CHAPTER VII.

[Contents]CHAPTER VII.The Midnight Meeting in the Ancient’s Chamber—Strange Proposal—A Dreadful Alternative.It was past the hour of midnight, when all in the Castle had[62]been for some time still, save when the sentinels on the ramparts repeated their prolonged call, that a footstep was again heard upon the stair leading to the top of the keep. It was the heavy, slow step of Sir Walter de Selby. He carried a lamp in his hand, and often stopped to breathe; but at last he made his way to the roof, and sought the aerial den of the monstrous Ancient. He went thither, deluded man, imagining that he went of his own free will; but the crafty Ancient had taken secret measures to insure his coming.When the good old knight had sought the little private oratory within his chamber, immediately after his attendants had retired, he was fearfully dismayed by observing a blue lambent light flitting over the surface of an ancient shield that hung above a small altar within a dark Gothic recess. In that age of ignorance, a circumstance so unaccountable might have shaken the firmest nerves; but it had been the shield of his father, a bold moss-trooper, and from him he had learned that this was the ill-omened warning sign that was always said to appear to foretell some dire calamity affecting him or his issue. With extreme agitation of mind he at once recurred to recent events for an explanation of it. During his ride with the Bishop of Durham, that prelate had repeated the arguments he had employed the day before, particularly in the long conference they had held after the banquet, to fortify him in the resolution of pressing the Lady Eleanore into a marriage with Sir Rafe Piersie; and, indeed, Sir Walter’s heart was so eagerly set on the accomplishment of a union in every respect equal to his most sanguine wishes, that little eloquence was necessary to convince him of the propriety of urging his daughter to it by every means in his power. Nay, although she was his only child, and that he so doted on her as to have got into a habit of yielding to every wish she expressed, yet this was a point on which he was very easily brought to adopt a determined line of conduct with her. She had somewhat provoked him, too, by the license she had given her tongue in presence of the Bishop, when she indulged herself in ridiculing the very august person he was proposing to her as a husband; and the knight’s passion at the moment had so far got the better of his affection, that he spoke to her with a degree of harshness he had never used before. His after conversations with the Bishop had now brought him to the determination of compelling the Lady Eleanore to a marriage so much to her advantage, and so flattering to his own hopes of high alliance. So firmly was he fixed in this resolution, that, in a meeting he had with his daughter after his return from[63]accompanying the Bishop, he withstood all her entreaties, and steeled himself against all her grief, and all her spirited remonstrances. After such an interview, it is not surprising that Sir Walter should have immediately supposed that the menacing prodigy, which now appeared before his eyes, had some reference to the purposed marriage of the Lady Eleanore. On all similar occasions of threatened misfortune, he had been for some years accustomed to apply for counsel to the cunning Ancient Fenwick, whom he believed to possess supernatural powers of foretelling and averting the greatest calamities; nay, he had more than once been convinced of the happy effects of his interference in his behalf. His impatience to seek him at present, therefore, was such that he could hardly restrain himself until he had reason to think that all eyes in the Castle were closed but his own. He paced his chamber in a state bordering on distraction, stopping from time to time at the door of the oratory to regard the terrific warning, and wringing his hands as he beheld it still flitting and playing over the surface of the shield.He was no sooner certain, however, that he might move from his apartment without risk of observation, than he seized his lamp, and, as we have seen, sought the lonely cap-house of the Ancient. The small door of the place was closed. So strongly were men’s minds bound by the thraldom of superstition in those days, that the gallant Sir Walter de Selby, who had so often faced the foe like a lion in the field, and who would even now have defended the Castle of Norham to the uttermost extremity, yea, so long as one stone of its walls remained upon another—this brave old warrior, I say, absolutely trembled as he tapped at the door of the wretched Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, who once formed his most common subject of jest. He tapped, but no answer was returned; he listened, but not a sound was heard. He tapped again—and again he tapped louder. He called the Ancient by his name; but still all was profound silence. He hesitated for some moments, in doubt what to do. At last he brought himself to the determination of pushing the door up. He bent down on his knees to force it, and it yielded before his exertions; but the sight which met his eyes so appalled him, that he was unable at first to advance.The Ancient Fenwick, to all appearance dead, lay stretched, with his arms and legs extended on the floor. His face had the leaden hue of death on it; and a small orb, composed of a number of points of bluish lambent flame, like that so ominously illuminating the shield, flitted on his forehead—a book of necromancy lay open on the floor—his lamp burned on the[64]usual pile of volumes—and, on a temporary altar, composed of several folios, raised one above the other against the wall, were placed a human skull, and thigh bones, and an hour-glass. Immediately over these a number of cabalistical figures were described with charcoal on the plaster; and a white rod seemed, from the position it lay in, to have been pointed towards them, and to have fallen from his hand, as if he had been suddenly struck down in the very act of conjuration.Sir Walter was so overpowered with horror and superstitious fear, that some moments elapsed ere he could summon up resolution to creep into the place and examine the body more narrowly. He looked down on the hidous ghastly face, over which the magical flame still flitted. The small fiery eye-balls glared—but they were still; not a feature moved, nor was there the slightest sound or appearance of respiration. Scarcely bearing to behold such a spectacle, the old knight looked timorously around him, afraid that the demon, who had done this fearful work upon his disciple, might appear to annihilate him also. In truth his terrors so far overcame him, that he was just about to retreat hastily, when he observed a certain spasmodic twitch about the mouth, which soon afterwards became powerfully convulsed, writhing from side to side, and throwing the whole features of the countenance into the most fearful contortions. By degrees, the convulsion seemed to extend itself along the muscles of the body, arms, and limbs, until the whole frame was thrown into violent agitation; unintelligible sputtering sounds came from the alternate corners of the mouth; and Sir Walter quaked to hear the name of “Sathanas” often repeated energetically. At last, by a convulsion stronger than the rest, the head and body were erected, and, after a little time, the Ancient seemed to recover the use of his senses, and the command over his muscles, as well as of his powers of utterance.“What, Master Ancient Fenwick, hath befallen thee?” exclaimed Sir Walter, in a voice almost indistinct from trepidation; “tell me, I beseech thee, what hath happened.”“My brain burneth,” cried the Ancient, with a hideous yell, and striking his forehead with the palms of both hands, after which the flame no longer appeared. Then, after a pause, “Where am I?” said he, staring wildly around, “Where am I? Ha! I see I am again in the world of men. What?” exclaimed he, with surprise, on beholding Sir Walter, “art thou here? How camest thou to this place?”“My friend,” replied the old knight, “my excellent friend, I[65]came to consult thee; I came to take counsel from thy superhuman knowledge—thy knowledge gathered from converse with the spirits of another world.”“Another world!” exclaimed the Ancient, in a sepulchral voice—“in another world, didst thou say? Ay, I have indeed long had converse here, face to face, with some of its blackest inmates: but never till this night,” added he, shuddering, “did I visit its fiery realms.”“Where hast thou been, then?” asked the knight, in a tone of alarm.“In hell!” cried the Ancient, with a horrible voice that chilled the very blood in Sir Walter’s brains. “Yes,” continued he, “I have visited those dreadful abodes; but I may not tell their awful secrets. Some, it is true, I am permitted to disclose, if I can bring myself to speak of them—of things on which depend the fate of thyself and thy daughter, and deeply affecting thy country’s weal.”“What, good Ancient, hast thou learned, that may affect me or my daughter? I do beseech thee, let me straightway be informed. The blue fire burns on my father’s shield to-night; some dreadful calamity impends.”“Ha! saidst thou so?” cried the Ancient, with a sudden start. “The blue fire, saidst thou? Signs meet then; prodigies combine to overwhelm thee.”“They do, indeed, most terribly,” said the knight, shuddering with alarm.“Their portent is direful,” said the Ancient, groaning deeply.“In mercy tell me by what means they may be averted,” anxiously inquired Sir Walter.“Nay,” said the Ancient, with a desponding air, “’tis thyself who art bringing them on thine own head.” Then, after a long pause—“Thou art about to marry thy daughter to the brother of the Piersie?”“By what miracle knowest thou this?” demanded Sir Walter, in amazement.“Ask me not by what miracle I know this,” replied the Ancient, “after what thou hast thyself witnessed. Have I not been in the world below? Do I not know all things? Do I not know that Sir Rafe Piersie hath sought the hand of the Lady Eleanore?—that he hath been scorned by her?—that even the Lord Bishop of Durham’s influence hath been employed by him to incline thee to the match; and that, overcome by his counsels, thou art about to compel thy daughter to accept of his hand? Yea, all this do I know, to the veriest item of the[66]conversation held between thee; and now, canst thou doubt whence I have had this knowledge?”Sir Walter replied not, but groaned deeply.