again.”Sir Patrick stepped back upon the rampart so as to have a better view inwards, and he was gratified by observing that her figure was still within the deep window, though her face was obscured by its shade. He recognized the rose-coloured mantle she had formerly appeared in. He kissed his hand and bowed. He saw her alabaster arm relieve itself from the mantle, and[55]beheld the falcon he had rescued seated on her glove. She stepped forward in such a manner to return his salute, that he enjoyed a sufficient view of her face to make him certain that he was not mistaken in the person. The lady pointed with a smile to her falcon, kissed it, waved an acknowledgment of his courtesy, and again retreating, disappeared.As Sir Patrick was standing vainly hoping for her re-appearance, the old minstrel, Adam of Gordon, chanced to come by. Hepborne saluted him courteously.“Canst thou tell me whose be those apartments that do look so cheerily over the Tweed into Scotland?” demanded he.“Ay,” said the old man, “’tis, as thou sayest, a cheering prospect; ’tis the country of my birth, and the country of my heart; I love it as lover never loved mistress.”“But whose apartments be those?” demanded Hepborne, bringing him back to the question.“Those are the apartments of the Lady Eleanore de Selby,” replied the minstrel.“Is it thy custom to play thy minstrelsy under the moonlight on the rampart, as thou didst yestere’en?” demanded Hepborne.“Yea, I have pleasure in it,” said Adam, with a shrewd look.“And art thou always so attended?” demanded Hepborne; “is thy music always wont to call that angel to thy side whom I last night beheld there?”“So thou dost think her an angel, Sir Knight?” cried Adam, with pleasure glancing in his eyes.“I do,” said Sir Patrick. “Already hath my heart been wounded by the mere momentary glances to which chance hath subjected me, and eagerly do I look for a cure from those eyes whence my hurt doth come. She is beautiful.”“Yea,” said old Adam, “and she is an angel in soul as well as in form. But St. Andrew keep thee, Sir Knight, I must be gone;” and he hurried away without giving Hepborne time to reply.Assueton now came up, and Sir Patrick detailed to him the occurrences we have just narrated, after which he walked about, looking every now and then impatiently towards the window.“Would I could have but one more sight of the Lady Eleanore,” cried he; “her features have already become faint in my mind’s eye; would I might refresh the picture by one other gaze.” But the lady appeared not; and he became vexed,[56]and even fretful, notwithstanding all his resolution to the contrary.“Hepborne, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl? A knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere picking up; let it not irk thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach. Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than of the thorn.”“Pshaw!” repliedHepborne, “thou knowest not what it is to love.”“No, thank my good stars,” answered Assueton, “I do not, and I hope I shall never be so besotted; it makes a fool of a man. There, for instance, thou art raving about a damosel, of whose face thou hast seen so little that wert thou to meet her elsewhere thou couldst never tell her from another.”“It is indeed true, Assueton,” replied Hepborne, “that I have seen but too little of her face; but I have seen enough of it to know that it is the face of an angel.”In such converse as this did they spend the day until the evening’s banquet. Then Sir Walter exhibited the same hospitality towards his guests that had characterised him the night before; but he seemed to be less in spirits, nay, he was even sometimes peevish. Hepborne, too, being restless and unhappy, mirth and hilarity were altogether less prevalent at the upper end of the festal board than they had been the previous evening. The minstrel, however, was not forgotten, and was treated with the same personal attention as formerly; but he sang and played without eliciting more than an ordinary meed of applause. At last he struck some peculiarly powerful chords on the instrument, and as Hepborne turned his head towards him, in common with others, at the sound, old Adam caught his eye, and looking significantly, began to pour forth the following irregular and unpremeditated verse:—’Twas thus that a minstrel address’d a young knight,Who was love-lorn, despairing, and wan with despite,What, Sir Knight, canst thou gain by these heart-rending sighs?The hero ne’er pines, but his destiny tries,And pushes his fate with his lance in the rest,Whether love or renown be his glorious quest.Let not those who droop for LoveFly in grief to wild Despair,She, wither’d witch, can ne’er removeThe cruel unkindness of the fair.Then with the gladd’ning rayOf Hope’s bright star to cheer thee,[57]Do thou still press thy way,Nor let obstructions fear thee.True love will even bearA hasty moment’s slighting,And boldly will it dare,Nor ever fear benighting.’Twill often and againReturn, though ill entreated;’Twill blaze beneath the rain;Though frozen, ’twill be heated.When least thy thoughts are turn’d on joy,The smiling bliss is nigh;No happiness without alloyBeneath the radiant sky.But haste to-night, to meet thy loveUpon the Castle-wall;Thou know’st not what thy heart may prove,What joy may thee befal.These seemingly unmeaning verses passed unnoticed by all at table except by Hepborne, on whom they made a strong impression. He was particularly struck by the concluding stanza, containing an invitation which he could not help believing was meant to apply to himself. He resolved to visit the ramparts as soon as he could escape from the banquet. This he found it no very difficult matter to accomplish, for Sir Walter was abstracted, and evidently depressed with something that weighed on his spirits; so, taking advantage of this circumstance, Hepborne rose to retire at an early hour. His friend followed him, and, when left to the secresy of their own apartments—“Assueton,” said Sir Patrick, “didst thou remark the glance, full of meaning, which the minstrel threw on me to-night? or didst thou note the purport of his ditty?”“As for his glances,” replied Sir John, “I noticed nothing particular in them; your bards are in use to throw such around them, to collect their barren harvest of paltry praise; and as for his verses, or rather his rhymes, I thought them silly enow in conscience. But thou knowest I do rarely listen when love or its follies are the theme.”“But I saw, and I listened,” replied Hepborne. “By St. Denis, they carried hints to me that I shall not neglect. I go to take the air on the ramparts, and hope to meet the angelic Eleanore de Selby there.”“Art thou mad?” said Assueton. “What can old Adam have looked or said that can induce thee to go on such a fool’s errand? Thou hast but fancied; thy blind passion hath deceived thee.”“I shall at least put his fancied hints to the proof,” said Hepborne, “though I should watch all night.”