CHAPTER XII.

[Contents]CHAPTER XII.The Freaks of Love at Hailes Castle—The Tournament at Tarnawa announced.The affliction which had so lately visited the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne had made him avoid company, and Hailes Castle had consequently been entirely without guests ever since his lady’s death. But it must not be imagined that the evening of the hunting day passed dully because the board was not filled. The sweet and soothing sorrow awakened by tender and melancholy reflections soon gave way before the joy arising from the return of Sir Patrick the younger. In those days letters could not pass as they do now, with the velocity of the winds, by posts and couriers, from one part of Europe to another; and, during Hepborne’s absence, his father had had no tidings of his son, except occasionally through the medium of those warriors or pilgrims who, having fought in foreign fields, or visited foreign shrines, had chanced during their travels to see or hear of him, and who came to Hailes Castle to receive the liberal guerdon of his hospitality for the good news they brought. The elder Sir Patrick, therefore, had much to ask, and the son much to answer; so that the ball of conversation was unremittingly kept up between them.The Lady Isabelle was seated between her brother and his friend Sir John Assueton, in the most provoking position; for she was thus placed, as it were, between two magnets, so as to be equally attracted by both. Her affection for Sir Patrick made her anxious to catch all he said, and to gather all his adventures; whilst, on the other hand, Sir John Assueton’s conversation,[98]made up, as it in a great measure was, of the praises of his friend, intermixed with many interesting notes on the accounts of battles and passages of arms her brother was narrating to her father, proved so seducing that she found it difficult to turn away her ear from him. Nor were Assueton’s illustrations the less gratifying that they often brought out the whole truth, where her brother’s modesty induced him to sink such parts of the tale as were the most glorious to himself. As for Assueton himself, he seemed to have become a new man in her company. He was naturally shrewd, excessively good-humoured, and often witty in his conversation, but he never in his life before bestowed more of it on a lady than barely what the courtesy of chivalry required. This night, however, he was animated and eloquent; and the result was, that the Lady Isabelle retired to her couch at an unusually late hour, and declared to her handmaiden, Mary Hay, as she was undressing her, that Sir John Assueton was certainly the most gallant, witty, and agreeable knight she had ever had the good fortune to meet with.“But thou dost not think him so handsome as thy brother Sir Patrick, Lady?” said the sly Miss Mary Hay.“Nay, as to that, Mary,” replied the Lady Isabelle, “they are both handsome, yet both very diverse in their beauty. Thou knowest that one is fair, and the other dark. My brother, Sir Patrick, and I, do take our fair tint from our poor mother. Is it not common for fair to affect dark, and dark fair? My father, thou seest, is dark, yet was my dear departed mother fair as the light of day. Is it unnatural, then, that I should esteem Sir John Assueton’s olive tint of countenance, his speaking black eyes, his nobly-arched jet eyebrows, and the raven curls of his finely-formed head, more than the pure red and white complexion, the blue eyes and the fair hair of my dear brother? Nay, nay, my brother is very handsome; but algate he be my brother, and though I love him, as sure never sister loved brother before, yet must I tell the truth, thou knowest, Mary; and, in good fay, I do think Sir John Assueton by much the properer man.”Hepborne had been by no means blind to that of which neither his sister nor Sir John Assueton were, as yet, themselves aware. He saw the change on Assueton with extreme delight. He enjoyed the idea of this woman-hater being at last himself enslaved, and, above all, he rejoiced that the enslaver should be his sister, the Lady Isabelle. He longed to attack him on the subject; but, lest he might scare him away from the toils before[99]he was fairly and irrecoverably meshed, he resolved to appear to shut his eyes to his friend’s incipient disease. As he went with Sir John, therefore, to see him comfortably accommodated for the night, he only indulged himself in a remark, natural enough in itself, upon his wounded arm.“Assueton,” said he, “wilt thou not have thine arm dressed by some cunning leech ere thou goest to rest? Our chaplain is no mean proficient in leechcraft; better take that rag of a kerchief away, and have it properly bound up.”“Nay, nay,” cried Assueton, hastily, “I thank thee, my good friend; but ’tis very well as it is. Thy sister, the Lady Isabelle, bound it up with exceeding care; and in these cases I have remarked that there is no salve equal in virtue to the bloody goutes of the wound itself. Good night, and St. Andrew be with thee.”“And may St. Baldrid, our tutelary saint, be with you,” replied Hepborne, as he shut the door. “Poor Assueton,” said he then to himself, with a smile, “my sister has cured one wound for him, only to inflict another, which he will find it more difficult to salve.”The next day being devoted to the gay amusement of hawking, was yet more decisive of the fate of poor Sir John Assueton. He rode by the side of the Lady Isabelle; and as the nature of the sport precluded the possibility of her using that attention necessary to make her palfrey avoid the obstacles lying in its way, or to keep it up when it stumbled, Sir John found a ready excuse for again acting the part of her knight; and, one-armed as he had been rendered by the bites of the wolf, he ran all manner of risks of his own neck to save hers. Hepborne was more occupied in regarding them than in the sport they were following. He rode after the pair, enjoying all he saw; for in the malicious pleasure he took in perceiving Assueton getting deeper and deeper entangled in the snares of love, and its fever mounting higher and higher into his brain, he almost forgot the toils he had himself been caught in, and found a palliative for his own heart’s disease, producing a temporary relaxation of its intensity. Thus then they rode. When the game was on wing, the fair Isabelle galloped fearlessly on, with her eyes sometimes following the flight of the falcon after its quarry, but much oftener with her head turned towards Sir John Assueton, whilst Sir John’s looks were fixed now with anxiety on the ground, to ensure safe riding to the lady, and now thrown with love-sick gaze of tenderness into the heaven of her eyes, for his had no wish to soar higher.[100]In the evening, the Lady Isabelle and her knight were again left to themselves by the father and son. Her brother’s tales were less interesting to her than they had been the previous night, and though Assueton talked less of his friend, yet she by no means found his conversation duller on that account; nay, she even listened much more intensely to it than before. The younger Sir Patrick, towards the close of the night, begged of his sister to sit down to her harp, and when she did so, Assueton hung over her with a rapture sufficiently marking the strength of his new-born passion, and the little art he had in concealing it.Having been asked by her brother to sing, she accompanied her voice in the following canzonette:—Why was celestial Music given,But of enchanting love to sing!Ethereal flame, that first from heavenAngels to this earth did bring.What state was man’s till he receivedThe genial blessing from the sky?What though in Paradise he lived?Yet still he pined, and knew not why.But when his beauteous partner came,The scene, that dreary was and wild,Grew lovely as he felt the flame,And the luxuriant garden smiled.Oh, Love!—of man thou second soul,What but a clod of earth is heWho never yet thy flame did thole,Who never felt thy witchery!Assueton’s applauses were more energetic, and his approbation more eloquently expressed at the conclusion of this song, than Hepborne had ever heard them on any former occasion. Though the theme was wont to be so very unpalatable to him, yet he besought the Lady Isabelle again and again to repeat it, and it seemed to give him new and increased pleasure every time he heard it. At last the hour for retiring came, and Hepborne inwardly rejoiced to observe a certain trembling in the voices of both Assueton and his sister, as they touched each other’s hands to say good night.Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger had no sooner accompanied his friend to his apartment than Assueton seated himself near the hearth, and put up his feet against the wall, where he fell into a kind of listless dream. Hepborne took a seat on the opposite side of the fire-place, and, after he had sat silently watching him for some time, in secret enjoyment of the state[101]he beheld him reduced to, the following conversation took place between them:—“Well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, first breaking silence, and assuming as melancholy a tone as the humour he was in would permit him to use, “Well, mon bel ami, so we must part to-morrow? The thought is most distressing. My heart would have urged me to press thee to a farther sojourn with us at Hailes; but thou wert too determined, and urged too many and too strong reasons for thy return home, when we last talked of the matter, to leave room for hope that I might succeed in shaking thy purpose. I see that of very needscost thou must go; nay, in good sooth, thy motives for departure are of a nature that, feeling as I have myself felt, I should inwardly blame thee were thy good nature to lead thee to yield to my importunate entreaty. Yea, albeit thou shouldst consent to stay with me, I should verily tine half the jovisaunce that mought otherwise spring from thy good company; since, from the all-perfect being I now hold thee to be, thou wouldst dwindle in my esteem, and be agrutched of half the attraction thou dost possess in mine eyes, by appearing to lose some deal of those strong feelings of attachment for thy home, and for the scenes and friends of thy boyhood, which thou hast hitherto so eminently displayed, and in which, I am led to think, we do so much resemble each other. Having now had mine somewhat satisfied, perdie, I could almost wish to boune me with thee, were it only to participate in thine—were it only to see thee approach the wide domains and the ancient castle of thine ancestors—to see thee meet thy beloved mother, now so long widowed, and panting to press her only child, her long absent son, to her bosom—to watch how thou mayst encounter with old friends—to behold the hearty shakes of loving souvenaunce, given by thy hand to those with whom thou hast wrestled, or held mimic tourney when thou wert yet but a stripling. Oh, ’twould be as a prolonging of mine own feelings of like sort to witness those that might arise to thee. But the journey is too long for me to take as yet; and besides, I cannot yet so soon leave my father and Isabelle. Moreover, thou knowest that my heart yet acheth severely from the wounds which it took at Norham. Heigh ho! But, gramercy, forgive me, I entreat thee, for touching unwittingly on the (by thee) hated subject of love, the which, I well know, is ever wont to erke thee.”During this long address, Assueton remained with his heels up against the wall, his toes all the time beating that species of march that in more modern times has been called the devil’s[102]tattoo, and with his eyes firmly fixed on the embers consuming on the hearth.“I hope, however, my dearest friend,” continued Hepborne, “that thou mayest yet be able to return to me at Hailes. Thine affairs (though, perdie, thou must have much to settle after such a succession, and so long an absence), thine affairs, I say, cannot at the worst detain thee at home longer than a matter of twelve months or so; after which (that is, when thou shalt have visited thy friends in divers other parts) I may hope perchance to see thee again return hither.”Assueton shifted his position two or three times during this second speech of Hepborne’s, always again commencing his devil’s tattoo on the wall; but when his friend ceased, he made no other reply than—“Umph! Ay, ay, my dear Hepborne, thou shalt see me.”“My dear Assueton,” continued Hepborne, “that is but a loose and vague reply, I ween. But, by St. Genevieve, I guess how it is. Thou hast thoughts (though as yet thou wouldst fain not effunde them to me) of returning to France in short space; and thou wouldst keep them sicker in thy breast for a time, lest peradventure I should grieve too deeply at thy so speedy abandonment of thy country.”“Nay, nay,” said Assueton, hastily, “trust me I have no such emprize in head.”“What then can make thee so little satisfactory in thy reply?” said Hepborne; “surely ’tis but a small matter to grant me; ’tis but a small boon to ask of thee to return to Hailes Castle some twelve months or year and half hence? I doubt me sore that thou hast been but half pleased with thy visit here; and truly, when I think on’t, it has been but a dull one.”“Nay,” replied Assueton, eagerly interrupting him, “I do assure thee, Hepborne, thou art grievously mistaken in so supposing. On the contrary, my hours never passed so happily as they have done here; nor,” added he, with a deep sigh, “so swiftly, so very swiftly.”“’Tis all well in thee, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “’tis all well in thee to use thy courtesy to say so; yet, I wot well, ’tis but to please thy friend. Thou knowest that my father hath been so voracious in his inquiries into the history of my life during my stay in France, that he hath never suffered me to leave him, so that thou hadst neither his good company nor my poor converse to cheer thee, but, much to my distress, thou hast been left to be erked by the silly prattle and trifling speech of that foolish pusel my sister Isabelle, worn out by the which, ’tis[103]no marvel thou shouldst now be thus moody, as I see thou art; and to rid thyself of this dreriment of thine, it is natural enow that thou shouldst be right glad to escape hence, yea, and sore afraid ever to return here. But fear thee not, my friend; she shall not stand long in thy way. She hath had many offers of espousal, on the which my father and I are to sit in counsel anon, that is, when other weightier matters are despatched; and as soon as we shall have time to choose a fitting match for the maid, she shall forthwith be tochered off. She cannot, then, remain much longer at Hailes than some three or four weeks at farthest, to frighten from its hall my best and dearest friend. So that if she be the hindrance to thy return thither, make no account of her, and promise me at once that thou wilt come. By St. Baldrid, we shall have a houseful of jolly stalwart knights to meet thee there; and our talk shall be of deeds of arms, and tourneys, till thy heart be fully contented.”This speech of Hepborne’s very much moved Assueton. He shifted his legs down from the wall and up again at least a dozen times, and his tattoo now became so rapid, that it would have troubled the legions for whom the march may have been originally composed to have kept their feet trotting in time to its measure.