“Sit down by me,” said the Ancient, “and listen to me. ’Tis registered in the dread Book of Fate,” continued he solemnly, “that if this marriage be concluded, consequences the most direful will result from it. First, thy daughter shall produce a son, of countenance so inhuman, that it shall be liker that of a wild boar than a man; and the monstrous birth will produce the death of the mother. Then the child shall grow up, and wax exceeding strong, so that his might shall overmatch that of the most powerful men. But though his mind shall not ripen in proportion, yet shall his passions terribly expand themselves; and, after murdering thee, from whom he shall have sprung, he shall gather unto himself a host of demons of his own stamp, and lay waste the fair face of England, cruelly slaying and oppressing its innocent people for the space of ten years, when he shall be at last overthrown by a Scottish army, which being brought against him, shall subdue and enslave our nation.”The white hairs of the aged Sir Walter bristled on his head as he listened to this dreadful prophecy. The scourge with which his country was menaced was worse, in his eyes, than even his own unhappy fate.“Tell me, oh tell me, most excellent Ancient,” said he, in the agony of despair, “tell me, I entreat thee, how this awful mass of approaching misery may be averted.”“There is only one way to shield yourself and mankind from the threatened curse,” replied the Ancient tardily, and rather as if he felt difficulty in bringing it out; “there is only one course to pursue, but it is such that, slave as thou art to the prejudices of the world, it is vain to hope that even the dread of these impending calamities will induce thee to adopt it.”“Talk not so, good Ancient, talk not so,” cried the old knight impatiently, “There is nothing I would not do—Holy Virgin, forgive me!—there is nothing I would not do honestly to prevent this threatened curse from arising, to the destruction of my family and my country.”“Sayest thou so?” said the Ancient, calmly shaking his head, as if in doubt; “I will put thee to the proof then. It is written, as I have already declared, in the Book of the Fates of men, that this marriage shall take place, and that from it shall proceed this two-edged sword, to smite both thee and England, unless thou shalt bestow thy daughter on one whom—but thou wilt never condescend——”[67]“Nay,” impatiently interrupted the knight, “better she should marry any honest man of good family than that she should be suffered to match so proudly only to be the mother of destruction to herself, to me, and to her country.”“Thou sayest well,” calmly replied the Ancient; “but the Fates have not left the choice of her mate to thee or to her. Yet hear me patiently, and thou shalt know all. Thou art not ignorant that I have long abjured the pitiful affairs of men. ’Tis now more than fifteen years since, quitting their society, I have devoted myself to those studies by which thou hast more than once benefited. I have sacrificed all earthly prospects and enjoyments for the sake of that sublime knowledge which doth enable me to foresee and control coming events; and it is to me a reward in itself so great, as to make every other appear despicable in comparison with it. But though I have forsworn the world, yet cannot I rid myself of attachment to thee; my early feelings must tie me to thee and thine for ever. Thou hast had proofs of this devotion too often, to require me to repeat that it doth exist; but I am now prepared to give thee a demonstration of it yet stronger than any thou hast hitherto received from me.”“Kind, excellent Ancient,” exclaimed the grateful Sir Walter, “I well know the care with which thou hast watched over the welfare of my house; I feel the magnitude of the debt I owe thee, and ’tis with gratitude I acknowledge it. What is it, I beseech thee, thou canst do?”“Yes,” exclaimed the Ancient, with a show of much feeling, “yes; I will sacrifice myself. I will come forth again into the haunts of deceitful and cold-blooded men. I will give up all I prize—my quiet, my solitude—to save thee and thine from the destruction that impendeth. On my part there shall be no failure, however at war with my habits and inclinations the sacrifice may be. ’Tis upon thyself, therefore—upon thine own decision—that thine own fate, and the fate of thy daughter, and of thy country, must depend.”“Name, name, I entreat thee, the terms!” cried the anxious old knight; “name the conditions that I must fulfil; tell me what I must do, and no time shall be lost in carrying it into effect.”The Ancient paused for some moments, during which he looked into the face of the knight with his fiery inexpressive eyes, and then, with slow and solemn, though harsh utterance—“I must espouse thy daughter, the Lady Eleanore!” said he. “The Fates have willed it so; no other remedy doth now[68]remain against the overwhelming destruction thou art doomed to behold.”This fatal declaration—this dreadful contrast to all those hopes of splendid alliance which had filled Sir Walter’s thoughts, came upon him like a thunderbolt, and was perfectly annihilating. He could not stand the bitter alternative that was thus presented to him. Overcome by his feelings, he threw himself back among the straw composing the lair of the monster he had been listening to, and, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands, he, hardy soldier as he was, burst into a flood of tears.A grim meteor smile of inward satisfaction shot over the pallid face of the impostor.“Ay,” said he, “no one can expect thee to match thy daughter with such as me. Better that she should give birth to ten thousand such demons as her fated marriage with the brother of the Piersie is infallibly destined to produce—better that she should die, and thou be cruelly murdered by the parricidal hand of thine inhuman grandchild, than that thou shouldst call such a wretch as me son. Thy determination hath been well taken; ’tis like a good soldier, as thou art, to brave the Fates. I thank thee, too, for mine emancipation from the vow I had resolved to subject myself to for thy sake. My time, and my quiet, and my solitude, shall be again mine own, and my darling studies shall receive no interruption.”“Is there no other alternative?” cried the distracted father, rising with energy from the position he had thrown himself into.“None!” replied the Ancient. “But that thou mayest be ignorant of no tittle of what it so deeply concerns thee to know,” continued he after a pause, “it is destined that if ever I do so espouse me, my son shall be the most perfect model of bravery and of virtue that ever England saw; and that, taking the proud name of de Selby, he shall wax exceeding mighty, and, leading a small band of gallant youths, march into Scotland as a conqueror, until at last, dethroning the monarch of the North, he shall himself be proclaimed king of that country, and, uniting himself by marriage with the King of England, he and his posterity shall reign for twelve centuries. To look farther into futurity is denied; but enow hath been told thee to point out the way that doth lie before thee. The space of three days and three hours is given thee to choose thy daughter’s destiny. And now,” continued the Ancient, putting out his hand to the hour-glass, and solemnly inverting it; “and now the stream of thy time beginneth to run; see how the sand floweth down—a portion of it hath already glided away; so will the rest, till the[69]period assigned thee be irrecoverably gone. ’Twere better that thou shouldst retire to thy chamber, to weigh well the fates of thy daughter, for the balance of her destinies is in thine hand.”The impostor paused. The agitated mind of Sir Walter de Selby had eagerly grasped at the flattering picture which the Ancient had so cunningly reserved to the last, and which was so perfectly in harmony with every wish of the old man’s heart. In his contemplation of it, he had almost forgotten the uncouth son-in-law destined to make him the grandfather of a hero, who was to raise the glory of his country’s arms so high, and who was at last to become a King of Scotland. His pride was peculiarly flattered by the notion of the name of de Selby being retained to become eventually royal; and he began to reason with himself as he sat, that it was but stooping to present humiliation in order to rise to the summit of human ambition. The crafty Ancient saw the working of his mind, from its operation on his honest countenance, as well as if he had been thinking audibly.“Such proud prospects of an issue so glorious tempt not me,” said he. “These dark volumes, and the retirement of this unseemly chamber, whence the stars can be most easily conversed with, are to me worth a world of such. But for thee, if thou demandest it of me, the sacrifice shall be made; and shouldst thou make me the humble instrument of the salvation and exaltation of thyself and issue, it would,” said he, with an affectation of extreme humility, “be no more, after all, than burying good seed in the soil of a dunghill, to see it buxion with the more vigour, shoot the more aloft, and rear its proud head far above the meagre plants on higher but more sterile spots. But it is matter worthy of grave thought. Yet judge me not as I seem—the poor, the wretched inmate of this owlet’s nest. Why am I so? Even because I despise all those gewgaws men esteem most valuable, and covet only that most precious of all jewels—the perfection of knowledge. Thinkest thou that it would not help me to all the rest, were it my pleasure to command them? Thinkest thou that I could not command worldly wealth and honours, were I to fancy such baubles? Wouldst thou have me conjure up gold? Lo!—there!” said he, plucking the leathern bag from his jerkin, and emptying the shining contents of it on the ground, to the astonishment of Sir Walter; “a little midnight labour would raise me up a hoard that might purchase the earth itself. But what is the vile dross to me? Nay, I would not inundate the wretched world with that which hath already caused sufficient human misery. To pour out more[70]would be to breed a more accursed scourge than e’en thy grandson Piersie will prove.”“Talk not of him,” exclaimed the knight in terror; “the very thought of his existence is racking to me. I want not time for consideration on a point so plain. I do now resolve me on the alliance with thee. Sir Rafe Piersie comes to-morrow morning; I shall break with him abruptly—and then, my resolution being taken, my daughter must yield to the irresistible decrees of Fate.”With these words Sir Walter rose to his knees, and snatching up his lamp, scrambled hastily to the door, and stole softly down to his apartment. He looked with fear and trembling into the oratory, when, to his extreme relief, he saw that the ominous flame had left the fatal shield, and he retired to his couch in a state of comparative composure.“So,” said the Ancient, in grim soliloquy, after Sir Walter’s footsteps had died away on the stairs—“so the hook is in thy nose, and thou shalt feel the power, as well as the vengeance, of him thou didst despise and make thy mock of. Thou didst thwart mine ambition; but my helm ere long shall tower amid the proudest crests of chivalry, and wealth and honours, yea, and the haughty smile of beauty too, shall be at my will. This is indeed to rise by mine abasement, even beyond the highest soaring of those early hopes which this man did so cruelly level with the earth. The thought is ecstasy.”