“Then I wish thee a pleasant moonlight promenade,” said[58]Assueton. “I’ll to my couch. To-morrow, I presume, we shall cross the Tweed, and yede us into Scotland. By St. Andrew, I would gladly meet again with those well-known faces whose smiles once reflected the happiness of my boyhood!”“Go to-morrow!” exclaimed Hepborne, as if their so speedy departure was far from being agreeable in the contemplation; “surely thou wilt stay, Assueton, if thou seest that thy so doing may further my happiness?”“Nay,” replied Assueton, “thou needst hardly fear that I will scruple to sacrifice my own wishes to thy happiness, Hepborne; but I confess I would that my happiness depended on some more stirring cause, and one in which we both could join.”Here the friends parted. Hepborne, wrapped up in a cloak, stole gently down stairs, and slipping unperceived from the keep, bent his steps towards that part of the ramparts where he had formerly seen the lady. To his inexpressible joy, he saw the minstrel already on the spot. There were two ladies in company with the old man. As Sir Patrick passed near the base of the tower under which he and his friend had concealed themselves the night before, a huge figure began to rear itself from under it, throwing a shadow half-way across the court-yard. It looked as if the tower itself were in motion. He stood undaunted to observe it, as it gradually arose storey over storey. It was the Ancient Fenwick. His enormous face looked downwards upon Hepborne, and his red cinder-like eyes glared upon him as he sputtered out some unintelligible sounds from the corners of his mouth, and then moved away like a walking monument.Whilst Hepborne’s attention was occupied in observing the retreat of the monster, who seemed to have secreted himself there for no good purpose, the minstrel, and the two ladies who were with him, had already walked down the rampart until they were lost within the shade of a projecting building. He began to fear that they were gone, but he soon saw one of them, whom he believed to be the attendant, emerge from the shadow and retire by a short way to the keep, whilst the other returned along the wall with the minstrel. As they stopped to converse, the lady leaned on one of the engines of war. A breeze from the Tweed threw back the hood of her mantle, and Hepborne could no longer doubt it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby he saw. Her long and beautiful hair streamed down, but she hastily arranged it with her fingers, and then came onwards with Adam of Gordon. Sir Patrick flew to the rampart and sprang on the wall. The lady was alarmed at first by his[59]sudden appearance, but perceiving immediately that it was Sir Patrick Hepborne, she received him graciously yet modestly.“The soft and perfumed air of this beauteous night,” said Hepborne, “and yonder lovely moon, lady, tempted me forth awhile; but what bliss is mine that I should thus meet with her who, in softness, sweetness, and beauty, doth excel the Queen of Night herself!”“Sir Patrick Hepborne, thou art at thy fustian again,” replied the lady seriously. “This high-flown phrase of thine, well suited though it may have been to the pampered ears of Parisian damsels, sorteth but ill with plainness such as mine. Meseems,” continued she somewhat more playfully, “meseems as if the moon were thy favourite theme. Pray Heaven that head may be right furnished, the which hath the unstable planet so often at work within it.”“And if I am mad, as thy words would imply,” said Hepborne, smiling, “’tis thou, lady, who must answer for my frenzy; for since I first saw thee last night, I have thought and dreamt of thee alone.”“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the lady, blushing, “methinks it savours of a more constitutional madness to be so affected by so short a meeting. We were but some few minutes together, if I err not.”“Ay, lady,” said Adam of Gordon, significantly; “but love will work miracles like this.”“’Tis indeed true,” said the lady, with a sigh; and then, as if recollecting herself, she added, “I have indeed heard of such sudden affections.”“Ay,” said Sir Patrick, “and that fair falcon of thine! Depardieux, I begin to believe that he was Cupid himself in disguise, for ever sith I gave the traitor lodgment in my bosom, it hath been affected with the sweet torment the urchin Love is wont to inflict. My heart’s disease began with thy hawk’s ensayning.”“Nay, then, much as I love him,” said the lady, “yet should I hardly have purchased his health, I wot, at the price of that of the gallant knight who did so feelingly redeem it.”“Heaven’s blessings on thee for thy charity, lady,” exclaimed Hepborne; “yet should I rejoice in my disease were it to awaken thy sympathy, so that thou mightest yield me the healing leechcraft that beameth from those eyes.”“Verily, my youth doth lack experience in all such healing skill,” said the lady.“Nay, ’tis a mystery most easily learned by the young,”[60]replied Hepborne. “Thou dost possess the power to assuage, if not to heal, my wound,” added he tenderly. “Let me but be enlisted among the humblest of the captives whom thine eyes hath made subject to thy will; and albeit thy heart may be already given to another, spurn not the adoration of one whose sole wish is to live within the sphere of thy cheering influence, and to die in thy defence.”“In truth, Sir Knight, these eyes have been guiltless of any such tyranny as thou wouldst charge them withal,” replied the lady, artlessly; “at least they have never wilfully so tyrannized. As for my heart, it hath never known warmer feeling than that which doth bind me to him to whom I owe the duty of a daughter.”“Then is thy heart unenthralled,” cried Hepborne in an ecstacy, in the transport of which he threw himself on one knee before her who had produced it. “Refuse not, then, to accept my services as thy true and faithful knight. All I ask is, but to be allowed to devote my lance to thy service. Reject not these my vows. Cheer me with but one ray of hope, to nerve this arm to the doing of deeds worthy of the knight who calleth himself thy slave. I swear——”“Swear not too rashly, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with a deep sigh, and with more of seriousness than she had yet displayed, “to one such as me, to one so obscure——”“Obscure, lady!” cried Hepborne, interrupting her; “Hath not high Heaven stamped thee with that celestial face and form to place thee far above all reckonings of paltry pedigree? What, then, is that obscurity which may have dimmed the birth of so fair a star? What——”“Nay,” said the lady, interrupting him with an air of uncommon dignity and animation, “obscure though mine origin may be, Sir Patrick, yet do I feel within me that which doth tell me that I might match with princes.”“Lady, I well know thy high and justly-grounded pretensions,” said Hepborne, in a subdued tone; “yet scorn not mine humble devotion.”