[Contents]CHAPTER XXII.Waiting for the Spearmen—The Lady Isabelle’s Tale—The Fight.The party led by Robert Lindsay marched off, and Roger Riddel proceeded to seek out a retired spot where the Lady Isabelle might enjoy a little rest. A mossy bank within the shelter of the wood was soon discovered, and the knight and his fair companion seated themselves, whilst the squire secured their horses at no great distance. Assueton was extremely desirous to learn the history of the lady’s capture, and she proceeded to satisfy him.As she was passing through the woodlands, on her return towards Hailes Castle, after parting from her brother, she was suddenly surrounded by Sir Miers de Willoughby’s party, seized, put on horseback, and carried rapidly off. She was compelled to travel all that day and next night, halting only once or twice for a very short time, to obtain necessary refreshment for the horses and the people; and early next morning they arrived with her at the Castle of Burnstower, where, although every comfort was provided for her, she was subjected to confinement as a prisoner. Sir Miers de Willoughby had taken every opportunity that so rapid a journey afforded, to tease her with offers of love and adoration; and after they reached Burnstower he had spent several hours in making his offensive addresses to her. The lady had repulsed him with a spirit and dignity worthy the daughter of Sir Patrick Hepborne, called upon him boldly to release her at his peril, and made a solemn appeal to Heaven against his treachery and baseness. At length she was relieved of his presence by his being called on some expedition, from which, fortunately for her peace, he did not return till a very late hour, and she saw no more of him that night. But next morning he came again to her apartment, where he compelled her to listen for some hours to addresses which she treated with scorn and indignation. He became enraged, and, in his fury, talked of humbling her pride by other means than fair speeches if he did not find her more compliant on his return from an expedition he was about to proceed upon. She trembled to hear him; but fortunately his immediate absence saved her from further vexation, until she was finally rescued from the villain’s hands by Sir John Assueton.[167]Having completed her narrative, the Lady Isabelle anxiously demanded a similar satisfaction from Assueton, who gave her all the particulars of his adventures, the recital being characterized by the modesty which was natural to him. The lady shuddered and trembled alternately at the perils to which he had been exposed on her account, and her eyes gave forth a plenteous shower of gladness and of gratitude when he had finished. He seized the happy moment for making a full declaration of his passion, and he was repaid for all his miseries, fatigues, dangers, and anxieties, by the soft confession he received from her.After their mutual transports had in some degree subsided, Assueton called Roger Riddel from the spot where, with proper attention to decorum, he had seated himself beyond earshot of their conversation, and interrogated him as to what had occurred to him and Lindsay. Their story was short, and Roger, who was always chary of his words, did not add to its length by circumlocution.“Why, Sir Knight,” said he, “they carried us like bundles of straw to a drearisome vault, and locked us up in the dark. Next day came one Ralpho Proudfoot, with divers rogues—caitiff lossel had some old pique at good Rob Lindsay—swore he would now be ywreken on him—threatened him with hanging—and would have done it with his own hands then, but they would not let him till he got his master’s warrant—swore that he would get the warrant and do execution on Rob to-morrow. So we got beef and ale to breakfast and supper, and slept till your honour wakened us to wend with thee.”Sir John now prevailed upon the Lady Isabelle to take a short repose, whilst he and Riddel watched over her safety. In a little time afterwards, Robert Lindsay returned at the head of his remounted cavalry. Assueton was now himself again, and, with spirits light as air, he and the lady got into their saddles, and proceeded slowly down the glen. To prevent all chance of surprise, Robert Lindsay preceded them with half the party as an advance guard, whilst Roger Riddel brought up the rear with the remainder.The night was so far spent that day dawned ere they had threaded the pass that formed the entrance into the territory of Sir Miers de Willoughby. The sun rose high in all its glory, and threw a flood of golden light over the romantic scenery they were passing through. All nature rejoiced under the benignant influence of his cheering rays; a thousand birds raised their happy wings and melodious voices to heaven; nay, all vegetable[168]as well as animal life seemed to unite in one general choir to pour out their grateful orisons. Nor did the souls of the lovers refuse to join the universal feeling. They each experienced inwardly a joy and a gratitude that surpassed all the power of expression, but which was, perhaps, best uttered in that silent, but not less fervent language used by the devout spirit, when, impressed with a deep sense of the blessings it has received, it rises in secret thanksgivings to its Creator. Each being thus separately occupied in thought, they rode gently on until they had cleared the defiles, and were entering the wider pastures, where the space in the bottom was more extended, and the trees that clothed the sides of the hills, or dropped down occasionally on the more level ground, grew thinner and more scattered.As they were entering one of those little plains through which the stream they had followed meandered, they were surprised by the appearance of a party of armed horsemen approaching from the other extremity of it. Assueton immediately called forward his esquire.