CHAPTER VII.The Midnight Meeting in the Ancient’s Chamber—Strange Proposal—A Dreadful Alternative.

The Midnight Meeting in the Ancient’s Chamber—Strange Proposal—A Dreadful Alternative.

It was past the hour of midnight, when all in the Castle had[62]been for some time still, save when the sentinels on the ramparts repeated their prolonged call, that a footstep was again heard upon the stair leading to the top of the keep. It was the heavy, slow step of Sir Walter de Selby. He carried a lamp in his hand, and often stopped to breathe; but at last he made his way to the roof, and sought the aerial den of the monstrous Ancient. He went thither, deluded man, imagining that he went of his own free will; but the crafty Ancient had taken secret measures to insure his coming.When the good old knight had sought the little private oratory within his chamber, immediately after his attendants had retired, he was fearfully dismayed by observing a blue lambent light flitting over the surface of an ancient shield that hung above a small altar within a dark Gothic recess. In that age of ignorance, a circumstance so unaccountable might have shaken the firmest nerves; but it had been the shield of his father, a bold moss-trooper, and from him he had learned that this was the ill-omened warning sign that was always said to appear to foretell some dire calamity affecting him or his issue. With extreme agitation of mind he at once recurred to recent events for an explanation of it. During his ride with the Bishop of Durham, that prelate had repeated the arguments he had employed the day before, particularly in the long conference they had held after the banquet, to fortify him in the resolution of pressing the Lady Eleanore into a marriage with Sir Rafe Piersie; and, indeed, Sir Walter’s heart was so eagerly set on the accomplishment of a union in every respect equal to his most sanguine wishes, that little eloquence was necessary to convince him of the propriety of urging his daughter to it by every means in his power. Nay, although she was his only child, and that he so doted on her as to have got into a habit of yielding to every wish she expressed, yet this was a point on which he was very easily brought to adopt a determined line of conduct with her. She had somewhat provoked him, too, by the license she had given her tongue in presence of the Bishop, when she indulged herself in ridiculing the very august person he was proposing to her as a husband; and the knight’s passion at the moment had so far got the better of his affection, that he spoke to her with a degree of harshness he had never used before. His after conversations with the Bishop had now brought him to the determination of compelling the Lady Eleanore to a marriage so much to her advantage, and so flattering to his own hopes of high alliance. So firmly was he fixed in this resolution, that, in a meeting he had with his daughter after his return from[63]accompanying the Bishop, he withstood all her entreaties, and steeled himself against all her grief, and all her spirited remonstrances. After such an interview, it is not surprising that Sir Walter should have immediately supposed that the menacing prodigy, which now appeared before his eyes, had some reference to the purposed marriage of the Lady Eleanore. On all similar occasions of threatened misfortune, he had been for some years accustomed to apply for counsel to the cunning Ancient Fenwick, whom he believed to possess supernatural powers of foretelling and averting the greatest calamities; nay, he had more than once been convinced of the happy effects of his interference in his behalf. His impatience to seek him at present, therefore, was such that he could hardly restrain himself until he had reason to think that all eyes in the Castle were closed but his own. He paced his chamber in a state bordering on distraction, stopping from time to time at the door of the oratory to regard the terrific warning, and wringing his hands as he beheld it still flitting and playing over the surface of the shield.He was no sooner certain, however, that he might move from his apartment without risk of observation, than he seized his lamp, and, as we have seen, sought the lonely cap-house of the Ancient. The small door of the place was closed. So strongly were men’s minds bound by the thraldom of superstition in those days, that the gallant Sir Walter de Selby, who had so often faced the foe like a lion in the field, and who would even now have defended the Castle of Norham to the uttermost extremity, yea, so long as one stone of its walls remained upon another—this brave old warrior, I say, absolutely trembled as he tapped at the door of the wretched Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, who once formed his most common subject of jest. He tapped, but no answer was returned; he listened, but not a sound was heard. He tapped again—and again he tapped louder. He called the Ancient by his name; but still all was profound silence. He hesitated for some moments, in doubt what to do. At last he brought himself to the determination of pushing the door up. He bent down on his knees to force it, and it yielded before his exertions; but the sight which met his eyes so appalled him, that he was unable at first to advance.The Ancient Fenwick, to all appearance dead, lay stretched, with his arms and legs extended on the floor. His face had the leaden hue of death on it; and a small orb, composed of a number of points of bluish lambent flame, like that so ominously illuminating the shield, flitted on his forehead—a book of necromancy lay open on the floor—his lamp burned on the[64]usual pile of volumes—and, on a temporary altar, composed of several folios, raised one above the other against the wall, were placed a human skull, and thigh bones, and an hour-glass. Immediately over these a number of cabalistical figures were described with charcoal on the plaster; and a white rod seemed, from the position it lay in, to have been pointed towards them, and to have fallen from his hand, as if he had been suddenly struck down in the very act of conjuration.Sir Walter was so overpowered with horror and superstitious fear, that some moments elapsed ere he could summon up resolution to creep into the place and examine the body more narrowly. He looked down on the hidous ghastly face, over which the magical flame still flitted. The small fiery eye-balls glared—but they were still; not a feature moved, nor was there the slightest sound or appearance of respiration. Scarcely bearing to behold such a spectacle, the old knight looked timorously around him, afraid that the demon, who had done this fearful work upon his disciple, might appear to annihilate him also. In truth his terrors so far overcame him, that he was just about to retreat hastily, when he observed a certain spasmodic twitch about the mouth, which soon afterwards became powerfully convulsed, writhing from side to side, and throwing the whole features of the countenance into the most fearful contortions. By degrees, the convulsion seemed to extend itself along the muscles of the body, arms, and limbs, until the whole frame was thrown into violent agitation; unintelligible sputtering sounds came from the alternate corners of the mouth; and Sir Walter quaked to hear the name of “Sathanas” often repeated energetically. At last, by a convulsion stronger than the rest, the head and body were erected, and, after a little time, the Ancient seemed to recover the use of his senses, and the command over his muscles, as well as of his powers of utterance.“What, Master Ancient Fenwick, hath befallen thee?” exclaimed Sir Walter, in a voice almost indistinct from trepidation; “tell me, I beseech thee, what hath happened.”“My brain burneth,” cried the Ancient, with a hideous yell, and striking his forehead with the palms of both hands, after which the flame no longer appeared. Then, after a pause, “Where am I?” said he, staring wildly around, “Where am I? Ha! I see I am again in the world of men. What?” exclaimed he, with surprise, on beholding Sir Walter, “art thou here? How camest thou to this place?”“My friend,” replied the old knight, “my excellent friend, I[65]came to consult thee; I came to take counsel from thy superhuman knowledge—thy knowledge gathered from converse with the spirits of another world.”“Another world!” exclaimed the Ancient, in a sepulchral voice—“in another world, didst thou say? Ay, I have indeed long had converse here, face to face, with some of its blackest inmates: but never till this night,” added he, shuddering, “did I visit its fiery realms.”“Where hast thou been, then?” asked the knight, in a tone of alarm.“In hell!” cried the Ancient, with a horrible voice that chilled the very blood in Sir Walter’s brains. “Yes,” continued he, “I have visited those dreadful abodes; but I may not tell their awful secrets. Some, it is true, I am permitted to disclose, if I can bring myself to speak of them—of things on which depend the fate of thyself and thy daughter, and deeply affecting thy country’s weal.”“What, good Ancient, hast thou learned, that may affect me or my daughter? I do beseech thee, let me straightway be informed. The blue fire burns on my father’s shield to-night; some dreadful calamity impends.”“Ha! saidst thou so?” cried the Ancient, with a sudden start. “The blue fire, saidst thou? Signs meet then; prodigies combine to overwhelm thee.”“They do, indeed, most terribly,” said the knight, shuddering with alarm.“Their portent is direful,” said the Ancient, groaning deeply.“In mercy tell me by what means they may be averted,” anxiously inquired Sir Walter.“Nay,” said the Ancient, with a desponding air, “’tis thyself who art bringing them on thine own head.” Then, after a long pause—“Thou art about to marry thy daughter to the brother of the Piersie?”“By what miracle knowest thou this?” demanded Sir Walter, in amazement.“Ask me not by what miracle I know this,” replied the Ancient, “after what thou hast thyself witnessed. Have I not been in the world below? Do I not know all things? Do I not know that Sir Rafe Piersie hath sought the hand of the Lady Eleanore?—that he hath been scorned by her?—that even the Lord Bishop of Durham’s influence hath been employed by him to incline thee to the match; and that, overcome by his counsels, thou art about to compel thy daughter to accept of his hand? Yea, all this do I know, to the veriest item of the[66]conversation held between thee; and now, canst thou doubt whence I have had this knowledge?”Sir Walter replied not, but groaned deeply.