“I scorn thee not, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with combined modesty and feeling, and again sighing deeply; “it would indeed ill become me to scorn any one, far less such as thee; nor is my heart insensible to the courtesy thou hast been pleased to show to one who——”“Thanks, thanks, most peerless of thy sex,” cried Hepborne, gazing with ecstacy in her face, that burned with blushes even under the cold light of the moon.[61]“But in truth it beseemeth me not to stand talking idly with thee thus, Sir Knight,” said the lady, suddenly breaking off; “I must hie me to my chamber.”“Oh, stay, sweet lady, stay—one moment stay!” cried Hepborne; “rob me not of thy presence until thou hast left me the cheering prospect of meeting thee to-morrow.”“I hope Sir Walter hath induced thee and thy friend to tarry some longer space in Norham; if so, it will pleasure me to meet thee again,” said the lady, with a trembling voice.“Then trust me I go not from Norham, betide me what may,” cried Sir Patrick, energetically. “But tell me, lady, I entreat thee, when these eyes may be again blest with thy presence; give me hope, the which is now the food I feed on.”“Nay, in sooth, I can enter into no arrangements,” said the lady, with yet greater agitation; “but,” said she, starting away, “I have tarried here too long; in truth, Sir Patrick Hepborne, I must be gone; may the Holy Virgin be with thee, Sir Knight!”“And may thou be guarded by kindred spirits like thyself!” cried Sir Patrick, earnestly clasping his hands, and following her with his eyes as she hastily retreated with old Adam.Sir Patrick took several turns on the walls, giving way to the rapture which this meeting had occasioned him, and then hastened to regain his apartment, where he laid himself down not to repose, but to muse on the events of the evening.“The minstrel was right,” thought he; “the good Adam’s prophecy did not deceive me. She admitted that her heart was free, and she confessed, as far as maiden modesty might permit her, that she is not altogether without an interest in me. She was pleased with the idea of our farther stay at Norham; and in her confusion she betrayed, that to meet me again would give her pleasure. And she shall meet me again—ay, and again; mine excellent Assueton’s patience must e’en bear some days’ longer trial, for go, at least, I shall not. Days, did I say? ha! but let events determine.” With such happy reflections, and yielding to a train of the most pleasing anticipation, he amused himself till he fell asleep.
CHAPTER VI.Making Love on the Ramparts.
Making Love on the Ramparts.
Making Love on the Ramparts.
When Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton arose in the morning, they found their own squires and lacqueys in attendance. The busy note of preparation was in the Castle-yard, and they were told that the Bishop of Durham was just taking his departure.The mitred ecclesiastic went off on an ambling jennet, accompanied by the knights and churchmen who had come with him, and followed by a long cavalcade of richly-attired attendants; and he was saluted by the garrison drawn up in array, and by the guards as he passed outwards. He was, moreover, attended by Sir Walter and his principal officers, who rode half a day’s journey with him. The two friends were thus left to entertain themselves until the evening. Assueton occupied himself in studying the defences of the place, whilst Hepborne loitered about the exterior of the keep, and the walls commanding a view of its various sides, in the hope of being again blessed with a sight of the Lady Eleanore.As he was surveying the huge mass of masonry, so intently that a bystander might have supposed that he was taking an account of the number of stones it was composed of, the lady appeared at one of the high windows on the side facing the Tweed. The knight had his eyes turned in a different direction at the moment, so that she had a full and undisturbed view of him, as he stood nearly opposite to her on the rampart, for some time ere he perceived her. He turned suddenly round, and she instantly withdrew; but not before he had enjoyed another transient glimpse of that face which had already created so strong a sensation in his breast.“Provoking!” thought Hepborne; “yet doth the very modesty of this angelic lady lead me the more to admire her. Unbending spirit, said that knave at the hostel? She is as gentle as a dove. Would I could behold her again.”Sir Patrick stepped back upon the rampart so as to have a better view inwards, and he was gratified by observing that her figure was still within the deep window, though her face was obscured by its shade. He recognized the rose-coloured mantle she had formerly appeared in. He kissed his hand and bowed. He saw her alabaster arm relieve itself from the mantle, and[55]beheld the falcon he had rescued seated on her glove. She stepped forward in such a manner to return his salute, that he enjoyed a sufficient view of her face to make him certain that he was not mistaken in the person. The lady pointed with a smile to her falcon, kissed it, waved an acknowledgment of his courtesy, and again retreating, disappeared.As Sir Patrick was standing vainly hoping for her re-appearance, the old minstrel, Adam of Gordon, chanced to come by. Hepborne saluted him courteously.“Canst thou tell me whose be those apartments that do look so cheerily over the Tweed into Scotland?” demanded he.“Ay,” said the old man, “’tis, as thou sayest, a cheering prospect; ’tis the country of my birth, and the country of my heart; I love it as lover never loved mistress.”“But whose apartments be those?” demanded Hepborne, bringing him back to the question.“Those are the apartments of the Lady Eleanore de Selby,” replied the minstrel.“Is it thy custom to play thy minstrelsy under the moonlight on the rampart, as thou didst yestere’en?” demanded Hepborne.“Yea, I have pleasure in it,” said Adam, with a shrewd look.“And art thou always so attended?” demanded Hepborne; “is thy music always wont to call that angel to thy side whom I last night beheld there?”“So thou dost think her an angel, Sir Knight?” cried Adam, with pleasure glancing in his eyes.“I do,” said Sir Patrick. “Already hath my heart been wounded by the mere momentary glances to which chance hath subjected me, and eagerly do I look for a cure from those eyes whence my hurt doth come. She is beautiful.”“Yea,” said old Adam, “and she is an angel in soul as well as in form. But St. Andrew keep thee, Sir Knight, I must be gone;” and he hurried away without giving Hepborne time to reply.Assueton now came up, and Sir Patrick detailed to him the occurrences we have just narrated, after which he walked about, looking every now and then impatiently towards the window.“Would I could have but one more sight of the Lady Eleanore,” cried he; “her features have already become faint in my mind’s eye; would I might refresh the picture by one other gaze.” But the lady appeared not; and he became vexed,[56]and even fretful, notwithstanding all his resolution to the contrary.