“Riddel,” said he, “we know not as yet whether those who come towards us may prove friends or foes; but be they whom they list, to thy faithful charge do I consign the care and protection of the Lady Isabelle; leave not her bridle-rein, whatever may betide. Take three of the spearmen, and let her be always kept in the midst. Should that bandon yonder, that cometh so fast, prove to be hostile, remember thou art in no wise to act offensively unless the lady be attacked; but be it thy duty, and that of those I leave with thee, to think only of defending her to the last extremity. I shall myself ride forward with the rest, to see who these may be.”The Lady Isabelle grew pale with alarm, partly because her lover was probably about to incur danger, but even yet more, if possible, because, in the knight who was approaching at the head of the troop, she already recognized the figure and arms of him from whose power she had so lately escaped.“Blessed Virgin protect us,” cried she, “’tis the caitiff knight de Willoughby who advanceth!”“Is it so?” cried Assueton, his blood boiling at the intelligence; “then, by the Rood of St. Andrew, he shall not hence until I shall have questioned him for his villainy.”He stayed not to say more, but, galloping forward, he reined up his steed in the middle of the way, and instantly addressed the opposite leader.“Halt!” cried he, in a voice of thunder; “halt, Sir Knight, if yet thou mayest deserve a title so honourable; for, of a truth,[169]thou dost not, if thou art he whom I take thee to be. Say, art thou, or art thou not, that malfaitour Sir Miers de Willoughby?”“Though I see no cause why I should respond to a rude question rudely put, yet will I never deny my name,” replied the other, “I am so hight. And now, what hast thou to say to Sir Miers de Willoughby?”“That he no longer deserves to be called a knight, but rather a caitiff robber,” replied Assueton.“Robber!” retorted the other; “dost thou call me robber, that dost wear my baldrick and bugle hanging from thy shoulder?”“Thine!” replied Assueton; “if they be thine, ’tis well thou hast noted them so; I wear them as the gage of my revenge; and I have sworn to wear them until thou payest dearly for the wrong thou hast done to the virtuous Lady Isabelle Hepborne, for I speak not of the base treachery thou didst use towards myself.”“Nay, then,” replied de Willoughby, “it seems thou art determined that we shall do instant battle. Come on, then.”And so saying, he put his lance in the rest and ran his course at Assueton. The Scottish Knight couched his, and, exclaiming aloud, “May God and St. Andrew defend the right,” he put spurs to his horse and rushed at his opponent. They met nearly midway. Sir Miers de Willoughby’s lance glanced aside from Assueton’s cuirass, without doing the firmly-seated knight the smallest injury; but Assueton’s point entering on one side, between the joinings of Sir Miers’ helmet and neck-piece, bore him headlong from his saddle, and stretched him, grievously wounded, on the plain. Meanwhile, before Assueton had time to recollect himself, on came the party of de Willoughby, and, with the natural impression that he would dismount to put their leader to death, charged himen masse. His own spearmen rushed to his rescue, but, before they came, he had so well bestirred himself that he had prostrated three or four of the enemy. The battle now became general; but though the numbers were on the other side, yet the victory was very soon achieved by the prowess of Assueton and his people, who left not a man before them; all, save one only, being either thrown to the ground or forced to seek safety in flight.That one, however, was Ralpho Proudfoot, who at the first onset had singled out Robert Lindsay, with a bloody thirst of long-cherished hatred. Their spears having been splintered in the shock, he had grappled Lindsay by the neck, and the latter seizing his antagonist in his turn, they were both at once dragged[170]from their horses. Rising eagerly at the same moment, however, they drew their swords and attacked each other. Some of Lindsay’s comrades having now no antagonist of their own to oppose, were about to assist him.