“Sit down by me,” said the Ancient, “and listen to me. ’Tis registered in the dread Book of Fate,” continued he solemnly, “that if this marriage be concluded, consequences the most direful will result from it. First, thy daughter shall produce a son, of countenance so inhuman, that it shall be liker that of a wild boar than a man; and the monstrous birth will produce the death of the mother. Then the child shall grow up, and wax exceeding strong, so that his might shall overmatch that of the most powerful men. But though his mind shall not ripen in proportion, yet shall his passions terribly expand themselves; and, after murdering thee, from whom he shall have sprung, he shall gather unto himself a host of demons of his own stamp, and lay waste the fair face of England, cruelly slaying and oppressing its innocent people for the space of ten years, when he shall be at last overthrown by a Scottish army, which being brought against him, shall subdue and enslave our nation.”The white hairs of the aged Sir Walter bristled on his head as he listened to this dreadful prophecy. The scourge with which his country was menaced was worse, in his eyes, than even his own unhappy fate.“Tell me, oh tell me, most excellent Ancient,” said he, in the agony of despair, “tell me, I entreat thee, how this awful mass of approaching misery may be averted.”“There is only one way to shield yourself and mankind from the threatened curse,” replied the Ancient tardily, and rather as if he felt difficulty in bringing it out; “there is only one course to pursue, but it is such that, slave as thou art to the prejudices of the world, it is vain to hope that even the dread of these impending calamities will induce thee to adopt it.”“Talk not so, good Ancient, talk not so,” cried the old knight impatiently, “There is nothing I would not do—Holy Virgin, forgive me!—there is nothing I would not do honestly to prevent this threatened curse from arising, to the destruction of my family and my country.”“Sayest thou so?” said the Ancient, calmly shaking his head, as if in doubt; “I will put thee to the proof then. It is written, as I have already declared, in the Book of the Fates of men, that this marriage shall take place, and that from it shall proceed this two-edged sword, to smite both thee and England, unless thou shalt bestow thy daughter on one whom—but thou wilt never condescend——”[67]“Nay,” impatiently interrupted the knight, “better she should marry any honest man of good family than that she should be suffered to match so proudly only to be the mother of destruction to herself, to me, and to her country.”“Thou sayest well,” calmly replied the Ancient; “but the Fates have not left the choice of her mate to thee or to her. Yet hear me patiently, and thou shalt know all. Thou art not ignorant that I have long abjured the pitiful affairs of men. ’Tis now more than fifteen years since, quitting their society, I have devoted myself to those studies by which thou hast more than once benefited. I have sacrificed all earthly prospects and enjoyments for the sake of that sublime knowledge which doth enable me to foresee and control coming events; and it is to me a reward in itself so great, as to make every other appear despicable in comparison with it. But though I have forsworn the world, yet cannot I rid myself of attachment to thee; my early feelings must tie me to thee and thine for ever. Thou hast had proofs of this devotion too often, to require me to repeat that it doth exist; but I am now prepared to give thee a demonstration of it yet stronger than any thou hast hitherto received from me.”“Kind, excellent Ancient,” exclaimed the grateful Sir Walter, “I well know the care with which thou hast watched over the welfare of my house; I feel the magnitude of the debt I owe thee, and ’tis with gratitude I acknowledge it. What is it, I beseech thee, thou canst do?”“Yes,” exclaimed the Ancient, with a show of much feeling, “yes; I will sacrifice myself. I will come forth again into the haunts of deceitful and cold-blooded men. I will give up all I prize—my quiet, my solitude—to save thee and thine from the destruction that impendeth. On my part there shall be no failure, however at war with my habits and inclinations the sacrifice may be. ’Tis upon thyself, therefore—upon thine own decision—that thine own fate, and the fate of thy daughter, and of thy country, must depend.”“Name, name, I entreat thee, the terms!” cried the anxious old knight; “name the conditions that I must fulfil; tell me what I must do, and no time shall be lost in carrying it into effect.”The Ancient paused for some moments, during which he looked into the face of the knight with his fiery inexpressive eyes, and then, with slow and solemn, though harsh utterance—“I must espouse thy daughter, the Lady Eleanore!” said he. “The Fates have willed it so; no other remedy doth now[68]remain against the overwhelming destruction thou art doomed to behold.”This fatal declaration—this dreadful contrast to all those hopes of splendid alliance which had filled Sir Walter’s thoughts, came upon him like a thunderbolt, and was perfectly annihilating. He could not stand the bitter alternative that was thus presented to him. Overcome by his feelings, he threw himself back among the straw composing the lair of the monster he had been listening to, and, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands, he, hardy soldier as he was, burst into a flood of tears.A grim meteor smile of inward satisfaction shot over the pallid face of the impostor.“Ay,” said he, “no one can expect thee to match thy daughter with such as me. Better that she should give birth to ten thousand such demons as her fated marriage with the brother of the Piersie is infallibly destined to produce—better that she should die, and thou be cruelly murdered by the parricidal hand of thine inhuman grandchild, than that thou shouldst call such a wretch as me son. Thy determination hath been well taken; ’tis like a good soldier, as thou art, to brave the Fates. I thank thee, too, for mine emancipation from the vow I had resolved to subject myself to for thy sake. My time, and my quiet, and my solitude, shall be again mine own, and my darling studies shall receive no interruption.”“Is there no other alternative?” cried the distracted father, rising with energy from the position he had thrown himself into.“None!” replied the Ancient. “But that thou mayest be ignorant of no tittle of what it so deeply concerns thee to know,” continued he after a pause, “it is destined that if ever I do so espouse me, my son shall be the most perfect model of bravery and of virtue that ever England saw; and that, taking the proud name of de Selby, he shall wax exceeding mighty, and, leading a small band of gallant youths, march into Scotland as a conqueror, until at last, dethroning the monarch of the North, he shall himself be proclaimed king of that country, and, uniting himself by marriage with the King of England, he and his posterity shall reign for twelve centuries. To look farther into futurity is denied; but enow hath been told thee to point out the way that doth lie before thee. The space of three days and three hours is given thee to choose thy daughter’s destiny. And now,” continued the Ancient, putting out his hand to the hour-glass, and solemnly inverting it; “and now the stream of thy time beginneth to run; see how the sand floweth down—a portion of it hath already glided away; so will the rest, till the[69]period assigned thee be irrecoverably gone. ’Twere better that thou shouldst retire to thy chamber, to weigh well the fates of thy daughter, for the balance of her destinies is in thine hand.”The impostor paused. The agitated mind of Sir Walter de Selby had eagerly grasped at the flattering picture which the Ancient had so cunningly reserved to the last, and which was so perfectly in harmony with every wish of the old man’s heart. In his contemplation of it, he had almost forgotten the uncouth son-in-law destined to make him the grandfather of a hero, who was to raise the glory of his country’s arms so high, and who was at last to become a King of Scotland. His pride was peculiarly flattered by the notion of the name of de Selby being retained to become eventually royal; and he began to reason with himself as he sat, that it was but stooping to present humiliation in order to rise to the summit of human ambition. The crafty Ancient saw the working of his mind, from its operation on his honest countenance, as well as if he had been thinking audibly.“Such proud prospects of an issue so glorious tempt not me,” said he. “These dark volumes, and the retirement of this unseemly chamber, whence the stars can be most easily conversed with, are to me worth a world of such. But for thee, if thou demandest it of me, the sacrifice shall be made; and shouldst thou make me the humble instrument of the salvation and exaltation of thyself and issue, it would,” said he, with an affectation of extreme humility, “be no more, after all, than burying good seed in the soil of a dunghill, to see it buxion with the more vigour, shoot the more aloft, and rear its proud head far above the meagre plants on higher but more sterile spots. But it is matter worthy of grave thought. Yet judge me not as I seem—the poor, the wretched inmate of this owlet’s nest. Why am I so? Even because I despise all those gewgaws men esteem most valuable, and covet only that most precious of all jewels—the perfection of knowledge. Thinkest thou that it would not help me to all the rest, were it my pleasure to command them? Thinkest thou that I could not command worldly wealth and honours, were I to fancy such baubles? Wouldst thou have me conjure up gold? Lo!—there!” said he, plucking the leathern bag from his jerkin, and emptying the shining contents of it on the ground, to the astonishment of Sir Walter; “a little midnight labour would raise me up a hoard that might purchase the earth itself. But what is the vile dross to me? Nay, I would not inundate the wretched world with that which hath already caused sufficient human misery. To pour out more[70]would be to breed a more accursed scourge than e’en thy grandson Piersie will prove.”“Talk not of him,” exclaimed the knight in terror; “the very thought of his existence is racking to me. I want not time for consideration on a point so plain. I do now resolve me on the alliance with thee. Sir Rafe Piersie comes to-morrow morning; I shall break with him abruptly—and then, my resolution being taken, my daughter must yield to the irresistible decrees of Fate.”With these words Sir Walter rose to his knees, and snatching up his lamp, scrambled hastily to the door, and stole softly down to his apartment. He looked with fear and trembling into the oratory, when, to his extreme relief, he saw that the ominous flame had left the fatal shield, and he retired to his couch in a state of comparative composure.“So,” said the Ancient, in grim soliloquy, after Sir Walter’s footsteps had died away on the stairs—“so the hook is in thy nose, and thou shalt feel the power, as well as the vengeance, of him thou didst despise and make thy mock of. Thou didst thwart mine ambition; but my helm ere long shall tower amid the proudest crests of chivalry, and wealth and honours, yea, and the haughty smile of beauty too, shall be at my will. This is indeed to rise by mine abasement, even beyond the highest soaring of those early hopes which this man did so cruelly level with the earth. The thought is ecstasy.”