“Nay, verily, Hepborne,” said he seriously, “thou dost thy sister but scrimp justice, methinks. The Lady Isabelle was anything but tiresome to me; nay, if I may adventure to say so much, she hath sense and judgment greatly beyond what might be looked for from her age and sex; there is something most truly pleasing in her converse—something, I would say, much superior to anything I have heretofore chanced to encounter in woman. But, methinks thou art rather hasty in thy disposal of her. The damosel is young enow, meseems, to be thrust forth of her father’s boure, perhaps to take upon her the weight of formal state that appertaineth to the Madame of some stiff and stern vavesoure. Perdie, I cannot think with patience of her being so bestowed already; ’twould be cruel, methinks—nay, ’twould, in good verity, be most unlike thee, Hepborne, to throw thy peerless sister away on some harsh lord, or silly gnoffe, merely to rid thy father’s castle of her for thine own convenience. Fie on thee; I weened not thou couldst have even thought of anything so selfish.”“Nay, be not angry, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest that they have all a wish to wed them. But ’tis somewhat strange, methinks, to hear thee talk so; the poppet seems to have made more impression on thee than ever before was[104]made by woman. What means this warmth? or why shouldst thou step forth to be her knight?”“’Tis the part of a good knight,” replied Assueton hastily, “to aid and succour all damosels in distress.”“Nay, but not against a distress of the knight’s own fancying, yea, and contrary to the wishes of the damosel herself,” replied Hepborne. “What! wouldst thou throw down the gauntlet of defiance against thy friend, only for being willing to give his sister the man of her own heart?”“And hath she then such?” exclaimed Assueton, his face suddenly becoming the very emblem of woe-begone anxiety.“Yea, in good truth hath she, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick. “I did but suspect the truth last night, but this day I have been confirmed in it.”“Then am I the most wretched of knights,” cried Assueton, at once forgetting all his guards; and rising hastily from his seat, he struck his breast, and paced the room in a frenzy of despair.Hepborne could carry on the farce no longer. He burst into a fit of laughter that seemed to threaten his immediate dissolution; then threw himself on the couch, that he might give full way to it without fear of falling on the floor, and there he tossed to and fro with the reiterated convulsions it occasioned him. Assueton stood in mute astonishment for some moments, but at last he began to perceive that his friend had discovered his weakness, and that he had been all this time playing on him. He resumed his seat and position at the hearth, and returned again to his tattoo.“So,” said Hepborne—“so—ha, ha, ha!—so!—ha, ha!—so!—Oh, I shall never find breath to speak—ha, ha, ha! So, Sir John Assueton, the woman-hater, the knight of Adamant, he who was wont to be known in France by the surnoms of the Knight sans Amour, and the Chevalier cœur caillou—who, rather than submit to talk to a woman, would hie him to the stable, to hold grave converse with his horse—who railed roundly at every unfortunate man that, following the ensample of his great ancestor Adam, did but submit himself to the yoke of love—who could not bear to hear the very name of love—who sickened when it was mentioned—who had an absolute antipathy to it, as some, they knew not why, have to cats or cheese—who, though he liked music to admiration, would avoid the place if love but chanced to be the minstrel’s theme;—he, Sir John Assueton, is at last enslaved, has his wounds bound up by a woman, and wears her scarf—plays the lady’s knight, and[105]leads her palfrey rein—rownes soft things in her ear, hangs o’er her harp, and drinks in the sweet love-verses she sings to him!”“Nay, nay, Hepborne, my dearest friend,” said Assueton, starting up, and clasping his hands together in an imploring attitude, “I confess, I confess; but sith I do confess, have mercy on me, I entreat thee; ’tis cruel to sport with my sufferings, since thou knowest, alas, too surely that I must love in vain.”“But, pr’ythee, ‘why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl?’ ” said Hepborne ironically, bringing up against him some of the very expressions he had used to himself at Norham. “ ‘A knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere picking up; let it not erke thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach.’ ” And then rising, and striding gravely up to Assueton, and shaking his head solemnly—“ ‘Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than the thorn.’ Ha, ha, ha! Oh, ’tis exquisite—by St. Dennis, ’tis the richest treat I ever enjoyed.”“Nay, but bethink thee, my dear friend,” said Assueton, with an imploring look; “bethink thee, I beseech thee, what misery I am enduring, and reflect how much thou art augmenting it by thy raillery. Depardieux, I believe thou never didst suffer such pain from love as I do now.”“ ‘No, thank my good stars,’ ” said Hepborne, returning to the charge, and again assuming a burlesque solemnity of air and tone, “ ‘and I hope, moreover, I never shall be so besotted: it makes a very fool of a man.’ ”“Well, well,” said Assueton, sighing deeply, “I see thou art determined to make my fatal disease thy sport; yet, by St. Andrew, it is but cruel and ungenerous of thee.”“Grammercy, Assueton, I thought my innocent raillery could do thee no harm,” said Hepborne; “methought that ‘thou mightst be said to have no ears for such matters.’ But if thou in good truth hast really caught the fever, verily I shall not desert thee, ‘my friendship for thee shall make me listen to thy ravings;’ yea, and ‘compassion for thy disease shall make me watch the progress of its symptoms. Never fear that I shall be so little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when thy estate is so dangerous.’ But what, I pr’ythee, my friend, hath induced this so dangerous malady?”“Hepborne,” replied Sir John, “thy angelic sister’s magnanimity, her matchless beauty, her enchanting converse, and her sweet syren voice.”[106]“Ay, ay,” said Hepborne roguishly; “so ’twas her voice, her warbles, and her virelays that gave thee the coup-de-grace? Nay, it must be soothly confessed, thou didst hang over her chair to-night in a most proper love-like fashion, as she harped it; yet her verses ‘were silly enough in conscience, methought’—and then, thou knowest, thou dost ‘rarely listen to music when love or follies are the theme.’ ”“Hepborne,” said Assueton gravely, and with an air of entreaty, “it was not after this fashion that I did use thee in thine affliction at Norham. Think, I beseech thee, that my case is not less hopeless than thine. But who, I entreat thee, is the happy knight who is blessed by the favouring smile of thy divine sister, of the Lady Isabelle Hepborne, whom I now no longer blush to declare to be the most peerless damosel presently in existence?”“He is a knight,” replied Hepborne, “whose peer thou shalt as rarely meet with, I trow, as thou canst encounter the make of my sister, the Lady Isabelle. He is a proper, tall, athletic, handsome man, of dark hair and olive complexion, with trim moustaches and comely beard—nay, the very man, in short, to take a woman’s eye. Though as yet but young in age, he is old in arms, and hath already done such doughty deeds as have made him renowned even in the very songs of the minstrels. Moreover, he is a beloved friend of mine, and one much approved of my father, and he shall gladly have our consent for the espousal of my sister.”“Nay, then,” said Assueton, in the accents of utter hopelessness, “I am indeed but a lost knight, and must hie me to some barren wilderness to sigh my soul away. But lest my disease should drive me to madness, tell me, I entreat thee, the name of this most fortunate of men, that I may keep me from his path, lest, in my blind fury, I might destroy him in some ill-starred contecke, and through him wrack the happiness of the Lady Isabelle, now dearer to me than life.”“Thou knowest him as well as thou dost thyself, my dear Assueton,” said Hepborne. “Trust me, he is one to whom thou dost wish much too well to do him harm. His name is—Sir John Assueton.”“Nay, mock me not, Hepborne, drive me not mad with false hopes,” said Assueton; “certes, thy raillery doth now exceed the bounds that even friendship should permit.”“Grammercy,” said Hepborne, “thou dost seem to me to be mad enough already. What! wouldst thou quarrel with me for giving thee assurance of that thou hast most panted for?[107]By the honour of a knight, I swear that Isabelle loves thee. ’Tis true, I heard it not from her lips; but I read it in her eyes, the which, let me tell thee, inexperienced in the science, and all unlearned in the leden of love as thou art, do ever furnish by far the best and soothest evidence on this point that the riddle woman can yield. Never doubt me but she loves thee, Assueton. She drank up the words thou didst rowne in her ear with a thirst that showed the growing fever of her soul. And now,” continued he, as he observed the happy effects of the intelligence upon the countenance of his friend—“and now, Assueton, tell me, I pr’ythee, at what hour in the morning shall I order thine esquire and cortege to be ready for thy departure?”“Hepborne,” said Assueton, running to embrace him, “thou hast made me the happiest of mortals. Go! nay, perdie, I shall stay at Hailes till thou dost turn me out.”“But, my dearest Assueton,” cried Hepborne, smiling, “consider thy mother, and the friends and the scenes of thy boyhood—consider what thou——”“Pshaw, my dear Hepborne,” cried Sir John, interrupting him, “no more on’t, I entreat thee. Leave me, I beseech thee, to dreams of delight. Good night, and may the blessed Virgin and St. Andrew be thy warison, for this ecstacy of jovinaunce thou hast poured into my soul.”“Good night,” said Hepborne, with a more serious air—“good night, my dear and long-tried brother-in-arms; and good night, my yet dearer brother by alliance, as I hope soon to call thee.”The meeting of the lovers on the next day was productive of more interesting conversation than any they had yet enjoyed; and although Assueton was, as his friend had said, a novice in the science and language of love, yet he caught up the knowledge of both with most marvellous expedition, and was listened to with blushing pleasure by the lovely Isabelle.As the party was seated at breakfast, the sound of trumpets was heard followed by that of the trampling of horses in the court-yard, and immediately afterwards a herald, proudly arrayed, and followed by his pursuivants, was ushered into the hall.“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “and you, Sirs Knights, I come to announce to you and to the world, that on the tenth day of the next month, the noble John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, will hold a splendid meeting of arms on the mead of St. John’s; and all princes, lords, barons, knights, and esquires, who intend to tilt at the tournament, are hereby ordained to lodge themselves[108]within his Castle of Tarnawa, or in pavilions on the field, four days before the said tournament, to make due display of their armouries, on pain of not being received at the said tournament. And their arms shall be thus disposed: The crest shall be placed on a plate of copper large enough to contain the whole summit of the helmet, and the said plate shall be covered with a mantle, whereon shall be blazoned the arms of him who bears it; and on the said mantle at the top thereof shall the crest be placed, and around it shall be a wreath of colours, whatsoever it shall please him. God save King Robert!”The herald having in this manner formally pronounced the proclamation entrusted to him, was kindly and honourably greeted by Sir Patrick Hepborne, and forthwith seated at the board and hospitably entertained, after which he arose and addressed the knight.“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “myself and my people, being now refreshed, I may not waste my time here, having yet a large district to travel over. I drink this cup of wine to thee and to thy roof-tree, with a herald’s thanks for thy noble treatment. Say, shall the Lord of Moray look for thy presence at the tourney? I know it would be his wish to do thee and thine particular honour.”“Of that I may judge by his sending thee to Hailes,” said Sir Patrick courteously. “But in truth I cannot go. I must leave it to thee to tell the noble Earl how sorely grieved I am to say so; but my heart ha’ been ill at ease of late.”“Thine absence will sorely grieve the noble Earl, Sir Knight,” replied the herald, “but, natheless, I shall hope to see thy gallant son, and the renowned Sir John Assueton, chiefest flowers in the gay garland of Scottish knights, who shall that day assemble at St. John’s. Till then adieu, Sirs Knights, and may God and St. Andrew be with ye all.”The trumpets again sounded, and the herald, being waited on by the knights to the court-yard, mounted his richly caparisoned steed, and rode forth from the castle, again attended by all the pomp of heraldry.“Assueton,” said Hepborne, with a roguish air of seriousness, as they returned up stairs, “goest thou to this tourney?”“Nay, of a truth,” replied Assueton, with his eyes on the ground. “I cannot just at present yede me so far. Besides, these wounds in my bridle-arm do still pain me grievously, rendering me all unfit for jousting.”[109]“Then, as I am resolved to go,” said Hepborne, “I do beseech thee make Hailes Castle thy home till my return, and play the part of son to my dear father in mine absence.”