“Keep off,” cried he immediately, “keep off, my friends, if ye love me; one man is enow, in all conscience, upon one man; so let him kill me if he can, but interfere not between us.”They rained down their blows upon each other with tremendous force, and the combat hung doubtful for a considerable time. Proudfoot’s expression of countenance was savage and devilish. He tried various manœuvres to break through Lindsay’s cool determined guards, but without effect; and, being more desirous of wounding his adversary than of saving himself, he received some severe thrusts. At length, as he attempted to throw his point in on Lindsay’s body, he received a cut from him that laid his arm open from the shoulder to the wrist, and at once rendered it useless. The sword dropped from his hand, and, fainting from the loss of blood that poured from his other wounds, he staggered back a few paces, and fell senseless on the ground. The generous Lindsay, forgetting the brutal threats Proudfoot had uttered against him, ran up to his assistance.“He was my companion when we were boys,” cried he; “oh, let me save him if I can.”And so saying, he ran to the stream, filled his morion with water, and poured it on Proudfoot’s face. He then bathed his wounds, and bound up his arm, and tried to staunch the bleeding from the thrusts he had given him. Nor were his pious and merciful exertions unattended with success. Proudfoot opened his eyes, and, his senses returning to him, he gazed with silent wonder in the face of the man who had, a moment before, fought so manfully against him, and who was now so humanely employed in endeavouring to save his life, and assuage the acuteness of his pains. His own villainous and cruel determinations against Lindsay, which he had been contemplating, the having it in his power to carry into execution that very night, now rushed upon his mind. His conscience, long hardened by guilt and atrocity, was at once melted by that single, but bright ray of goodness, which darted on it from the anxious eye of Lindsay; and days long since past recurring to his memory, he remembered what he had been, and burst into an agony of tears.Assueton had no sooner rid himself of his enemies than he went to assist the wounded and discomfited Sir Miers de Willoughby; and on unlacing his helmet, discovered, to his no small[171]surprise, the features of the very forester who guided him to Burnstower.The evidence of Sir Miers de Willoughby’s villainy was now complete; yet was not the gallant Assueton’s compassion for his hapless state one atom diminished by the discovery. The wound in his neck, though not mortal, bled most profusely, and he lay in a swoon from the quantity of blood he had already lost. The Lady Isabelle and the esquire now coming up, every means were used to stop the effusion, and, happily, with success, but he still remained insensible. Assueton therefore ordered his people to catch some of the horses of those who had fallen; and having placed de Willoughby, Proudfoot, and one or two others of whose recovery there seemed to be good hope, across their saddles, they proceeded charily onwards, and after some hours’ slow travel, brought them safely to Carham, and lodged them under the care of the Black Canons of its Abbey.Having rested and refreshed themselves and their horses there, they crossed the Tweed, and being impatient to return to Hailes, that they might relieve the anxious mind of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne, they arrived there by a forced march.The joy of Sir Patrick at the unexpected return of his daughter may be conceived. He had, as he resolved, gone in pursuit of Assueton, and had used every means in his power to discover the direction in which the Lady Isabelle had been carried; but all his efforts had been fruitless, and they found him in the deepest despair. It is easy to guess what happiness smiled upon that night’s banquet.
[Contents]CHAPTER XXII.Waiting for the Spearmen—The Lady Isabelle’s Tale—The Fight.The party led by Robert Lindsay marched off, and Roger Riddel proceeded to seek out a retired spot where the Lady Isabelle might enjoy a little rest. A mossy bank within the shelter of the wood was soon discovered, and the knight and his fair companion seated themselves, whilst the squire secured their horses at no great distance. Assueton was extremely desirous to learn the history of the lady’s capture, and she proceeded to satisfy him.As she was passing through the woodlands, on her return towards Hailes Castle, after parting from her brother, she was suddenly surrounded by Sir Miers de Willoughby’s party, seized, put on horseback, and carried rapidly off. She was compelled to travel all that day and next night, halting only once or twice for a very short time, to obtain necessary refreshment for the horses and the people; and early next morning they arrived with her at the Castle of Burnstower, where, although every comfort was provided for her, she was subjected to confinement as a prisoner. Sir Miers de Willoughby had taken every opportunity that so rapid a journey afforded, to tease her with offers of love and adoration; and after they reached Burnstower he had spent several hours in making his offensive addresses to her. The lady had repulsed him with a spirit and dignity worthy the daughter of Sir Patrick Hepborne, called upon him boldly to release her at his peril, and made a solemn appeal to Heaven against his treachery and baseness. At length she was relieved of his presence by his being called on some expedition, from which, fortunately for her peace, he did not return till a very late hour, and she saw no more of him that night. But next morning he came again to her apartment, where he compelled her to listen for some hours to addresses which she treated with scorn and indignation. He became enraged, and, in his fury, talked of humbling her pride by other means than fair speeches if he did not find her more compliant on his return from an expedition he was about to proceed upon. She trembled to hear him; but fortunately his immediate absence saved her from further vexation, until she was finally rescued from the villain’s hands by Sir John Assueton.