When the good old knight had sought the little private oratory within his chamber, immediately after his attendants had retired, he was fearfully dismayed by observing a blue lambent light flitting over the surface of an ancient shield that hung above a small altar within a dark Gothic recess. In that age of ignorance, a circumstance so unaccountable might have shaken the firmest nerves; but it had been the shield of his father, a bold moss-trooper, and from him he had learned that this was the ill-omened warning sign that was always said to appear to foretell some dire calamity affecting him or his issue. With extreme agitation of mind he at once recurred to recent events for an explanation of it. During his ride with the Bishop of Durham, that prelate had repeated the arguments he had employed the day before, particularly in the long conference they had held after the banquet, to fortify him in the resolution of pressing the Lady Eleanore into a marriage with Sir Rafe Piersie; and, indeed, Sir Walter’s heart was so eagerly set on the accomplishment of a union in every respect equal to his most sanguine wishes, that little eloquence was necessary to convince him of the propriety of urging his daughter to it by every means in his power. Nay, although she was his only child, and that he so doted on her as to have got into a habit of yielding to every wish she expressed, yet this was a point on which he was very easily brought to adopt a determined line of conduct with her. She had somewhat provoked him, too, by the license she had given her tongue in presence of the Bishop, when she indulged herself in ridiculing the very august person he was proposing to her as a husband; and the knight’s passion at the moment had so far got the better of his affection, that he spoke to her with a degree of harshness he had never used before. His after conversations with the Bishop had now brought him to the determination of compelling the Lady Eleanore to a marriage so much to her advantage, and so flattering to his own hopes of high alliance. So firmly was he fixed in this resolution, that, in a meeting he had with his daughter after his return from[63]accompanying the Bishop, he withstood all her entreaties, and steeled himself against all her grief, and all her spirited remonstrances. After such an interview, it is not surprising that Sir Walter should have immediately supposed that the menacing prodigy, which now appeared before his eyes, had some reference to the purposed marriage of the Lady Eleanore. On all similar occasions of threatened misfortune, he had been for some years accustomed to apply for counsel to the cunning Ancient Fenwick, whom he believed to possess supernatural powers of foretelling and averting the greatest calamities; nay, he had more than once been convinced of the happy effects of his interference in his behalf. His impatience to seek him at present, therefore, was such that he could hardly restrain himself until he had reason to think that all eyes in the Castle were closed but his own. He paced his chamber in a state bordering on distraction, stopping from time to time at the door of the oratory to regard the terrific warning, and wringing his hands as he beheld it still flitting and playing over the surface of the shield.