CHAPTER XII.The Freaks of Love at Hailes Castle—The Tournament at Tarnawa announced.

The Freaks of Love at Hailes Castle—The Tournament at Tarnawa announced.

The affliction which had so lately visited the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne had made him avoid company, and Hailes Castle had consequently been entirely without guests ever since his lady’s death. But it must not be imagined that the evening of the hunting day passed dully because the board was not filled. The sweet and soothing sorrow awakened by tender and melancholy reflections soon gave way before the joy arising from the return of Sir Patrick the younger. In those days letters could not pass as they do now, with the velocity of the winds, by posts and couriers, from one part of Europe to another; and, during Hepborne’s absence, his father had had no tidings of his son, except occasionally through the medium of those warriors or pilgrims who, having fought in foreign fields, or visited foreign shrines, had chanced during their travels to see or hear of him, and who came to Hailes Castle to receive the liberal guerdon of his hospitality for the good news they brought. The elder Sir Patrick, therefore, had much to ask, and the son much to answer; so that the ball of conversation was unremittingly kept up between them.The Lady Isabelle was seated between her brother and his friend Sir John Assueton, in the most provoking position; for she was thus placed, as it were, between two magnets, so as to be equally attracted by both. Her affection for Sir Patrick made her anxious to catch all he said, and to gather all his adventures; whilst, on the other hand, Sir John Assueton’s conversation,[98]made up, as it in a great measure was, of the praises of his friend, intermixed with many interesting notes on the accounts of battles and passages of arms her brother was narrating to her father, proved so seducing that she found it difficult to turn away her ear from him. Nor were Assueton’s illustrations the less gratifying that they often brought out the whole truth, where her brother’s modesty induced him to sink such parts of the tale as were the most glorious to himself. As for Assueton himself, he seemed to have become a new man in her company. He was naturally shrewd, excessively good-humoured, and often witty in his conversation, but he never in his life before bestowed more of it on a lady than barely what the courtesy of chivalry required. This night, however, he was animated and eloquent; and the result was, that the Lady Isabelle retired to her couch at an unusually late hour, and declared to her handmaiden, Mary Hay, as she was undressing her, that Sir John Assueton was certainly the most gallant, witty, and agreeable knight she had ever had the good fortune to meet with.“But thou dost not think him so handsome as thy brother Sir Patrick, Lady?” said the sly Miss Mary Hay.“Nay, as to that, Mary,” replied the Lady Isabelle, “they are both handsome, yet both very diverse in their beauty. Thou knowest that one is fair, and the other dark. My brother, Sir Patrick, and I, do take our fair tint from our poor mother. Is it not common for fair to affect dark, and dark fair? My father, thou seest, is dark, yet was my dear departed mother fair as the light of day. Is it unnatural, then, that I should esteem Sir John Assueton’s olive tint of countenance, his speaking black eyes, his nobly-arched jet eyebrows, and the raven curls of his finely-formed head, more than the pure red and white complexion, the blue eyes and the fair hair of my dear brother? Nay, nay, my brother is very handsome; but algate he be my brother, and though I love him, as sure never sister loved brother before, yet must I tell the truth, thou knowest, Mary; and, in good fay, I do think Sir John Assueton by much the properer man.”Hepborne had been by no means blind to that of which neither his sister nor Sir John Assueton were, as yet, themselves aware. He saw the change on Assueton with extreme delight. He enjoyed the idea of this woman-hater being at last himself enslaved, and, above all, he rejoiced that the enslaver should be his sister, the Lady Isabelle. He longed to attack him on the subject; but, lest he might scare him away from the toils before[99]he was fairly and irrecoverably meshed, he resolved to appear to shut his eyes to his friend’s incipient disease. As he went with Sir John, therefore, to see him comfortably accommodated for the night, he only indulged himself in a remark, natural enough in itself, upon his wounded arm.“Assueton,” said he, “wilt thou not have thine arm dressed by some cunning leech ere thou goest to rest? Our chaplain is no mean proficient in leechcraft; better take that rag of a kerchief away, and have it properly bound up.”“Nay, nay,” cried Assueton, hastily, “I thank thee, my good friend; but ’tis very well as it is. Thy sister, the Lady Isabelle, bound it up with exceeding care; and in these cases I have remarked that there is no salve equal in virtue to the bloody goutes of the wound itself. Good night, and St. Andrew be with thee.”“And may St. Baldrid, our tutelary saint, be with you,” replied Hepborne, as he shut the door. “Poor Assueton,” said he then to himself, with a smile, “my sister has cured one wound for him, only to inflict another, which he will find it more difficult to salve.”The next day being devoted to the gay amusement of hawking, was yet more decisive of the fate of poor Sir John Assueton. He rode by the side of the Lady Isabelle; and as the nature of the sport precluded the possibility of her using that attention necessary to make her palfrey avoid the obstacles lying in its way, or to keep it up when it stumbled, Sir John found a ready excuse for again acting the part of her knight; and, one-armed as he had been rendered by the bites of the wolf, he ran all manner of risks of his own neck to save hers. Hepborne was more occupied in regarding them than in the sport they were following. He rode after the pair, enjoying all he saw; for in the malicious pleasure he took in perceiving Assueton getting deeper and deeper entangled in the snares of love, and its fever mounting higher and higher into his brain, he almost forgot the toils he had himself been caught in, and found a palliative for his own heart’s disease, producing a temporary relaxation of its intensity. Thus then they rode. When the game was on wing, the fair Isabelle galloped fearlessly on, with her eyes sometimes following the flight of the falcon after its quarry, but much oftener with her head turned towards Sir John Assueton, whilst Sir John’s looks were fixed now with anxiety on the ground, to ensure safe riding to the lady, and now thrown with love-sick gaze of tenderness into the heaven of her eyes, for his had no wish to soar higher.[100]In the evening, the Lady Isabelle and her knight were again left to themselves by the father and son. Her brother’s tales were less interesting to her than they had been the previous night, and though Assueton talked less of his friend, yet she by no means found his conversation duller on that account; nay, she even listened much more intensely to it than before. The younger Sir Patrick, towards the close of the night, begged of his sister to sit down to her harp, and when she did so, Assueton hung over her with a rapture sufficiently marking the strength of his new-born passion, and the little art he had in concealing it.Having been asked by her brother to sing, she accompanied her voice in the following canzonette:—Why was celestial Music given,But of enchanting love to sing!Ethereal flame, that first from heavenAngels to this earth did bring.What state was man’s till he receivedThe genial blessing from the sky?What though in Paradise he lived?Yet still he pined, and knew not why.But when his beauteous partner came,The scene, that dreary was and wild,Grew lovely as he felt the flame,And the luxuriant garden smiled.Oh, Love!—of man thou second soul,What but a clod of earth is heWho never yet thy flame did thole,Who never felt thy witchery!Assueton’s applauses were more energetic, and his approbation more eloquently expressed at the conclusion of this song, than Hepborne had ever heard them on any former occasion. Though the theme was wont to be so very unpalatable to him, yet he besought the Lady Isabelle again and again to repeat it, and it seemed to give him new and increased pleasure every time he heard it. At last the hour for retiring came, and Hepborne inwardly rejoiced to observe a certain trembling in the voices of both Assueton and his sister, as they touched each other’s hands to say good night.Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger had no sooner accompanied his friend to his apartment than Assueton seated himself near the hearth, and put up his feet against the wall, where he fell into a kind of listless dream. Hepborne took a seat on the opposite side of the fire-place, and, after he had sat silently watching him for some time, in secret enjoyment of the state[101]he beheld him reduced to, the following conversation took place between them:—“Well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, first breaking silence, and assuming as melancholy a tone as the humour he was in would permit him to use, “Well, mon bel ami, so we must part to-morrow? The thought is most distressing. My heart would have urged me to press thee to a farther sojourn with us at Hailes; but thou wert too determined, and urged too many and too strong reasons for thy return home, when we last talked of the matter, to leave room for hope that I might succeed in shaking thy purpose. I see that of very needscost thou must go; nay, in good sooth, thy motives for departure are of a nature that, feeling as I have myself felt, I should inwardly blame thee were thy good nature to lead thee to yield to my importunate entreaty. Yea, albeit thou shouldst consent to stay with me, I should verily tine half the jovisaunce that mought otherwise spring from thy good company; since, from the all-perfect being I now hold thee to be, thou wouldst dwindle in my esteem, and be agrutched of half the attraction thou dost possess in mine eyes, by appearing to lose some deal of those strong feelings of attachment for thy home, and for the scenes and friends of thy boyhood, which thou hast hitherto so eminently displayed, and in which, I am led to think, we do so much resemble each other. Having now had mine somewhat satisfied, perdie, I could almost wish to boune me with thee, were it only to participate in thine—were it only to see thee approach the wide domains and the ancient castle of thine ancestors—to see thee meet thy beloved mother, now so long widowed, and panting to press her only child, her long absent son, to her bosom—to watch how thou mayst encounter with old friends—to behold the hearty shakes of loving souvenaunce, given by thy hand to those with whom thou hast wrestled, or held mimic tourney when thou wert yet but a stripling. Oh, ’twould be as a prolonging of mine own feelings of like sort to witness those that might arise to thee. But the journey is too long for me to take as yet; and besides, I cannot yet so soon leave my father and Isabelle. Moreover, thou knowest that my heart yet acheth severely from the wounds which it took at Norham. Heigh ho! But, gramercy, forgive me, I entreat thee, for touching unwittingly on the (by thee) hated subject of love, the which, I well know, is ever wont to erke thee.”During this long address, Assueton remained with his heels up against the wall, his toes all the time beating that species of march that in more modern times has been called the devil’s[102]tattoo, and with his eyes firmly fixed on the embers consuming on the hearth.“I hope, however, my dearest friend,” continued Hepborne, “that thou mayest yet be able to return to me at Hailes. Thine affairs (though, perdie, thou must have much to settle after such a succession, and so long an absence), thine affairs, I say, cannot at the worst detain thee at home longer than a matter of twelve months or so; after which (that is, when thou shalt have visited thy friends in divers other parts) I may hope perchance to see thee again return hither.”Assueton shifted his position two or three times during this second speech of Hepborne’s, always again commencing his devil’s tattoo on the wall; but when his friend ceased, he made no other reply than—“Umph! Ay, ay, my dear Hepborne, thou shalt see me.”“My dear Assueton,” continued Hepborne, “that is but a loose and vague reply, I ween. But, by St. Genevieve, I guess how it is. Thou hast thoughts (though as yet thou wouldst fain not effunde them to me) of returning to France in short space; and thou wouldst keep them sicker in thy breast for a time, lest peradventure I should grieve too deeply at thy so speedy abandonment of thy country.”“Nay, nay,” said Assueton, hastily, “trust me I have no such emprize in head.”“What then can make thee so little satisfactory in thy reply?” said Hepborne; “surely ’tis but a small matter to grant me; ’tis but a small boon to ask of thee to return to Hailes Castle some twelve months or year and half hence? I doubt me sore that thou hast been but half pleased with thy visit here; and truly, when I think on’t, it has been but a dull one.”“Nay,” replied Assueton, eagerly interrupting him, “I do assure thee, Hepborne, thou art grievously mistaken in so supposing. On the contrary, my hours never passed so happily as they have done here; nor,” added he, with a deep sigh, “so swiftly, so very swiftly.”“’Tis all well in thee, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “’tis all well in thee to use thy courtesy to say so; yet, I wot well, ’tis but to please thy friend. Thou knowest that my father hath been so voracious in his inquiries into the history of my life during my stay in France, that he hath never suffered me to leave him, so that thou hadst neither his good company nor my poor converse to cheer thee, but, much to my distress, thou hast been left to be erked by the silly prattle and trifling speech of that foolish pusel my sister Isabelle, worn out by the which, ’tis[103]no marvel thou shouldst now be thus moody, as I see thou art; and to rid thyself of this dreriment of thine, it is natural enow that thou shouldst be right glad to escape hence, yea, and sore afraid ever to return here. But fear thee not, my friend; she shall not stand long in thy way. She hath had many offers of espousal, on the which my father and I are to sit in counsel anon, that is, when other weightier matters are despatched; and as soon as we shall have time to choose a fitting match for the maid, she shall forthwith be tochered off. She cannot, then, remain much longer at Hailes than some three or four weeks at farthest, to frighten from its hall my best and dearest friend. So that if she be the hindrance to thy return thither, make no account of her, and promise me at once that thou wilt come. By St. Baldrid, we shall have a houseful of jolly stalwart knights to meet thee there; and our talk shall be of deeds of arms, and tourneys, till thy heart be fully contented.”This speech of Hepborne’s very much moved Assueton. He shifted his legs down from the wall and up again at least a dozen times, and his tattoo now became so rapid, that it would have troubled the legions for whom the march may have been originally composed to have kept their feet trotting in time to its measure.“Nay, verily, Hepborne,” said he seriously, “thou dost thy sister but scrimp justice, methinks. The Lady Isabelle was anything but tiresome to me; nay, if I may adventure to say so much, she hath sense and judgment greatly beyond what might be looked for from her age and sex; there is something most truly pleasing in her converse—something, I would say, much superior to anything I have heretofore chanced to encounter in woman. But, methinks thou art rather hasty in thy disposal of her. The damosel is young enow, meseems, to be thrust forth of her father’s boure, perhaps to take upon her the weight of formal state that appertaineth to the Madame of some stiff and stern vavesoure. Perdie, I cannot think with patience of her being so bestowed already; ’twould be cruel, methinks—nay, ’twould, in good verity, be most unlike thee, Hepborne, to throw thy peerless sister away on some harsh lord, or silly gnoffe, merely to rid thy father’s castle of her for thine own convenience. Fie on thee; I weened not thou couldst have even thought of anything so selfish.”“Nay, be not angry, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest that they have all a wish to wed them. But ’tis somewhat strange, methinks, to hear thee talk so; the poppet seems to have made more impression on thee than ever before was[104]made by woman. What means this warmth? or why shouldst thou step forth to be her knight?”“’Tis the part of a good knight,” replied Assueton hastily, “to aid and succour all damosels in distress.”“Nay, but not against a distress of the knight’s own fancying, yea, and contrary to the wishes of the damosel herself,” replied Hepborne. “What! wouldst thou throw down the gauntlet of defiance against thy friend, only for being willing to give his sister the man of her own heart?”“And hath she then such?” exclaimed Assueton, his face suddenly becoming the very emblem of woe-begone anxiety.“Yea, in good truth hath she, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick. “I did but suspect the truth last night, but this day I have been confirmed in it.”“Then am I the most wretched of knights,” cried Assueton, at once forgetting all his guards; and rising hastily from his seat, he struck his breast, and paced the room in a frenzy of despair.Hepborne could carry on the farce no longer. He burst into a fit of laughter that seemed to threaten his immediate dissolution; then threw himself on the couch, that he might give full way to it without fear of falling on the floor, and there he tossed to and fro with the reiterated convulsions it occasioned him. Assueton stood in mute astonishment for some moments, but at last he began to perceive that his friend had discovered his weakness, and that he had been all this time playing on him. He resumed his seat and position at the hearth, and returned again to his tattoo.“So,” said Hepborne—“so—ha, ha, ha!—so!—ha, ha!—so!—Oh, I shall never find breath to speak—ha, ha, ha! So, Sir John Assueton, the woman-hater, the knight of Adamant, he who was wont to be known in France by the surnoms of the Knight sans Amour, and the Chevalier cœur caillou—who, rather than submit to talk to a woman, would hie him to the stable, to hold grave converse with his horse—who railed roundly at every unfortunate man that, following the ensample of his great ancestor Adam, did but submit himself to the yoke of love—who could not bear to hear the very name of love—who sickened when it was mentioned—who had an absolute antipathy to it, as some, they knew not why, have to cats or cheese—who, though he liked music to admiration, would avoid the place if love but chanced to be the minstrel’s theme;—he, Sir John Assueton, is at last enslaved, has his wounds bound up by a woman, and wears her scarf—plays the lady’s knight, and[105]leads her palfrey rein—rownes soft things in her ear, hangs o’er her harp, and drinks in the sweet love-verses she sings to him!”