“Hepborne, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl? A knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere picking up; let it not irk thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach. Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than of the thorn.”“Pshaw!” repliedHepborne, “thou knowest not what it is to love.”“No, thank my good stars,” answered Assueton, “I do not, and I hope I shall never be so besotted; it makes a fool of a man. There, for instance, thou art raving about a damosel, of whose face thou hast seen so little that wert thou to meet her elsewhere thou couldst never tell her from another.”“It is indeed true, Assueton,” replied Hepborne, “that I have seen but too little of her face; but I have seen enough of it to know that it is the face of an angel.”In such converse as this did they spend the day until the evening’s banquet. Then Sir Walter exhibited the same hospitality towards his guests that had characterised him the night before; but he seemed to be less in spirits, nay, he was even sometimes peevish. Hepborne, too, being restless and unhappy, mirth and hilarity were altogether less prevalent at the upper end of the festal board than they had been the previous evening. The minstrel, however, was not forgotten, and was treated with the same personal attention as formerly; but he sang and played without eliciting more than an ordinary meed of applause. At last he struck some peculiarly powerful chords on the instrument, and as Hepborne turned his head towards him, in common with others, at the sound, old Adam caught his eye, and looking significantly, began to pour forth the following irregular and unpremeditated verse:—’Twas thus that a minstrel address’d a young knight,Who was love-lorn, despairing, and wan with despite,What, Sir Knight, canst thou gain by these heart-rending sighs?The hero ne’er pines, but his destiny tries,And pushes his fate with his lance in the rest,Whether love or renown be his glorious quest.Let not those who droop for LoveFly in grief to wild Despair,She, wither’d witch, can ne’er removeThe cruel unkindness of the fair.Then with the gladd’ning rayOf Hope’s bright star to cheer thee,[57]Do thou still press thy way,Nor let obstructions fear thee.True love will even bearA hasty moment’s slighting,And boldly will it dare,Nor ever fear benighting.’Twill often and againReturn, though ill entreated;’Twill blaze beneath the rain;Though frozen, ’twill be heated.When least thy thoughts are turn’d on joy,The smiling bliss is nigh;No happiness without alloyBeneath the radiant sky.But haste to-night, to meet thy loveUpon the Castle-wall;Thou know’st not what thy heart may prove,What joy may thee befal.These seemingly unmeaning verses passed unnoticed by all at table except by Hepborne, on whom they made a strong impression. He was particularly struck by the concluding stanza, containing an invitation which he could not help believing was meant to apply to himself. He resolved to visit the ramparts as soon as he could escape from the banquet. This he found it no very difficult matter to accomplish, for Sir Walter was abstracted, and evidently depressed with something that weighed on his spirits; so, taking advantage of this circumstance, Hepborne rose to retire at an early hour. His friend followed him, and, when left to the secresy of their own apartments—“Assueton,” said Sir Patrick, “didst thou remark the glance, full of meaning, which the minstrel threw on me to-night? or didst thou note the purport of his ditty?”“As for his glances,” replied Sir John, “I noticed nothing particular in them; your bards are in use to throw such around them, to collect their barren harvest of paltry praise; and as for his verses, or rather his rhymes, I thought them silly enow in conscience. But thou knowest I do rarely listen when love or its follies are the theme.”“But I saw, and I listened,” replied Hepborne. “By St. Denis, they carried hints to me that I shall not neglect. I go to take the air on the ramparts, and hope to meet the angelic Eleanore de Selby there.”“Art thou mad?” said Assueton. “What can old Adam have looked or said that can induce thee to go on such a fool’s errand? Thou hast but fancied; thy blind passion hath deceived thee.”“I shall at least put his fancied hints to the proof,” said Hepborne, “though I should watch all night.”“Then I wish thee a pleasant moonlight promenade,” said[58]Assueton. “I’ll to my couch. To-morrow, I presume, we shall cross the Tweed, and yede us into Scotland. By St. Andrew, I would gladly meet again with those well-known faces whose smiles once reflected the happiness of my boyhood!”“Go to-morrow!” exclaimed Hepborne, as if their so speedy departure was far from being agreeable in the contemplation; “surely thou wilt stay, Assueton, if thou seest that thy so doing may further my happiness?”“Nay,” replied Assueton, “thou needst hardly fear that I will scruple to sacrifice my own wishes to thy happiness, Hepborne; but I confess I would that my happiness depended on some more stirring cause, and one in which we both could join.”Here the friends parted. Hepborne, wrapped up in a cloak, stole gently down stairs, and slipping unperceived from the keep, bent his steps towards that part of the ramparts where he had formerly seen the lady. To his inexpressible joy, he saw the minstrel already on the spot. There were two ladies in company with the old man. As Sir Patrick passed near the base of the tower under which he and his friend had concealed themselves the night before, a huge figure began to rear itself from under it, throwing a shadow half-way across the court-yard. It looked as if the tower itself were in motion. He stood undaunted to observe it, as it gradually arose storey over storey. It was the Ancient Fenwick. His enormous face looked downwards upon Hepborne, and his red cinder-like eyes glared upon him as he sputtered out some unintelligible sounds from the corners of his mouth, and then moved away like a walking monument.Whilst Hepborne’s attention was occupied in observing the retreat of the monster, who seemed to have secreted himself there for no good purpose, the minstrel, and the two ladies who were with him, had already walked down the rampart until they were lost within the shade of a projecting building. He began to fear that they were gone, but he soon saw one of them, whom he believed to be the attendant, emerge from the shadow and retire by a short way to the keep, whilst the other returned along the wall with the minstrel. As they stopped to converse, the lady leaned on one of the engines of war. A breeze from the Tweed threw back the hood of her mantle, and Hepborne could no longer doubt it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby he saw. Her long and beautiful hair streamed down, but she hastily arranged it with her fingers, and then came onwards with Adam of Gordon. Sir Patrick flew to the rampart and sprang on the wall. The lady was alarmed at first by his[59]sudden appearance, but perceiving immediately that it was Sir Patrick Hepborne, she received him graciously yet modestly.