He was no sooner certain, however, that he might move from his apartment without risk of observation, than he seized his lamp, and, as we have seen, sought the lonely cap-house of the Ancient. The small door of the place was closed. So strongly were men’s minds bound by the thraldom of superstition in those days, that the gallant Sir Walter de Selby, who had so often faced the foe like a lion in the field, and who would even now have defended the Castle of Norham to the uttermost extremity, yea, so long as one stone of its walls remained upon another—this brave old warrior, I say, absolutely trembled as he tapped at the door of the wretched Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, who once formed his most common subject of jest. He tapped, but no answer was returned; he listened, but not a sound was heard. He tapped again—and again he tapped louder. He called the Ancient by his name; but still all was profound silence. He hesitated for some moments, in doubt what to do. At last he brought himself to the determination of pushing the door up. He bent down on his knees to force it, and it yielded before his exertions; but the sight which met his eyes so appalled him, that he was unable at first to advance.

The Ancient Fenwick, to all appearance dead, lay stretched, with his arms and legs extended on the floor. His face had the leaden hue of death on it; and a small orb, composed of a number of points of bluish lambent flame, like that so ominously illuminating the shield, flitted on his forehead—a book of necromancy lay open on the floor—his lamp burned on the[64]usual pile of volumes—and, on a temporary altar, composed of several folios, raised one above the other against the wall, were placed a human skull, and thigh bones, and an hour-glass. Immediately over these a number of cabalistical figures were described with charcoal on the plaster; and a white rod seemed, from the position it lay in, to have been pointed towards them, and to have fallen from his hand, as if he had been suddenly struck down in the very act of conjuration.