“Nay, nay, Hepborne, my dearest friend,” said Assueton, starting up, and clasping his hands together in an imploring attitude, “I confess, I confess; but sith I do confess, have mercy on me, I entreat thee; ’tis cruel to sport with my sufferings, since thou knowest, alas, too surely that I must love in vain.”“But, pr’ythee, ‘why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl?’ ” said Hepborne ironically, bringing up against him some of the very expressions he had used to himself at Norham. “ ‘A knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere picking up; let it not erke thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach.’ ” And then rising, and striding gravely up to Assueton, and shaking his head solemnly—“ ‘Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than the thorn.’ Ha, ha, ha! Oh, ’tis exquisite—by St. Dennis, ’tis the richest treat I ever enjoyed.”“Nay, but bethink thee, my dear friend,” said Assueton, with an imploring look; “bethink thee, I beseech thee, what misery I am enduring, and reflect how much thou art augmenting it by thy raillery. Depardieux, I believe thou never didst suffer such pain from love as I do now.”“ ‘No, thank my good stars,’ ” said Hepborne, returning to the charge, and again assuming a burlesque solemnity of air and tone, “ ‘and I hope, moreover, I never shall be so besotted: it makes a very fool of a man.’ ”“Well, well,” said Assueton, sighing deeply, “I see thou art determined to make my fatal disease thy sport; yet, by St. Andrew, it is but cruel and ungenerous of thee.”“Grammercy, Assueton, I thought my innocent raillery could do thee no harm,” said Hepborne; “methought that ‘thou mightst be said to have no ears for such matters.’ But if thou in good truth hast really caught the fever, verily I shall not desert thee, ‘my friendship for thee shall make me listen to thy ravings;’ yea, and ‘compassion for thy disease shall make me watch the progress of its symptoms. Never fear that I shall be so little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when thy estate is so dangerous.’ But what, I pr’ythee, my friend, hath induced this so dangerous malady?”“Hepborne,” replied Sir John, “thy angelic sister’s magnanimity, her matchless beauty, her enchanting converse, and her sweet syren voice.”[106]“Ay, ay,” said Hepborne roguishly; “so ’twas her voice, her warbles, and her virelays that gave thee the coup-de-grace? Nay, it must be soothly confessed, thou didst hang over her chair to-night in a most proper love-like fashion, as she harped it; yet her verses ‘were silly enough in conscience, methought’—and then, thou knowest, thou dost ‘rarely listen to music when love or follies are the theme.’ ”“Hepborne,” said Assueton gravely, and with an air of entreaty, “it was not after this fashion that I did use thee in thine affliction at Norham. Think, I beseech thee, that my case is not less hopeless than thine. But who, I entreat thee, is the happy knight who is blessed by the favouring smile of thy divine sister, of the Lady Isabelle Hepborne, whom I now no longer blush to declare to be the most peerless damosel presently in existence?”“He is a knight,” replied Hepborne, “whose peer thou shalt as rarely meet with, I trow, as thou canst encounter the make of my sister, the Lady Isabelle. He is a proper, tall, athletic, handsome man, of dark hair and olive complexion, with trim moustaches and comely beard—nay, the very man, in short, to take a woman’s eye. Though as yet but young in age, he is old in arms, and hath already done such doughty deeds as have made him renowned even in the very songs of the minstrels. Moreover, he is a beloved friend of mine, and one much approved of my father, and he shall gladly have our consent for the espousal of my sister.”“Nay, then,” said Assueton, in the accents of utter hopelessness, “I am indeed but a lost knight, and must hie me to some barren wilderness to sigh my soul away. But lest my disease should drive me to madness, tell me, I entreat thee, the name of this most fortunate of men, that I may keep me from his path, lest, in my blind fury, I might destroy him in some ill-starred contecke, and through him wrack the happiness of the Lady Isabelle, now dearer to me than life.”“Thou knowest him as well as thou dost thyself, my dear Assueton,” said Hepborne. “Trust me, he is one to whom thou dost wish much too well to do him harm. His name is—Sir John Assueton.”“Nay, mock me not, Hepborne, drive me not mad with false hopes,” said Assueton; “certes, thy raillery doth now exceed the bounds that even friendship should permit.”“Grammercy,” said Hepborne, “thou dost seem to me to be mad enough already. What! wouldst thou quarrel with me for giving thee assurance of that thou hast most panted for?[107]By the honour of a knight, I swear that Isabelle loves thee. ’Tis true, I heard it not from her lips; but I read it in her eyes, the which, let me tell thee, inexperienced in the science, and all unlearned in the leden of love as thou art, do ever furnish by far the best and soothest evidence on this point that the riddle woman can yield. Never doubt me but she loves thee, Assueton. She drank up the words thou didst rowne in her ear with a thirst that showed the growing fever of her soul. And now,” continued he, as he observed the happy effects of the intelligence upon the countenance of his friend—“and now, Assueton, tell me, I pr’ythee, at what hour in the morning shall I order thine esquire and cortege to be ready for thy departure?”“Hepborne,” said Assueton, running to embrace him, “thou hast made me the happiest of mortals. Go! nay, perdie, I shall stay at Hailes till thou dost turn me out.”“But, my dearest Assueton,” cried Hepborne, smiling, “consider thy mother, and the friends and the scenes of thy boyhood—consider what thou——”“Pshaw, my dear Hepborne,” cried Sir John, interrupting him, “no more on’t, I entreat thee. Leave me, I beseech thee, to dreams of delight. Good night, and may the blessed Virgin and St. Andrew be thy warison, for this ecstacy of jovinaunce thou hast poured into my soul.”“Good night,” said Hepborne, with a more serious air—“good night, my dear and long-tried brother-in-arms; and good night, my yet dearer brother by alliance, as I hope soon to call thee.”The meeting of the lovers on the next day was productive of more interesting conversation than any they had yet enjoyed; and although Assueton was, as his friend had said, a novice in the science and language of love, yet he caught up the knowledge of both with most marvellous expedition, and was listened to with blushing pleasure by the lovely Isabelle.As the party was seated at breakfast, the sound of trumpets was heard followed by that of the trampling of horses in the court-yard, and immediately afterwards a herald, proudly arrayed, and followed by his pursuivants, was ushered into the hall.“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “and you, Sirs Knights, I come to announce to you and to the world, that on the tenth day of the next month, the noble John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, will hold a splendid meeting of arms on the mead of St. John’s; and all princes, lords, barons, knights, and esquires, who intend to tilt at the tournament, are hereby ordained to lodge themselves[108]within his Castle of Tarnawa, or in pavilions on the field, four days before the said tournament, to make due display of their armouries, on pain of not being received at the said tournament. And their arms shall be thus disposed: The crest shall be placed on a plate of copper large enough to contain the whole summit of the helmet, and the said plate shall be covered with a mantle, whereon shall be blazoned the arms of him who bears it; and on the said mantle at the top thereof shall the crest be placed, and around it shall be a wreath of colours, whatsoever it shall please him. God save King Robert!”The herald having in this manner formally pronounced the proclamation entrusted to him, was kindly and honourably greeted by Sir Patrick Hepborne, and forthwith seated at the board and hospitably entertained, after which he arose and addressed the knight.“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “myself and my people, being now refreshed, I may not waste my time here, having yet a large district to travel over. I drink this cup of wine to thee and to thy roof-tree, with a herald’s thanks for thy noble treatment. Say, shall the Lord of Moray look for thy presence at the tourney? I know it would be his wish to do thee and thine particular honour.”“Of that I may judge by his sending thee to Hailes,” said Sir Patrick courteously. “But in truth I cannot go. I must leave it to thee to tell the noble Earl how sorely grieved I am to say so; but my heart ha’ been ill at ease of late.”“Thine absence will sorely grieve the noble Earl, Sir Knight,” replied the herald, “but, natheless, I shall hope to see thy gallant son, and the renowned Sir John Assueton, chiefest flowers in the gay garland of Scottish knights, who shall that day assemble at St. John’s. Till then adieu, Sirs Knights, and may God and St. Andrew be with ye all.”The trumpets again sounded, and the herald, being waited on by the knights to the court-yard, mounted his richly caparisoned steed, and rode forth from the castle, again attended by all the pomp of heraldry.“Assueton,” said Hepborne, with a roguish air of seriousness, as they returned up stairs, “goest thou to this tourney?”“Nay, of a truth,” replied Assueton, with his eyes on the ground. “I cannot just at present yede me so far. Besides, these wounds in my bridle-arm do still pain me grievously, rendering me all unfit for jousting.”[109]“Then, as I am resolved to go,” said Hepborne, “I do beseech thee make Hailes Castle thy home till my return, and play the part of son to my dear father in mine absence.”