[167]Having completed her narrative, the Lady Isabelle anxiously demanded a similar satisfaction from Assueton, who gave her all the particulars of his adventures, the recital being characterized by the modesty which was natural to him. The lady shuddered and trembled alternately at the perils to which he had been exposed on her account, and her eyes gave forth a plenteous shower of gladness and of gratitude when he had finished. He seized the happy moment for making a full declaration of his passion, and he was repaid for all his miseries, fatigues, dangers, and anxieties, by the soft confession he received from her.After their mutual transports had in some degree subsided, Assueton called Roger Riddel from the spot where, with proper attention to decorum, he had seated himself beyond earshot of their conversation, and interrogated him as to what had occurred to him and Lindsay. Their story was short, and Roger, who was always chary of his words, did not add to its length by circumlocution.“Why, Sir Knight,” said he, “they carried us like bundles of straw to a drearisome vault, and locked us up in the dark. Next day came one Ralpho Proudfoot, with divers rogues—caitiff lossel had some old pique at good Rob Lindsay—swore he would now be ywreken on him—threatened him with hanging—and would have done it with his own hands then, but they would not let him till he got his master’s warrant—swore that he would get the warrant and do execution on Rob to-morrow. So we got beef and ale to breakfast and supper, and slept till your honour wakened us to wend with thee.”Sir John now prevailed upon the Lady Isabelle to take a short repose, whilst he and Riddel watched over her safety. In a little time afterwards, Robert Lindsay returned at the head of his remounted cavalry. Assueton was now himself again, and, with spirits light as air, he and the lady got into their saddles, and proceeded slowly down the glen. To prevent all chance of surprise, Robert Lindsay preceded them with half the party as an advance guard, whilst Roger Riddel brought up the rear with the remainder.The night was so far spent that day dawned ere they had threaded the pass that formed the entrance into the territory of Sir Miers de Willoughby. The sun rose high in all its glory, and threw a flood of golden light over the romantic scenery they were passing through. All nature rejoiced under the benignant influence of his cheering rays; a thousand birds raised their happy wings and melodious voices to heaven; nay, all vegetable[168]as well as animal life seemed to unite in one general choir to pour out their grateful orisons. Nor did the souls of the lovers refuse to join the universal feeling. They each experienced inwardly a joy and a gratitude that surpassed all the power of expression, but which was, perhaps, best uttered in that silent, but not less fervent language used by the devout spirit, when, impressed with a deep sense of the blessings it has received, it rises in secret thanksgivings to its Creator. Each being thus separately occupied in thought, they rode gently on until they had cleared the defiles, and were entering the wider pastures, where the space in the bottom was more extended, and the trees that clothed the sides of the hills, or dropped down occasionally on the more level ground, grew thinner and more scattered.As they were entering one of those little plains through which the stream they had followed meandered, they were surprised by the appearance of a party of armed horsemen approaching from the other extremity of it. Assueton immediately called forward his esquire.“Riddel,” said he, “we know not as yet whether those who come towards us may prove friends or foes; but be they whom they list, to thy faithful charge do I consign the care and protection of the Lady Isabelle; leave not her bridle-rein, whatever may betide. Take three of the spearmen, and let her be always kept in the midst. Should that bandon yonder, that cometh so fast, prove to be hostile, remember thou art in no wise to act offensively unless the lady be attacked; but be it thy duty, and that of those I leave with thee, to think only of defending her to the last extremity. I shall myself ride forward with the rest, to see who these may be.”The Lady Isabelle grew pale with alarm, partly because her lover was probably about to incur danger, but even yet more, if possible, because, in the knight who was approaching at the head of the troop, she already recognized the figure and arms of him from whose power she had so lately escaped.“Blessed Virgin protect us,” cried she, “’tis the caitiff knight de Willoughby who advanceth!”“Is it so?” cried Assueton, his blood boiling at the intelligence; “then, by the Rood of St. Andrew, he shall not hence until I shall have questioned him for his villainy.”He stayed not to say more, but, galloping forward, he reined up his steed in the middle of the way, and instantly addressed the opposite leader.