Sir Walter was so overpowered with horror and superstitious fear, that some moments elapsed ere he could summon up resolution to creep into the place and examine the body more narrowly. He looked down on the hidous ghastly face, over which the magical flame still flitted. The small fiery eye-balls glared—but they were still; not a feature moved, nor was there the slightest sound or appearance of respiration. Scarcely bearing to behold such a spectacle, the old knight looked timorously around him, afraid that the demon, who had done this fearful work upon his disciple, might appear to annihilate him also. In truth his terrors so far overcame him, that he was just about to retreat hastily, when he observed a certain spasmodic twitch about the mouth, which soon afterwards became powerfully convulsed, writhing from side to side, and throwing the whole features of the countenance into the most fearful contortions. By degrees, the convulsion seemed to extend itself along the muscles of the body, arms, and limbs, until the whole frame was thrown into violent agitation; unintelligible sputtering sounds came from the alternate corners of the mouth; and Sir Walter quaked to hear the name of “Sathanas” often repeated energetically. At last, by a convulsion stronger than the rest, the head and body were erected, and, after a little time, the Ancient seemed to recover the use of his senses, and the command over his muscles, as well as of his powers of utterance.

“What, Master Ancient Fenwick, hath befallen thee?” exclaimed Sir Walter, in a voice almost indistinct from trepidation; “tell me, I beseech thee, what hath happened.”

“My brain burneth,” cried the Ancient, with a hideous yell, and striking his forehead with the palms of both hands, after which the flame no longer appeared. Then, after a pause, “Where am I?” said he, staring wildly around, “Where am I? Ha! I see I am again in the world of men. What?” exclaimed he, with surprise, on beholding Sir Walter, “art thou here? How camest thou to this place?”

“My friend,” replied the old knight, “my excellent friend, I[65]came to consult thee; I came to take counsel from thy superhuman knowledge—thy knowledge gathered from converse with the spirits of another world.”

“Another world!” exclaimed the Ancient, in a sepulchral voice—“in another world, didst thou say? Ay, I have indeed long had converse here, face to face, with some of its blackest inmates: but never till this night,” added he, shuddering, “did I visit its fiery realms.”

“Where hast thou been, then?” asked the knight, in a tone of alarm.

“In hell!” cried the Ancient, with a horrible voice that chilled the very blood in Sir Walter’s brains. “Yes,” continued he, “I have visited those dreadful abodes; but I may not tell their awful secrets. Some, it is true, I am permitted to disclose, if I can bring myself to speak of them—of things on which depend the fate of thyself and thy daughter, and deeply affecting thy country’s weal.”

“What, good Ancient, hast thou learned, that may affect me or my daughter? I do beseech thee, let me straightway be informed. The blue fire burns on my father’s shield to-night; some dreadful calamity impends.”

“Ha! saidst thou so?” cried the Ancient, with a sudden start. “The blue fire, saidst thou? Signs meet then; prodigies combine to overwhelm thee.”

“They do, indeed, most terribly,” said the knight, shuddering with alarm.

“Their portent is direful,” said the Ancient, groaning deeply.

“In mercy tell me by what means they may be averted,” anxiously inquired Sir Walter.

“Nay,” said the Ancient, with a desponding air, “’tis thyself who art bringing them on thine own head.” Then, after a long pause—“Thou art about to marry thy daughter to the brother of the Piersie?”

“By what miracle knowest thou this?” demanded Sir Walter, in amazement.

“Ask me not by what miracle I know this,” replied the Ancient, “after what thou hast thyself witnessed. Have I not been in the world below? Do I not know all things? Do I not know that Sir Rafe Piersie hath sought the hand of the Lady Eleanore?—that he hath been scorned by her?—that even the Lord Bishop of Durham’s influence hath been employed by him to incline thee to the match; and that, overcome by his counsels, thou art about to compel thy daughter to accept of his hand? Yea, all this do I know, to the veriest item of the[66]conversation held between thee; and now, canst thou doubt whence I have had this knowledge?”

Sir Walter replied not, but groaned deeply.

“Sit down by me,” said the Ancient, “and listen to me. ’Tis registered in the dread Book of Fate,” continued he solemnly, “that if this marriage be concluded, consequences the most direful will result from it. First, thy daughter shall produce a son, of countenance so inhuman, that it shall be liker that of a wild boar than a man; and the monstrous birth will produce the death of the mother. Then the child shall grow up, and wax exceeding strong, so that his might shall overmatch that of the most powerful men. But though his mind shall not ripen in proportion, yet shall his passions terribly expand themselves; and, after murdering thee, from whom he shall have sprung, he shall gather unto himself a host of demons of his own stamp, and lay waste the fair face of England, cruelly slaying and oppressing its innocent people for the space of ten years, when he shall be at last overthrown by a Scottish army, which being brought against him, shall subdue and enslave our nation.”

The white hairs of the aged Sir Walter bristled on his head as he listened to this dreadful prophecy. The scourge with which his country was menaced was worse, in his eyes, than even his own unhappy fate.

“Tell me, oh tell me, most excellent Ancient,” said he, in the agony of despair, “tell me, I entreat thee, how this awful mass of approaching misery may be averted.”

“There is only one way to shield yourself and mankind from the threatened curse,” replied the Ancient tardily, and rather as if he felt difficulty in bringing it out; “there is only one course to pursue, but it is such that, slave as thou art to the prejudices of the world, it is vain to hope that even the dread of these impending calamities will induce thee to adopt it.”

“Talk not so, good Ancient, talk not so,” cried the old knight impatiently, “There is nothing I would not do—Holy Virgin, forgive me!—there is nothing I would not do honestly to prevent this threatened curse from arising, to the destruction of my family and my country.”

“Sayest thou so?” said the Ancient, calmly shaking his head, as if in doubt; “I will put thee to the proof then. It is written, as I have already declared, in the Book of the Fates of men, that this marriage shall take place, and that from it shall proceed this two-edged sword, to smite both thee and England, unless thou shalt bestow thy daughter on one whom—but thou wilt never condescend——”[67]

“Nay,” impatiently interrupted the knight, “better she should marry any honest man of good family than that she should be suffered to match so proudly only to be the mother of destruction to herself, to me, and to her country.”

“Thou sayest well,” calmly replied the Ancient; “but the Fates have not left the choice of her mate to thee or to her. Yet hear me patiently, and thou shalt know all. Thou art not ignorant that I have long abjured the pitiful affairs of men. ’Tis now more than fifteen years since, quitting their society, I have devoted myself to those studies by which thou hast more than once benefited. I have sacrificed all earthly prospects and enjoyments for the sake of that sublime knowledge which doth enable me to foresee and control coming events; and it is to me a reward in itself so great, as to make every other appear despicable in comparison with it. But though I have forsworn the world, yet cannot I rid myself of attachment to thee; my early feelings must tie me to thee and thine for ever. Thou hast had proofs of this devotion too often, to require me to repeat that it doth exist; but I am now prepared to give thee a demonstration of it yet stronger than any thou hast hitherto received from me.”