The Lady Isabelle was seated between her brother and his friend Sir John Assueton, in the most provoking position; for she was thus placed, as it were, between two magnets, so as to be equally attracted by both. Her affection for Sir Patrick made her anxious to catch all he said, and to gather all his adventures; whilst, on the other hand, Sir John Assueton’s conversation,[98]made up, as it in a great measure was, of the praises of his friend, intermixed with many interesting notes on the accounts of battles and passages of arms her brother was narrating to her father, proved so seducing that she found it difficult to turn away her ear from him. Nor were Assueton’s illustrations the less gratifying that they often brought out the whole truth, where her brother’s modesty induced him to sink such parts of the tale as were the most glorious to himself. As for Assueton himself, he seemed to have become a new man in her company. He was naturally shrewd, excessively good-humoured, and often witty in his conversation, but he never in his life before bestowed more of it on a lady than barely what the courtesy of chivalry required. This night, however, he was animated and eloquent; and the result was, that the Lady Isabelle retired to her couch at an unusually late hour, and declared to her handmaiden, Mary Hay, as she was undressing her, that Sir John Assueton was certainly the most gallant, witty, and agreeable knight she had ever had the good fortune to meet with.

“But thou dost not think him so handsome as thy brother Sir Patrick, Lady?” said the sly Miss Mary Hay.

“Nay, as to that, Mary,” replied the Lady Isabelle, “they are both handsome, yet both very diverse in their beauty. Thou knowest that one is fair, and the other dark. My brother, Sir Patrick, and I, do take our fair tint from our poor mother. Is it not common for fair to affect dark, and dark fair? My father, thou seest, is dark, yet was my dear departed mother fair as the light of day. Is it unnatural, then, that I should esteem Sir John Assueton’s olive tint of countenance, his speaking black eyes, his nobly-arched jet eyebrows, and the raven curls of his finely-formed head, more than the pure red and white complexion, the blue eyes and the fair hair of my dear brother? Nay, nay, my brother is very handsome; but algate he be my brother, and though I love him, as sure never sister loved brother before, yet must I tell the truth, thou knowest, Mary; and, in good fay, I do think Sir John Assueton by much the properer man.”

Hepborne had been by no means blind to that of which neither his sister nor Sir John Assueton were, as yet, themselves aware. He saw the change on Assueton with extreme delight. He enjoyed the idea of this woman-hater being at last himself enslaved, and, above all, he rejoiced that the enslaver should be his sister, the Lady Isabelle. He longed to attack him on the subject; but, lest he might scare him away from the toils before[99]he was fairly and irrecoverably meshed, he resolved to appear to shut his eyes to his friend’s incipient disease. As he went with Sir John, therefore, to see him comfortably accommodated for the night, he only indulged himself in a remark, natural enough in itself, upon his wounded arm.

“Assueton,” said he, “wilt thou not have thine arm dressed by some cunning leech ere thou goest to rest? Our chaplain is no mean proficient in leechcraft; better take that rag of a kerchief away, and have it properly bound up.”

“Nay, nay,” cried Assueton, hastily, “I thank thee, my good friend; but ’tis very well as it is. Thy sister, the Lady Isabelle, bound it up with exceeding care; and in these cases I have remarked that there is no salve equal in virtue to the bloody goutes of the wound itself. Good night, and St. Andrew be with thee.”

“And may St. Baldrid, our tutelary saint, be with you,” replied Hepborne, as he shut the door. “Poor Assueton,” said he then to himself, with a smile, “my sister has cured one wound for him, only to inflict another, which he will find it more difficult to salve.”

The next day being devoted to the gay amusement of hawking, was yet more decisive of the fate of poor Sir John Assueton. He rode by the side of the Lady Isabelle; and as the nature of the sport precluded the possibility of her using that attention necessary to make her palfrey avoid the obstacles lying in its way, or to keep it up when it stumbled, Sir John found a ready excuse for again acting the part of her knight; and, one-armed as he had been rendered by the bites of the wolf, he ran all manner of risks of his own neck to save hers. Hepborne was more occupied in regarding them than in the sport they were following. He rode after the pair, enjoying all he saw; for in the malicious pleasure he took in perceiving Assueton getting deeper and deeper entangled in the snares of love, and its fever mounting higher and higher into his brain, he almost forgot the toils he had himself been caught in, and found a palliative for his own heart’s disease, producing a temporary relaxation of its intensity. Thus then they rode. When the game was on wing, the fair Isabelle galloped fearlessly on, with her eyes sometimes following the flight of the falcon after its quarry, but much oftener with her head turned towards Sir John Assueton, whilst Sir John’s looks were fixed now with anxiety on the ground, to ensure safe riding to the lady, and now thrown with love-sick gaze of tenderness into the heaven of her eyes, for his had no wish to soar higher.[100]

In the evening, the Lady Isabelle and her knight were again left to themselves by the father and son. Her brother’s tales were less interesting to her than they had been the previous night, and though Assueton talked less of his friend, yet she by no means found his conversation duller on that account; nay, she even listened much more intensely to it than before. The younger Sir Patrick, towards the close of the night, begged of his sister to sit down to her harp, and when she did so, Assueton hung over her with a rapture sufficiently marking the strength of his new-born passion, and the little art he had in concealing it.

Having been asked by her brother to sing, she accompanied her voice in the following canzonette:—

Why was celestial Music given,But of enchanting love to sing!Ethereal flame, that first from heavenAngels to this earth did bring.What state was man’s till he receivedThe genial blessing from the sky?What though in Paradise he lived?Yet still he pined, and knew not why.But when his beauteous partner came,The scene, that dreary was and wild,Grew lovely as he felt the flame,And the luxuriant garden smiled.Oh, Love!—of man thou second soul,What but a clod of earth is heWho never yet thy flame did thole,Who never felt thy witchery!

Why was celestial Music given,But of enchanting love to sing!Ethereal flame, that first from heavenAngels to this earth did bring.

Why was celestial Music given,

But of enchanting love to sing!

Ethereal flame, that first from heaven

Angels to this earth did bring.

What state was man’s till he receivedThe genial blessing from the sky?What though in Paradise he lived?Yet still he pined, and knew not why.

What state was man’s till he received

The genial blessing from the sky?

What though in Paradise he lived?

Yet still he pined, and knew not why.

But when his beauteous partner came,The scene, that dreary was and wild,Grew lovely as he felt the flame,And the luxuriant garden smiled.

But when his beauteous partner came,

The scene, that dreary was and wild,

Grew lovely as he felt the flame,

And the luxuriant garden smiled.