“The soft and perfumed air of this beauteous night,” said Hepborne, “and yonder lovely moon, lady, tempted me forth awhile; but what bliss is mine that I should thus meet with her who, in softness, sweetness, and beauty, doth excel the Queen of Night herself!”“Sir Patrick Hepborne, thou art at thy fustian again,” replied the lady seriously. “This high-flown phrase of thine, well suited though it may have been to the pampered ears of Parisian damsels, sorteth but ill with plainness such as mine. Meseems,” continued she somewhat more playfully, “meseems as if the moon were thy favourite theme. Pray Heaven that head may be right furnished, the which hath the unstable planet so often at work within it.”“And if I am mad, as thy words would imply,” said Hepborne, smiling, “’tis thou, lady, who must answer for my frenzy; for since I first saw thee last night, I have thought and dreamt of thee alone.”“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the lady, blushing, “methinks it savours of a more constitutional madness to be so affected by so short a meeting. We were but some few minutes together, if I err not.”“Ay, lady,” said Adam of Gordon, significantly; “but love will work miracles like this.”“’Tis indeed true,” said the lady, with a sigh; and then, as if recollecting herself, she added, “I have indeed heard of such sudden affections.”“Ay,” said Sir Patrick, “and that fair falcon of thine! Depardieux, I begin to believe that he was Cupid himself in disguise, for ever sith I gave the traitor lodgment in my bosom, it hath been affected with the sweet torment the urchin Love is wont to inflict. My heart’s disease began with thy hawk’s ensayning.”“Nay, then, much as I love him,” said the lady, “yet should I hardly have purchased his health, I wot, at the price of that of the gallant knight who did so feelingly redeem it.”“Heaven’s blessings on thee for thy charity, lady,” exclaimed Hepborne; “yet should I rejoice in my disease were it to awaken thy sympathy, so that thou mightest yield me the healing leechcraft that beameth from those eyes.”“Verily, my youth doth lack experience in all such healing skill,” said the lady.“Nay, ’tis a mystery most easily learned by the young,”[60]replied Hepborne. “Thou dost possess the power to assuage, if not to heal, my wound,” added he tenderly. “Let me but be enlisted among the humblest of the captives whom thine eyes hath made subject to thy will; and albeit thy heart may be already given to another, spurn not the adoration of one whose sole wish is to live within the sphere of thy cheering influence, and to die in thy defence.”“In truth, Sir Knight, these eyes have been guiltless of any such tyranny as thou wouldst charge them withal,” replied the lady, artlessly; “at least they have never wilfully so tyrannized. As for my heart, it hath never known warmer feeling than that which doth bind me to him to whom I owe the duty of a daughter.”“Then is thy heart unenthralled,” cried Hepborne in an ecstacy, in the transport of which he threw himself on one knee before her who had produced it. “Refuse not, then, to accept my services as thy true and faithful knight. All I ask is, but to be allowed to devote my lance to thy service. Reject not these my vows. Cheer me with but one ray of hope, to nerve this arm to the doing of deeds worthy of the knight who calleth himself thy slave. I swear——”“Swear not too rashly, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with a deep sigh, and with more of seriousness than she had yet displayed, “to one such as me, to one so obscure——”“Obscure, lady!” cried Hepborne, interrupting her; “Hath not high Heaven stamped thee with that celestial face and form to place thee far above all reckonings of paltry pedigree? What, then, is that obscurity which may have dimmed the birth of so fair a star? What——”“Nay,” said the lady, interrupting him with an air of uncommon dignity and animation, “obscure though mine origin may be, Sir Patrick, yet do I feel within me that which doth tell me that I might match with princes.”“Lady, I well know thy high and justly-grounded pretensions,” said Hepborne, in a subdued tone; “yet scorn not mine humble devotion.”“I scorn thee not, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with combined modesty and feeling, and again sighing deeply; “it would indeed ill become me to scorn any one, far less such as thee; nor is my heart insensible to the courtesy thou hast been pleased to show to one who——”“Thanks, thanks, most peerless of thy sex,” cried Hepborne, gazing with ecstacy in her face, that burned with blushes even under the cold light of the moon.[61]“But in truth it beseemeth me not to stand talking idly with thee thus, Sir Knight,” said the lady, suddenly breaking off; “I must hie me to my chamber.”“Oh, stay, sweet lady, stay—one moment stay!” cried Hepborne; “rob me not of thy presence until thou hast left me the cheering prospect of meeting thee to-morrow.”“I hope Sir Walter hath induced thee and thy friend to tarry some longer space in Norham; if so, it will pleasure me to meet thee again,” said the lady, with a trembling voice.“Then trust me I go not from Norham, betide me what may,” cried Sir Patrick, energetically. “But tell me, lady, I entreat thee, when these eyes may be again blest with thy presence; give me hope, the which is now the food I feed on.”“Nay, in sooth, I can enter into no arrangements,” said the lady, with yet greater agitation; “but,” said she, starting away, “I have tarried here too long; in truth, Sir Patrick Hepborne, I must be gone; may the Holy Virgin be with thee, Sir Knight!”“And may thou be guarded by kindred spirits like thyself!” cried Sir Patrick, earnestly clasping his hands, and following her with his eyes as she hastily retreated with old Adam.Sir Patrick took several turns on the walls, giving way to the rapture which this meeting had occasioned him, and then hastened to regain his apartment, where he laid himself down not to repose, but to muse on the events of the evening.“The minstrel was right,” thought he; “the good Adam’s prophecy did not deceive me. She admitted that her heart was free, and she confessed, as far as maiden modesty might permit her, that she is not altogether without an interest in me. She was pleased with the idea of our farther stay at Norham; and in her confusion she betrayed, that to meet me again would give her pleasure. And she shall meet me again—ay, and again; mine excellent Assueton’s patience must e’en bear some days’ longer trial, for go, at least, I shall not. Days, did I say? ha! but let events determine.” With such happy reflections, and yielding to a train of the most pleasing anticipation, he amused himself till he fell asleep.
When Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton arose in the morning, they found their own squires and lacqueys in attendance. The busy note of preparation was in the Castle-yard, and they were told that the Bishop of Durham was just taking his departure.
The mitred ecclesiastic went off on an ambling jennet, accompanied by the knights and churchmen who had come with him, and followed by a long cavalcade of richly-attired attendants; and he was saluted by the garrison drawn up in array, and by the guards as he passed outwards. He was, moreover, attended by Sir Walter and his principal officers, who rode half a day’s journey with him. The two friends were thus left to entertain themselves until the evening. Assueton occupied himself in studying the defences of the place, whilst Hepborne loitered about the exterior of the keep, and the walls commanding a view of its various sides, in the hope of being again blessed with a sight of the Lady Eleanore.
As he was surveying the huge mass of masonry, so intently that a bystander might have supposed that he was taking an account of the number of stones it was composed of, the lady appeared at one of the high windows on the side facing the Tweed. The knight had his eyes turned in a different direction at the moment, so that she had a full and undisturbed view of him, as he stood nearly opposite to her on the rampart, for some time ere he perceived her. He turned suddenly round, and she instantly withdrew; but not before he had enjoyed another transient glimpse of that face which had already created so strong a sensation in his breast.
“Provoking!” thought Hepborne; “yet doth the very modesty of this angelic lady lead me the more to admire her. Unbending spirit, said that knave at the hostel? She is as gentle as a dove. Would I could behold her again.”
Sir Patrick stepped back upon the rampart so as to have a better view inwards, and he was gratified by observing that her figure was still within the deep window, though her face was obscured by its shade. He recognized the rose-coloured mantle she had formerly appeared in. He kissed his hand and bowed. He saw her alabaster arm relieve itself from the mantle, and[55]beheld the falcon he had rescued seated on her glove. She stepped forward in such a manner to return his salute, that he enjoyed a sufficient view of her face to make him certain that he was not mistaken in the person. The lady pointed with a smile to her falcon, kissed it, waved an acknowledgment of his courtesy, and again retreating, disappeared.
As Sir Patrick was standing vainly hoping for her re-appearance, the old minstrel, Adam of Gordon, chanced to come by. Hepborne saluted him courteously.
“Canst thou tell me whose be those apartments that do look so cheerily over the Tweed into Scotland?” demanded he.
“Ay,” said the old man, “’tis, as thou sayest, a cheering prospect; ’tis the country of my birth, and the country of my heart; I love it as lover never loved mistress.”
“But whose apartments be those?” demanded Hepborne, bringing him back to the question.
“Those are the apartments of the Lady Eleanore de Selby,” replied the minstrel.
“Is it thy custom to play thy minstrelsy under the moonlight on the rampart, as thou didst yestere’en?” demanded Hepborne.
“Yea, I have pleasure in it,” said Adam, with a shrewd look.
“And art thou always so attended?” demanded Hepborne; “is thy music always wont to call that angel to thy side whom I last night beheld there?”
“So thou dost think her an angel, Sir Knight?” cried Adam, with pleasure glancing in his eyes.
“I do,” said Sir Patrick. “Already hath my heart been wounded by the mere momentary glances to which chance hath subjected me, and eagerly do I look for a cure from those eyes whence my hurt doth come. She is beautiful.”
“Yea,” said old Adam, “and she is an angel in soul as well as in form. But St. Andrew keep thee, Sir Knight, I must be gone;” and he hurried away without giving Hepborne time to reply.
Assueton now came up, and Sir Patrick detailed to him the occurrences we have just narrated, after which he walked about, looking every now and then impatiently towards the window.
“Would I could have but one more sight of the Lady Eleanore,” cried he; “her features have already become faint in my mind’s eye; would I might refresh the picture by one other gaze.” But the lady appeared not; and he became vexed,[56]and even fretful, notwithstanding all his resolution to the contrary.
“Hepborne, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl? A knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere picking up; let it not irk thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach. Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than of the thorn.”
“Pshaw!” repliedHepborne, “thou knowest not what it is to love.”
“No, thank my good stars,” answered Assueton, “I do not, and I hope I shall never be so besotted; it makes a fool of a man. There, for instance, thou art raving about a damosel, of whose face thou hast seen so little that wert thou to meet her elsewhere thou couldst never tell her from another.”
“It is indeed true, Assueton,” replied Hepborne, “that I have seen but too little of her face; but I have seen enough of it to know that it is the face of an angel.”