“Kind, excellent Ancient,” exclaimed the grateful Sir Walter, “I well know the care with which thou hast watched over the welfare of my house; I feel the magnitude of the debt I owe thee, and ’tis with gratitude I acknowledge it. What is it, I beseech thee, thou canst do?”

“Yes,” exclaimed the Ancient, with a show of much feeling, “yes; I will sacrifice myself. I will come forth again into the haunts of deceitful and cold-blooded men. I will give up all I prize—my quiet, my solitude—to save thee and thine from the destruction that impendeth. On my part there shall be no failure, however at war with my habits and inclinations the sacrifice may be. ’Tis upon thyself, therefore—upon thine own decision—that thine own fate, and the fate of thy daughter, and of thy country, must depend.”

“Name, name, I entreat thee, the terms!” cried the anxious old knight; “name the conditions that I must fulfil; tell me what I must do, and no time shall be lost in carrying it into effect.”

The Ancient paused for some moments, during which he looked into the face of the knight with his fiery inexpressive eyes, and then, with slow and solemn, though harsh utterance—“I must espouse thy daughter, the Lady Eleanore!” said he. “The Fates have willed it so; no other remedy doth now[68]remain against the overwhelming destruction thou art doomed to behold.”

This fatal declaration—this dreadful contrast to all those hopes of splendid alliance which had filled Sir Walter’s thoughts, came upon him like a thunderbolt, and was perfectly annihilating. He could not stand the bitter alternative that was thus presented to him. Overcome by his feelings, he threw himself back among the straw composing the lair of the monster he had been listening to, and, covering his eyes with the palms of his hands, he, hardy soldier as he was, burst into a flood of tears.

A grim meteor smile of inward satisfaction shot over the pallid face of the impostor.

“Ay,” said he, “no one can expect thee to match thy daughter with such as me. Better that she should give birth to ten thousand such demons as her fated marriage with the brother of the Piersie is infallibly destined to produce—better that she should die, and thou be cruelly murdered by the parricidal hand of thine inhuman grandchild, than that thou shouldst call such a wretch as me son. Thy determination hath been well taken; ’tis like a good soldier, as thou art, to brave the Fates. I thank thee, too, for mine emancipation from the vow I had resolved to subject myself to for thy sake. My time, and my quiet, and my solitude, shall be again mine own, and my darling studies shall receive no interruption.”

“Is there no other alternative?” cried the distracted father, rising with energy from the position he had thrown himself into.

“None!” replied the Ancient. “But that thou mayest be ignorant of no tittle of what it so deeply concerns thee to know,” continued he after a pause, “it is destined that if ever I do so espouse me, my son shall be the most perfect model of bravery and of virtue that ever England saw; and that, taking the proud name of de Selby, he shall wax exceeding mighty, and, leading a small band of gallant youths, march into Scotland as a conqueror, until at last, dethroning the monarch of the North, he shall himself be proclaimed king of that country, and, uniting himself by marriage with the King of England, he and his posterity shall reign for twelve centuries. To look farther into futurity is denied; but enow hath been told thee to point out the way that doth lie before thee. The space of three days and three hours is given thee to choose thy daughter’s destiny. And now,” continued the Ancient, putting out his hand to the hour-glass, and solemnly inverting it; “and now the stream of thy time beginneth to run; see how the sand floweth down—a portion of it hath already glided away; so will the rest, till the[69]period assigned thee be irrecoverably gone. ’Twere better that thou shouldst retire to thy chamber, to weigh well the fates of thy daughter, for the balance of her destinies is in thine hand.”

The impostor paused. The agitated mind of Sir Walter de Selby had eagerly grasped at the flattering picture which the Ancient had so cunningly reserved to the last, and which was so perfectly in harmony with every wish of the old man’s heart. In his contemplation of it, he had almost forgotten the uncouth son-in-law destined to make him the grandfather of a hero, who was to raise the glory of his country’s arms so high, and who was at last to become a King of Scotland. His pride was peculiarly flattered by the notion of the name of de Selby being retained to become eventually royal; and he began to reason with himself as he sat, that it was but stooping to present humiliation in order to rise to the summit of human ambition. The crafty Ancient saw the working of his mind, from its operation on his honest countenance, as well as if he had been thinking audibly.

“Such proud prospects of an issue so glorious tempt not me,” said he. “These dark volumes, and the retirement of this unseemly chamber, whence the stars can be most easily conversed with, are to me worth a world of such. But for thee, if thou demandest it of me, the sacrifice shall be made; and shouldst thou make me the humble instrument of the salvation and exaltation of thyself and issue, it would,” said he, with an affectation of extreme humility, “be no more, after all, than burying good seed in the soil of a dunghill, to see it buxion with the more vigour, shoot the more aloft, and rear its proud head far above the meagre plants on higher but more sterile spots. But it is matter worthy of grave thought. Yet judge me not as I seem—the poor, the wretched inmate of this owlet’s nest. Why am I so? Even because I despise all those gewgaws men esteem most valuable, and covet only that most precious of all jewels—the perfection of knowledge. Thinkest thou that it would not help me to all the rest, were it my pleasure to command them? Thinkest thou that I could not command worldly wealth and honours, were I to fancy such baubles? Wouldst thou have me conjure up gold? Lo!—there!” said he, plucking the leathern bag from his jerkin, and emptying the shining contents of it on the ground, to the astonishment of Sir Walter; “a little midnight labour would raise me up a hoard that might purchase the earth itself. But what is the vile dross to me? Nay, I would not inundate the wretched world with that which hath already caused sufficient human misery. To pour out more[70]would be to breed a more accursed scourge than e’en thy grandson Piersie will prove.”

“Talk not of him,” exclaimed the knight in terror; “the very thought of his existence is racking to me. I want not time for consideration on a point so plain. I do now resolve me on the alliance with thee. Sir Rafe Piersie comes to-morrow morning; I shall break with him abruptly—and then, my resolution being taken, my daughter must yield to the irresistible decrees of Fate.”

With these words Sir Walter rose to his knees, and snatching up his lamp, scrambled hastily to the door, and stole softly down to his apartment. He looked with fear and trembling into the oratory, when, to his extreme relief, he saw that the ominous flame had left the fatal shield, and he retired to his couch in a state of comparative composure.

“So,” said the Ancient, in grim soliloquy, after Sir Walter’s footsteps had died away on the stairs—“so the hook is in thy nose, and thou shalt feel the power, as well as the vengeance, of him thou didst despise and make thy mock of. Thou didst thwart mine ambition; but my helm ere long shall tower amid the proudest crests of chivalry, and wealth and honours, yea, and the haughty smile of beauty too, shall be at my will. This is indeed to rise by mine abasement, even beyond the highest soaring of those early hopes which this man did so cruelly level with the earth. The thought is ecstasy.”

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