Oh, Love!—of man thou second soul,What but a clod of earth is heWho never yet thy flame did thole,Who never felt thy witchery!

Oh, Love!—of man thou second soul,

What but a clod of earth is he

Who never yet thy flame did thole,

Who never felt thy witchery!

Assueton’s applauses were more energetic, and his approbation more eloquently expressed at the conclusion of this song, than Hepborne had ever heard them on any former occasion. Though the theme was wont to be so very unpalatable to him, yet he besought the Lady Isabelle again and again to repeat it, and it seemed to give him new and increased pleasure every time he heard it. At last the hour for retiring came, and Hepborne inwardly rejoiced to observe a certain trembling in the voices of both Assueton and his sister, as they touched each other’s hands to say good night.

Sir Patrick Hepborne the younger had no sooner accompanied his friend to his apartment than Assueton seated himself near the hearth, and put up his feet against the wall, where he fell into a kind of listless dream. Hepborne took a seat on the opposite side of the fire-place, and, after he had sat silently watching him for some time, in secret enjoyment of the state[101]he beheld him reduced to, the following conversation took place between them:—

“Well, Assueton,” said Hepborne, first breaking silence, and assuming as melancholy a tone as the humour he was in would permit him to use, “Well, mon bel ami, so we must part to-morrow? The thought is most distressing. My heart would have urged me to press thee to a farther sojourn with us at Hailes; but thou wert too determined, and urged too many and too strong reasons for thy return home, when we last talked of the matter, to leave room for hope that I might succeed in shaking thy purpose. I see that of very needscost thou must go; nay, in good sooth, thy motives for departure are of a nature that, feeling as I have myself felt, I should inwardly blame thee were thy good nature to lead thee to yield to my importunate entreaty. Yea, albeit thou shouldst consent to stay with me, I should verily tine half the jovisaunce that mought otherwise spring from thy good company; since, from the all-perfect being I now hold thee to be, thou wouldst dwindle in my esteem, and be agrutched of half the attraction thou dost possess in mine eyes, by appearing to lose some deal of those strong feelings of attachment for thy home, and for the scenes and friends of thy boyhood, which thou hast hitherto so eminently displayed, and in which, I am led to think, we do so much resemble each other. Having now had mine somewhat satisfied, perdie, I could almost wish to boune me with thee, were it only to participate in thine—were it only to see thee approach the wide domains and the ancient castle of thine ancestors—to see thee meet thy beloved mother, now so long widowed, and panting to press her only child, her long absent son, to her bosom—to watch how thou mayst encounter with old friends—to behold the hearty shakes of loving souvenaunce, given by thy hand to those with whom thou hast wrestled, or held mimic tourney when thou wert yet but a stripling. Oh, ’twould be as a prolonging of mine own feelings of like sort to witness those that might arise to thee. But the journey is too long for me to take as yet; and besides, I cannot yet so soon leave my father and Isabelle. Moreover, thou knowest that my heart yet acheth severely from the wounds which it took at Norham. Heigh ho! But, gramercy, forgive me, I entreat thee, for touching unwittingly on the (by thee) hated subject of love, the which, I well know, is ever wont to erke thee.”

During this long address, Assueton remained with his heels up against the wall, his toes all the time beating that species of march that in more modern times has been called the devil’s[102]tattoo, and with his eyes firmly fixed on the embers consuming on the hearth.

“I hope, however, my dearest friend,” continued Hepborne, “that thou mayest yet be able to return to me at Hailes. Thine affairs (though, perdie, thou must have much to settle after such a succession, and so long an absence), thine affairs, I say, cannot at the worst detain thee at home longer than a matter of twelve months or so; after which (that is, when thou shalt have visited thy friends in divers other parts) I may hope perchance to see thee again return hither.”

Assueton shifted his position two or three times during this second speech of Hepborne’s, always again commencing his devil’s tattoo on the wall; but when his friend ceased, he made no other reply than—

“Umph! Ay, ay, my dear Hepborne, thou shalt see me.”

“My dear Assueton,” continued Hepborne, “that is but a loose and vague reply, I ween. But, by St. Genevieve, I guess how it is. Thou hast thoughts (though as yet thou wouldst fain not effunde them to me) of returning to France in short space; and thou wouldst keep them sicker in thy breast for a time, lest peradventure I should grieve too deeply at thy so speedy abandonment of thy country.”

“Nay, nay,” said Assueton, hastily, “trust me I have no such emprize in head.”

“What then can make thee so little satisfactory in thy reply?” said Hepborne; “surely ’tis but a small matter to grant me; ’tis but a small boon to ask of thee to return to Hailes Castle some twelve months or year and half hence? I doubt me sore that thou hast been but half pleased with thy visit here; and truly, when I think on’t, it has been but a dull one.”

“Nay,” replied Assueton, eagerly interrupting him, “I do assure thee, Hepborne, thou art grievously mistaken in so supposing. On the contrary, my hours never passed so happily as they have done here; nor,” added he, with a deep sigh, “so swiftly, so very swiftly.”

“’Tis all well in thee, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “’tis all well in thee to use thy courtesy to say so; yet, I wot well, ’tis but to please thy friend. Thou knowest that my father hath been so voracious in his inquiries into the history of my life during my stay in France, that he hath never suffered me to leave him, so that thou hadst neither his good company nor my poor converse to cheer thee, but, much to my distress, thou hast been left to be erked by the silly prattle and trifling speech of that foolish pusel my sister Isabelle, worn out by the which, ’tis[103]no marvel thou shouldst now be thus moody, as I see thou art; and to rid thyself of this dreriment of thine, it is natural enow that thou shouldst be right glad to escape hence, yea, and sore afraid ever to return here. But fear thee not, my friend; she shall not stand long in thy way. She hath had many offers of espousal, on the which my father and I are to sit in counsel anon, that is, when other weightier matters are despatched; and as soon as we shall have time to choose a fitting match for the maid, she shall forthwith be tochered off. She cannot, then, remain much longer at Hailes than some three or four weeks at farthest, to frighten from its hall my best and dearest friend. So that if she be the hindrance to thy return thither, make no account of her, and promise me at once that thou wilt come. By St. Baldrid, we shall have a houseful of jolly stalwart knights to meet thee there; and our talk shall be of deeds of arms, and tourneys, till thy heart be fully contented.”

This speech of Hepborne’s very much moved Assueton. He shifted his legs down from the wall and up again at least a dozen times, and his tattoo now became so rapid, that it would have troubled the legions for whom the march may have been originally composed to have kept their feet trotting in time to its measure.

“Nay, verily, Hepborne,” said he seriously, “thou dost thy sister but scrimp justice, methinks. The Lady Isabelle was anything but tiresome to me; nay, if I may adventure to say so much, she hath sense and judgment greatly beyond what might be looked for from her age and sex; there is something most truly pleasing in her converse—something, I would say, much superior to anything I have heretofore chanced to encounter in woman. But, methinks thou art rather hasty in thy disposal of her. The damosel is young enow, meseems, to be thrust forth of her father’s boure, perhaps to take upon her the weight of formal state that appertaineth to the Madame of some stiff and stern vavesoure. Perdie, I cannot think with patience of her being so bestowed already; ’twould be cruel, methinks—nay, ’twould, in good verity, be most unlike thee, Hepborne, to throw thy peerless sister away on some harsh lord, or silly gnoffe, merely to rid thy father’s castle of her for thine own convenience. Fie on thee; I weened not thou couldst have even thought of anything so selfish.”

“Nay, be not angry, Assueton,” said Hepborne, “thou knowest that they have all a wish to wed them. But ’tis somewhat strange, methinks, to hear thee talk so; the poppet seems to have made more impression on thee than ever before was[104]made by woman. What means this warmth? or why shouldst thou step forth to be her knight?”

“’Tis the part of a good knight,” replied Assueton hastily, “to aid and succour all damosels in distress.”

“Nay, but not against a distress of the knight’s own fancying, yea, and contrary to the wishes of the damosel herself,” replied Hepborne. “What! wouldst thou throw down the gauntlet of defiance against thy friend, only for being willing to give his sister the man of her own heart?”

“And hath she then such?” exclaimed Assueton, his face suddenly becoming the very emblem of woe-begone anxiety.

“Yea, in good truth hath she, Assueton,” replied Sir Patrick. “I did but suspect the truth last night, but this day I have been confirmed in it.”

“Then am I the most wretched of knights,” cried Assueton, at once forgetting all his guards; and rising hastily from his seat, he struck his breast, and paced the room in a frenzy of despair.

Hepborne could carry on the farce no longer. He burst into a fit of laughter that seemed to threaten his immediate dissolution; then threw himself on the couch, that he might give full way to it without fear of falling on the floor, and there he tossed to and fro with the reiterated convulsions it occasioned him. Assueton stood in mute astonishment for some moments, but at last he began to perceive that his friend had discovered his weakness, and that he had been all this time playing on him. He resumed his seat and position at the hearth, and returned again to his tattoo.