“Halt!” cried he, in a voice of thunder; “halt, Sir Knight, if yet thou mayest deserve a title so honourable; for, of a truth,[169]thou dost not, if thou art he whom I take thee to be. Say, art thou, or art thou not, that malfaitour Sir Miers de Willoughby?”“Though I see no cause why I should respond to a rude question rudely put, yet will I never deny my name,” replied the other, “I am so hight. And now, what hast thou to say to Sir Miers de Willoughby?”“That he no longer deserves to be called a knight, but rather a caitiff robber,” replied Assueton.“Robber!” retorted the other; “dost thou call me robber, that dost wear my baldrick and bugle hanging from thy shoulder?”“Thine!” replied Assueton; “if they be thine, ’tis well thou hast noted them so; I wear them as the gage of my revenge; and I have sworn to wear them until thou payest dearly for the wrong thou hast done to the virtuous Lady Isabelle Hepborne, for I speak not of the base treachery thou didst use towards myself.”“Nay, then,” replied de Willoughby, “it seems thou art determined that we shall do instant battle. Come on, then.”And so saying, he put his lance in the rest and ran his course at Assueton. The Scottish Knight couched his, and, exclaiming aloud, “May God and St. Andrew defend the right,” he put spurs to his horse and rushed at his opponent. They met nearly midway. Sir Miers de Willoughby’s lance glanced aside from Assueton’s cuirass, without doing the firmly-seated knight the smallest injury; but Assueton’s point entering on one side, between the joinings of Sir Miers’ helmet and neck-piece, bore him headlong from his saddle, and stretched him, grievously wounded, on the plain. Meanwhile, before Assueton had time to recollect himself, on came the party of de Willoughby, and, with the natural impression that he would dismount to put their leader to death, charged himen masse. His own spearmen rushed to his rescue, but, before they came, he had so well bestirred himself that he had prostrated three or four of the enemy. The battle now became general; but though the numbers were on the other side, yet the victory was very soon achieved by the prowess of Assueton and his people, who left not a man before them; all, save one only, being either thrown to the ground or forced to seek safety in flight.That one, however, was Ralpho Proudfoot, who at the first onset had singled out Robert Lindsay, with a bloody thirst of long-cherished hatred. Their spears having been splintered in the shock, he had grappled Lindsay by the neck, and the latter seizing his antagonist in his turn, they were both at once dragged[170]from their horses. Rising eagerly at the same moment, however, they drew their swords and attacked each other. Some of Lindsay’s comrades having now no antagonist of their own to oppose, were about to assist him.“Keep off,” cried he immediately, “keep off, my friends, if ye love me; one man is enow, in all conscience, upon one man; so let him kill me if he can, but interfere not between us.”They rained down their blows upon each other with tremendous force, and the combat hung doubtful for a considerable time. Proudfoot’s expression of countenance was savage and devilish. He tried various manœuvres to break through Lindsay’s cool determined guards, but without effect; and, being more desirous of wounding his adversary than of saving himself, he received some severe thrusts. At length, as he attempted to throw his point in on Lindsay’s body, he received a cut from him that laid his arm open from the shoulder to the wrist, and at once rendered it useless. The sword dropped from his hand, and, fainting from the loss of blood that poured from his other wounds, he staggered back a few paces, and fell senseless on the ground. The generous Lindsay, forgetting the brutal threats Proudfoot had uttered against him, ran up to his assistance.“He was my companion when we were boys,” cried he; “oh, let me save him if I can.”And so saying, he ran to the stream, filled his morion with water, and poured it on Proudfoot’s face. He then bathed his wounds, and bound up his arm, and tried to staunch the bleeding from the thrusts he had given him. Nor were his pious and merciful exertions unattended with success. Proudfoot opened his eyes, and, his senses returning to him, he gazed with silent wonder in the face of the man who had, a moment before, fought so manfully against him, and who was now so humanely employed in endeavouring to save his life, and assuage the acuteness of his pains. His own villainous and cruel determinations against Lindsay, which he had been contemplating, the having it in his power to carry into execution that very night, now rushed upon his mind. His conscience, long hardened by guilt and atrocity, was at once melted by that single, but bright ray of goodness, which darted on it from the anxious eye of Lindsay; and days long since past recurring to his memory, he remembered what he had been, and burst into an agony of tears.Assueton had no sooner rid himself of his enemies than he went to assist the wounded and discomfited Sir Miers de Willoughby; and on