In such converse as this did they spend the day until the evening’s banquet. Then Sir Walter exhibited the same hospitality towards his guests that had characterised him the night before; but he seemed to be less in spirits, nay, he was even sometimes peevish. Hepborne, too, being restless and unhappy, mirth and hilarity were altogether less prevalent at the upper end of the festal board than they had been the previous evening. The minstrel, however, was not forgotten, and was treated with the same personal attention as formerly; but he sang and played without eliciting more than an ordinary meed of applause. At last he struck some peculiarly powerful chords on the instrument, and as Hepborne turned his head towards him, in common with others, at the sound, old Adam caught his eye, and looking significantly, began to pour forth the following irregular and unpremeditated verse:—
’Twas thus that a minstrel address’d a young knight,Who was love-lorn, despairing, and wan with despite,What, Sir Knight, canst thou gain by these heart-rending sighs?The hero ne’er pines, but his destiny tries,And pushes his fate with his lance in the rest,Whether love or renown be his glorious quest.Let not those who droop for LoveFly in grief to wild Despair,She, wither’d witch, can ne’er removeThe cruel unkindness of the fair.Then with the gladd’ning rayOf Hope’s bright star to cheer thee,[57]Do thou still press thy way,Nor let obstructions fear thee.True love will even bearA hasty moment’s slighting,And boldly will it dare,Nor ever fear benighting.’Twill often and againReturn, though ill entreated;’Twill blaze beneath the rain;Though frozen, ’twill be heated.When least thy thoughts are turn’d on joy,The smiling bliss is nigh;No happiness without alloyBeneath the radiant sky.But haste to-night, to meet thy loveUpon the Castle-wall;Thou know’st not what thy heart may prove,What joy may thee befal.
’Twas thus that a minstrel address’d a young knight,
Who was love-lorn, despairing, and wan with despite,
What, Sir Knight, canst thou gain by these heart-rending sighs?
The hero ne’er pines, but his destiny tries,
And pushes his fate with his lance in the rest,
Whether love or renown be his glorious quest.
Let not those who droop for Love
Fly in grief to wild Despair,
She, wither’d witch, can ne’er remove
The cruel unkindness of the fair.
Then with the gladd’ning ray
Of Hope’s bright star to cheer thee,[57]
Do thou still press thy way,
Nor let obstructions fear thee.
True love will even bear
A hasty moment’s slighting,
And boldly will it dare,
Nor ever fear benighting.
’Twill often and again
Return, though ill entreated;
’Twill blaze beneath the rain;
Though frozen, ’twill be heated.
When least thy thoughts are turn’d on joy,
The smiling bliss is nigh;
No happiness without alloy
Beneath the radiant sky.
But haste to-night, to meet thy love
Upon the Castle-wall;
Thou know’st not what thy heart may prove,
What joy may thee befal.
These seemingly unmeaning verses passed unnoticed by all at table except by Hepborne, on whom they made a strong impression. He was particularly struck by the concluding stanza, containing an invitation which he could not help believing was meant to apply to himself. He resolved to visit the ramparts as soon as he could escape from the banquet. This he found it no very difficult matter to accomplish, for Sir Walter was abstracted, and evidently depressed with something that weighed on his spirits; so, taking advantage of this circumstance, Hepborne rose to retire at an early hour. His friend followed him, and, when left to the secresy of their own apartments—
“Assueton,” said Sir Patrick, “didst thou remark the glance, full of meaning, which the minstrel threw on me to-night? or didst thou note the purport of his ditty?”
“As for his glances,” replied Sir John, “I noticed nothing particular in them; your bards are in use to throw such around them, to collect their barren harvest of paltry praise; and as for his verses, or rather his rhymes, I thought them silly enow in conscience. But thou knowest I do rarely listen when love or its follies are the theme.”
“But I saw, and I listened,” replied Hepborne. “By St. Denis, they carried hints to me that I shall not neglect. I go to take the air on the ramparts, and hope to meet the angelic Eleanore de Selby there.”
“Art thou mad?” said Assueton. “What can old Adam have looked or said that can induce thee to go on such a fool’s errand? Thou hast but fancied; thy blind passion hath deceived thee.”
“I shall at least put his fancied hints to the proof,” said Hepborne, “though I should watch all night.”
“Then I wish thee a pleasant moonlight promenade,” said[58]Assueton. “I’ll to my couch. To-morrow, I presume, we shall cross the Tweed, and yede us into Scotland. By St. Andrew, I would gladly meet again with those well-known faces whose smiles once reflected the happiness of my boyhood!”
“Go to-morrow!” exclaimed Hepborne, as if their so speedy departure was far from being agreeable in the contemplation; “surely thou wilt stay, Assueton, if thou seest that thy so doing may further my happiness?”
“Nay,” replied Assueton, “thou needst hardly fear that I will scruple to sacrifice my own wishes to thy happiness, Hepborne; but I confess I would that my happiness depended on some more stirring cause, and one in which we both could join.”
Here the friends parted. Hepborne, wrapped up in a cloak, stole gently down stairs, and slipping unperceived from the keep, bent his steps towards that part of the ramparts where he had formerly seen the lady. To his inexpressible joy, he saw the minstrel already on the spot. There were two ladies in company with the old man. As Sir Patrick passed near the base of the tower under which he and his friend had concealed themselves the night before, a huge figure began to rear itself from under it, throwing a shadow half-way across the court-yard. It looked as if the tower itself were in motion. He stood undaunted to observe it, as it gradually arose storey over storey. It was the Ancient Fenwick. His enormous face looked downwards upon Hepborne, and his red cinder-like eyes glared upon him as he sputtered out some unintelligible sounds from the corners of his mouth, and then moved away like a walking monument.
Whilst Hepborne’s attention was occupied in observing the retreat of the monster, who seemed to have secreted himself there for no good purpose, the minstrel, and the two ladies who were with him, had already walked down the rampart until they were lost within the shade of a projecting building. He began to fear that they were gone, but he soon saw one of them, whom he believed to be the attendant, emerge from the shadow and retire by a short way to the keep, whilst the other returned along the wall with the minstrel. As they stopped to converse, the lady leaned on one of the engines of war. A breeze from the Tweed threw back the hood of her mantle, and Hepborne could no longer doubt it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby he saw. Her long and beautiful hair streamed down, but she hastily arranged it with her fingers, and then came onwards with Adam of Gordon. Sir Patrick flew to the rampart and sprang on the wall. The lady was alarmed at first by his[59]sudden appearance, but perceiving immediately that it was Sir Patrick Hepborne, she received him graciously yet modestly.