“So,” said Hepborne—“so—ha, ha, ha!—so!—ha, ha!—so!—Oh, I shall never find breath to speak—ha, ha, ha! So, Sir John Assueton, the woman-hater, the knight of Adamant, he who was wont to be known in France by the surnoms of the Knight sans Amour, and the Chevalier cœur caillou—who, rather than submit to talk to a woman, would hie him to the stable, to hold grave converse with his horse—who railed roundly at every unfortunate man that, following the ensample of his great ancestor Adam, did but submit himself to the yoke of love—who could not bear to hear the very name of love—who sickened when it was mentioned—who had an absolute antipathy to it, as some, they knew not why, have to cats or cheese—who, though he liked music to admiration, would avoid the place if love but chanced to be the minstrel’s theme;—he, Sir John Assueton, is at last enslaved, has his wounds bound up by a woman, and wears her scarf—plays the lady’s knight, and[105]leads her palfrey rein—rownes soft things in her ear, hangs o’er her harp, and drinks in the sweet love-verses she sings to him!”

“Nay, nay, Hepborne, my dearest friend,” said Assueton, starting up, and clasping his hands together in an imploring attitude, “I confess, I confess; but sith I do confess, have mercy on me, I entreat thee; ’tis cruel to sport with my sufferings, since thou knowest, alas, too surely that I must love in vain.”

“But, pr’ythee, ‘why shouldst thou afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl?’ ” said Hepborne ironically, bringing up against him some of the very expressions he had used to himself at Norham. “ ‘A knight of thy prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere picking up; let it not erke thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach.’ ” And then rising, and striding gravely up to Assueton, and shaking his head solemnly—“ ‘Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the rose about them than the thorn.’ Ha, ha, ha! Oh, ’tis exquisite—by St. Dennis, ’tis the richest treat I ever enjoyed.”

“Nay, but bethink thee, my dear friend,” said Assueton, with an imploring look; “bethink thee, I beseech thee, what misery I am enduring, and reflect how much thou art augmenting it by thy raillery. Depardieux, I believe thou never didst suffer such pain from love as I do now.”

“ ‘No, thank my good stars,’ ” said Hepborne, returning to the charge, and again assuming a burlesque solemnity of air and tone, “ ‘and I hope, moreover, I never shall be so besotted: it makes a very fool of a man.’ ”

“Well, well,” said Assueton, sighing deeply, “I see thou art determined to make my fatal disease thy sport; yet, by St. Andrew, it is but cruel and ungenerous of thee.”

“Grammercy, Assueton, I thought my innocent raillery could do thee no harm,” said Hepborne; “methought that ‘thou mightst be said to have no ears for such matters.’ But if thou in good truth hast really caught the fever, verily I shall not desert thee, ‘my friendship for thee shall make me listen to thy ravings;’ yea, and ‘compassion for thy disease shall make me watch the progress of its symptoms. Never fear that I shall be so little of a Christian knight as to abandon thee when thy estate is so dangerous.’ But what, I pr’ythee, my friend, hath induced this so dangerous malady?”

“Hepborne,” replied Sir John, “thy angelic sister’s magnanimity, her matchless beauty, her enchanting converse, and her sweet syren voice.”[106]

“Ay, ay,” said Hepborne roguishly; “so ’twas her voice, her warbles, and her virelays that gave thee the coup-de-grace? Nay, it must be soothly confessed, thou didst hang over her chair to-night in a most proper love-like fashion, as she harped it; yet her verses ‘were silly enough in conscience, methought’—and then, thou knowest, thou dost ‘rarely listen to music when love or follies are the theme.’ ”

“Hepborne,” said Assueton gravely, and with an air of entreaty, “it was not after this fashion that I did use thee in thine affliction at Norham. Think, I beseech thee, that my case is not less hopeless than thine. But who, I entreat thee, is the happy knight who is blessed by the favouring smile of thy divine sister, of the Lady Isabelle Hepborne, whom I now no longer blush to declare to be the most peerless damosel presently in existence?”

“He is a knight,” replied Hepborne, “whose peer thou shalt as rarely meet with, I trow, as thou canst encounter the make of my sister, the Lady Isabelle. He is a proper, tall, athletic, handsome man, of dark hair and olive complexion, with trim moustaches and comely beard—nay, the very man, in short, to take a woman’s eye. Though as yet but young in age, he is old in arms, and hath already done such doughty deeds as have made him renowned even in the very songs of the minstrels. Moreover, he is a beloved friend of mine, and one much approved of my father, and he shall gladly have our consent for the espousal of my sister.”

“Nay, then,” said Assueton, in the accents of utter hopelessness, “I am indeed but a lost knight, and must hie me to some barren wilderness to sigh my soul away. But lest my disease should drive me to madness, tell me, I entreat thee, the name of this most fortunate of men, that I may keep me from his path, lest, in my blind fury, I might destroy him in some ill-starred contecke, and through him wrack the happiness of the Lady Isabelle, now dearer to me than life.”

“Thou knowest him as well as thou dost thyself, my dear Assueton,” said Hepborne. “Trust me, he is one to whom thou dost wish much too well to do him harm. His name is—Sir John Assueton.”

“Nay, mock me not, Hepborne, drive me not mad with false hopes,” said Assueton; “certes, thy raillery doth now exceed the bounds that even friendship should permit.”

“Grammercy,” said Hepborne, “thou dost seem to me to be mad enough already. What! wouldst thou quarrel with me for giving thee assurance of that thou hast most panted for?[107]By the honour of a knight, I swear that Isabelle loves thee. ’Tis true, I heard it not from her lips; but I read it in her eyes, the which, let me tell thee, inexperienced in the science, and all unlearned in the leden of love as thou art, do ever furnish by far the best and soothest evidence on this point that the riddle woman can yield. Never doubt me but she loves thee, Assueton. She drank up the words thou didst rowne in her ear with a thirst that showed the growing fever of her soul. And now,” continued he, as he observed the happy effects of the intelligence upon the countenance of his friend—“and now, Assueton, tell me, I pr’ythee, at what hour in the morning shall I order thine esquire and cortege to be ready for thy departure?”

“Hepborne,” said Assueton, running to embrace him, “thou hast made me the happiest of mortals. Go! nay, perdie, I shall stay at Hailes till thou dost turn me out.”

“But, my dearest Assueton,” cried Hepborne, smiling, “consider thy mother, and the friends and the scenes of thy boyhood—consider what thou——”

“Pshaw, my dear Hepborne,” cried Sir John, interrupting him, “no more on’t, I entreat thee. Leave me, I beseech thee, to dreams of delight. Good night, and may the blessed Virgin and St. Andrew be thy warison, for this ecstacy of jovinaunce thou hast poured into my soul.”

“Good night,” said Hepborne, with a more serious air—“good night, my dear and long-tried brother-in-arms; and good night, my yet dearer brother by alliance, as I hope soon to call thee.”

The meeting of the lovers on the next day was productive of more interesting conversation than any they had yet enjoyed; and although Assueton was, as his friend had said, a novice in the science and language of love, yet he caught up the knowledge of both with most marvellous expedition, and was listened to with blushing pleasure by the lovely Isabelle.

As the party was seated at breakfast, the sound of trumpets was heard followed by that of the trampling of horses in the court-yard, and immediately afterwards a herald, proudly arrayed, and followed by his pursuivants, was ushered into the hall.

“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “and you, Sirs Knights, I come to announce to you and to the world, that on the tenth day of the next month, the noble John Dunbar, Earl of Moray, will hold a splendid meeting of arms on the mead of St. John’s; and all princes, lords, barons, knights, and esquires, who intend to tilt at the tournament, are hereby ordained to lodge themselves[108]within his Castle of Tarnawa, or in pavilions on the field, four days before the said tournament, to make due display of their armouries, on pain of not being received at the said tournament. And their arms shall be thus disposed: The crest shall be placed on a plate of copper large enough to contain the whole summit of the helmet, and the said plate shall be covered with a mantle, whereon shall be blazoned the arms of him who bears it; and on the said mantle at the top thereof shall the crest be placed, and around it shall be a wreath of colours, whatsoever it shall please him. God save King Robert!”

The herald having in this manner formally pronounced the proclamation entrusted to him, was kindly and honourably greeted by Sir Patrick Hepborne, and forthwith seated at the board and hospitably entertained, after which he arose and addressed the knight.

“Sir Patrick Hepborne,” said he, “myself and my people, being now refreshed, I may not waste my time here, having yet a large district to travel over. I drink this cup of wine to thee and to thy roof-tree, with a herald’s thanks for thy noble treatment. Say, shall the Lord of Moray look for thy presence at the tourney? I know it would be his wish to do thee and thine particular honour.”

“Of that I may judge by his sending thee to Hailes,” said Sir Patrick courteously. “But in truth I cannot go. I must leave it to thee to tell the noble Earl how sorely grieved I am to say so; but my heart ha’ been ill at ease of late.”

“Thine absence will sorely grieve the noble Earl, Sir Knight,” replied the herald, “but, natheless, I shall hope to see thy gallant son, and the renowned Sir John Assueton, chiefest flowers in the gay garland of Scottish knights, who shall that day assemble at St. John’s. Till then adieu, Sirs Knights, and may God and St. Andrew be with ye all.”

The trumpets again sounded, and the herald, being waited on by the knights to the court-yard, mounted his richly caparisoned steed, and rode forth from the castle, again attended by all the pomp of heraldry.

“Assueton,” said Hepborne, with a roguish air of seriousness, as they returned up stairs, “goest thou to this tourney?”

“Nay, of a truth,” replied Assueton, with his eyes on the ground. “I cannot just at present yede me so far. Besides, these wounds in my bridle-arm do still pain me grievously, rendering me all unfit for jousting.”[109]

“Then, as I am resolved to go,” said Hepborne, “I do beseech thee make Hailes Castle thy home till my return, and play the part of son to my dear father in mine absence.”

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