unlacing his helmet, discovered, to his no small[171]surprise, the features of the very forester who guided him to Burnstower.The evidence of Sir Miers de Willoughby’s villainy was now complete; yet was not the gallant Assueton’s compassion for his hapless state one atom diminished by the discovery. The wound in his neck, though not mortal, bled most profusely, and he lay in a swoon from the quantity of blood he had already lost. The Lady Isabelle and the esquire now coming up, every means were used to stop the effusion, and, happily, with success, but he still remained insensible. Assueton therefore ordered his people to catch some of the horses of those who had fallen; and having placed de Willoughby, Proudfoot, and one or two others of whose recovery there seemed to be good hope, across their saddles, they proceeded charily onwards, and after some hours’ slow travel, brought them safely to Carham, and lodged them under the care of the Black Canons of its Abbey.Having rested and refreshed themselves and their horses there, they crossed the Tweed, and being impatient to return to Hailes, that they might relieve the anxious mind of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne, they arrived there by a forced march.The joy of Sir Patrick at the unexpected return of his daughter may be conceived. He had, as he resolved, gone in pursuit of Assueton, and had used every means in his power to discover the direction in which the Lady Isabelle had been carried; but all his efforts had been fruitless, and they found him in the deepest despair. It is easy to guess what happiness smiled upon that night’s banquet.
CHAPTER XXII.Waiting for the Spearmen—The Lady Isabelle’s Tale—The Fight.
Waiting for the Spearmen—The Lady Isabelle’s Tale—The Fight.
Waiting for the Spearmen—The Lady Isabelle’s Tale—The Fight.
The party led by Robert Lindsay marched off, and Roger Riddel proceeded to seek out a retired spot where the Lady Isabelle might enjoy a little rest. A mossy bank within the shelter of the wood was soon discovered, and the knight and his fair companion seated themselves, whilst the squire secured their horses at no great distance. Assueton was extremely desirous to learn the history of the lady’s capture, and she proceeded to satisfy him.As she was passing through the woodlands, on her return towards Hailes Castle, after parting from her brother, she was suddenly surrounded by Sir Miers de Willoughby’s party, seized, put on horseback, and carried rapidly off. She was compelled to travel all that day and next night, halting only once or twice for a very short time, to obtain necessary refreshment for the horses and the people; and early next morning they arrived with her at the Castle of Burnstower, where, although every comfort was provided for her, she was subjected to confinement as a prisoner. Sir Miers de Willoughby had taken every opportunity that so rapid a journey afforded, to tease her with offers of love and adoration; and after they reached Burnstower he had spent several hours in making his offensive addresses to her. The lady had repulsed him with a spirit and dignity worthy the daughter of Sir Patrick Hepborne, called upon him boldly to release her at his peril, and made a solemn appeal to Heaven against his treachery and baseness. At length she was relieved of his presence by his being called on some expedition, from which, fortunately for her peace, he did not return till a very late hour, and she saw no more of him that night. But next morning he came again to her apartment, where he compelled her to listen for some hours to addresses which she treated with scorn and indignation. He became enraged, and, in his fury, talked of humbling her pride by other means than fair speeches if he did not find her more compliant on his return from an expedition he was about to proceed upon. She trembled to hear him; but fortunately his immediate absence saved her from further vexation, until she was finally rescued from the villain’s hands by Sir John Assueton.[167]Having completed her narrative, the Lady Isabelle anxiously demanded a similar satisfaction from Assueton, who gave her all the particulars of his adventures, the recital being characterized by the modesty which was natural to him. The lady shuddered and trembled alternately at the perils to which he had been exposed on her account, and her eyes gave forth a plenteous shower of gladness and of gratitude when he had finished. He seized the happy moment for making a full declaration of his passion, and he was repaid for all his miseries, fatigues, dangers, and anxieties, by the soft confession he received from her.After their mutual transports had in some degree subsided, Assueton called Roger Riddel from the spot where, with proper attention to decorum, he had seated himself beyond earshot of their conversation, and interrogated him as to what had occurred to him and Lindsay. Their story was short, and Roger, who was always chary of his words, did not add to its length by circumlocution.