“The soft and perfumed air of this beauteous night,” said Hepborne, “and yonder lovely moon, lady, tempted me forth awhile; but what bliss is mine that I should thus meet with her who, in softness, sweetness, and beauty, doth excel the Queen of Night herself!”
“Sir Patrick Hepborne, thou art at thy fustian again,” replied the lady seriously. “This high-flown phrase of thine, well suited though it may have been to the pampered ears of Parisian damsels, sorteth but ill with plainness such as mine. Meseems,” continued she somewhat more playfully, “meseems as if the moon were thy favourite theme. Pray Heaven that head may be right furnished, the which hath the unstable planet so often at work within it.”
“And if I am mad, as thy words would imply,” said Hepborne, smiling, “’tis thou, lady, who must answer for my frenzy; for since I first saw thee last night, I have thought and dreamt of thee alone.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the lady, blushing, “methinks it savours of a more constitutional madness to be so affected by so short a meeting. We were but some few minutes together, if I err not.”
“Ay, lady,” said Adam of Gordon, significantly; “but love will work miracles like this.”
“’Tis indeed true,” said the lady, with a sigh; and then, as if recollecting herself, she added, “I have indeed heard of such sudden affections.”
“Ay,” said Sir Patrick, “and that fair falcon of thine! Depardieux, I begin to believe that he was Cupid himself in disguise, for ever sith I gave the traitor lodgment in my bosom, it hath been affected with the sweet torment the urchin Love is wont to inflict. My heart’s disease began with thy hawk’s ensayning.”
“Nay, then, much as I love him,” said the lady, “yet should I hardly have purchased his health, I wot, at the price of that of the gallant knight who did so feelingly redeem it.”
“Heaven’s blessings on thee for thy charity, lady,” exclaimed Hepborne; “yet should I rejoice in my disease were it to awaken thy sympathy, so that thou mightest yield me the healing leechcraft that beameth from those eyes.”
“Verily, my youth doth lack experience in all such healing skill,” said the lady.
“Nay, ’tis a mystery most easily learned by the young,”[60]replied Hepborne. “Thou dost possess the power to assuage, if not to heal, my wound,” added he tenderly. “Let me but be enlisted among the humblest of the captives whom thine eyes hath made subject to thy will; and albeit thy heart may be already given to another, spurn not the adoration of one whose sole wish is to live within the sphere of thy cheering influence, and to die in thy defence.”
“In truth, Sir Knight, these eyes have been guiltless of any such tyranny as thou wouldst charge them withal,” replied the lady, artlessly; “at least they have never wilfully so tyrannized. As for my heart, it hath never known warmer feeling than that which doth bind me to him to whom I owe the duty of a daughter.”
“Then is thy heart unenthralled,” cried Hepborne in an ecstacy, in the transport of which he threw himself on one knee before her who had produced it. “Refuse not, then, to accept my services as thy true and faithful knight. All I ask is, but to be allowed to devote my lance to thy service. Reject not these my vows. Cheer me with but one ray of hope, to nerve this arm to the doing of deeds worthy of the knight who calleth himself thy slave. I swear——”
“Swear not too rashly, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with a deep sigh, and with more of seriousness than she had yet displayed, “to one such as me, to one so obscure——”
“Obscure, lady!” cried Hepborne, interrupting her; “Hath not high Heaven stamped thee with that celestial face and form to place thee far above all reckonings of paltry pedigree? What, then, is that obscurity which may have dimmed the birth of so fair a star? What——”
“Nay,” said the lady, interrupting him with an air of uncommon dignity and animation, “obscure though mine origin may be, Sir Patrick, yet do I feel within me that which doth tell me that I might match with princes.”
“Lady, I well know thy high and justly-grounded pretensions,” said Hepborne, in a subdued tone; “yet scorn not mine humble devotion.”
“I scorn thee not, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with combined modesty and feeling, and again sighing deeply; “it would indeed ill become me to scorn any one, far less such as thee; nor is my heart insensible to the courtesy thou hast been pleased to show to one who——”
“Thanks, thanks, most peerless of thy sex,” cried Hepborne, gazing with ecstacy in her face, that burned with blushes even under the cold light of the moon.[61]
“But in truth it beseemeth me not to stand talking idly with thee thus, Sir Knight,” said the lady, suddenly breaking off; “I must hie me to my chamber.”
“Oh, stay, sweet lady, stay—one moment stay!” cried Hepborne; “rob me not of thy presence until thou hast left me the cheering prospect of meeting thee to-morrow.”
“I hope Sir Walter hath induced thee and thy friend to tarry some longer space in Norham; if so, it will pleasure me to meet thee again,” said the lady, with a trembling voice.
“Then trust me I go not from Norham, betide me what may,” cried Sir Patrick, energetically. “But tell me, lady, I entreat thee, when these eyes may be again blest with thy presence; give me hope, the which is now the food I feed on.”
“Nay, in sooth, I can enter into no arrangements,” said the lady, with yet greater agitation; “but,” said she, starting away, “I have tarried here too long; in truth, Sir Patrick Hepborne, I must be gone; may the Holy Virgin be with thee, Sir Knight!”
“And may thou be guarded by kindred spirits like thyself!” cried Sir Patrick, earnestly clasping his hands, and following her with his eyes as she hastily retreated with old Adam.
Sir Patrick took several turns on the walls, giving way to the rapture which this meeting had occasioned him, and then hastened to regain his apartment, where he laid himself down not to repose, but to muse on the events of the evening.
“The minstrel was right,” thought he; “the good Adam’s prophecy did not deceive me. She admitted that her heart was free, and she confessed, as far as maiden modesty might permit her, that she is not altogether without an interest in me. She was pleased with the idea of our farther stay at Norham; and in her confusion she betrayed, that to meet me again would give her pleasure. And she shall meet me again—ay, and again; mine excellent Assueton’s patience must e’en bear some days’ longer trial, for go, at least, I shall not. Days, did I say? ha! but let events determine.” With such happy reflections, and yielding to a train of the most pleasing anticipation, he amused himself till he fell asleep.