“Why, Sir Knight,” said he, “they carried us like bundles of straw to a drearisome vault, and locked us up in the dark. Next day came one Ralpho Proudfoot, with divers rogues—caitiff lossel had some old pique at good Rob Lindsay—swore he would now be ywreken on him—threatened him with hanging—and would have done it with his own hands then, but they would not let him till he got his master’s warrant—swore that he would get the warrant and do execution on Rob to-morrow. So we got beef and ale to breakfast and supper, and slept till your honour wakened us to wend with thee.”Sir John now prevailed upon the Lady Isabelle to take a short repose, whilst he and Riddel watched over her safety. In a little time afterwards, Robert Lindsay returned at the head of his remounted cavalry. Assueton was now himself again, and, with spirits light as air, he and the lady got into their saddles, and proceeded slowly down the glen. To prevent all chance of surprise, Robert Lindsay preceded them with half the party as an advance guard, whilst Roger Riddel brought up the rear with the remainder.The night was so far spent that day dawned ere they had threaded the pass that formed the entrance into the territory of Sir Miers de Willoughby. The sun rose high in all its glory, and threw a flood of golden light over the romantic scenery they were passing through. All nature rejoiced under the benignant influence of his cheering rays; a thousand birds raised their happy wings and melodious voices to heaven; nay, all vegetable[168]as well as animal life seemed to unite in one general choir to pour out their grateful orisons. Nor did the souls of the lovers refuse to join the universal feeling. They each experienced inwardly a joy and a gratitude that surpassed all the power of expression, but which was, perhaps, best uttered in that silent, but not less fervent language used by the devout spirit, when, impressed with a deep sense of the blessings it has received, it rises in secret thanksgivings to its Creator. Each being thus separately occupied in thought, they rode gently on until they had cleared the defiles, and were entering the wider pastures, where the space in the bottom was more extended, and the trees that clothed the sides of the hills, or dropped down occasionally on the more level ground, grew thinner and more scattered.As they were entering one of those little plains through which the stream they had followed meandered, they were surprised by the appearance of a party of armed horsemen approaching from the other extremity of it. Assueton immediately called forward his esquire.“Riddel,” said he, “we know not as yet whether those who come towards us may prove friends or foes; but be they whom they list, to thy faithful charge do I consign the care and protection of the Lady Isabelle; leave not her bridle-rein, whatever may betide. Take three of the spearmen, and let her be always kept in the midst. Should that bandon yonder, that cometh so fast, prove to be hostile, remember thou art in no wise to act offensively unless the lady be attacked; but be it thy duty, and that of those I leave with thee, to think only of defending her to the last extremity. I shall myself ride forward with the rest, to see who these may be.”The Lady Isabelle grew pale with alarm, partly because her lover was probably about to incur danger, but even yet more, if possible, because, in the knight who was approaching at the head of the troop, she already recognized the figure and arms of him from whose power she had so lately escaped.“Blessed Virgin protect us,” cried she, “’tis the caitiff knight de Willoughby who advanceth!”“Is it so?” cried Assueton, his blood boiling at the intelligence; “then, by the Rood of St. Andrew, he shall not hence until I shall have questioned him for his villainy.”He stayed not to say more, but, galloping forward, he reined up his steed in the middle of the way, and instantly addressed the opposite leader.“Halt!” cried he, in a voice of thunder; “halt, Sir Knight, if yet thou mayest deserve a title so honourable; for, of a truth,[169]thou dost not, if thou art he whom I take thee to be. Say, art thou, or art thou not, that malfaitour Sir Miers de Willoughby?”“Though I see no cause why I should respond to a rude question rudely put, yet will I never deny my name,” replied the other, “I am so hight. And now, what hast thou to say to Sir Miers de Willoughby?”“That he no longer deserves to be called a knight, but rather a caitiff robber,” replied Assueton.“Robber!” retorted the other; “dost thou call me robber, that dost wear my baldrick and bugle hanging from thy shoulder?”“Thine!” replied Assueton; “if they be thine, ’tis well thou hast noted them so; I wear them as the gage of my revenge; and I have sworn to wear them until thou payest dearly for the wrong thou hast done to the virtuous Lady Isabelle Hepborne, for I speak not of the base treachery thou didst use towards myself.”“Nay, then,” replied de Willoughby, “it seems thou art determined that we shall do instant battle. Come on, then.”And so saying, he put his lance in the rest and ran his course at Assueton. The Scottish Knight couched his, and, exclaiming aloud, “May God and St. Andrew defend the right,” he put spurs to his horse and rushed at his opponent. They met nearly midway. Sir Miers de Willoughby’s lance glanced aside from Assueton’s cuirass, without doing the firmly-seated knight the smallest injury; but Assueton’s point entering on one side, between the joinings of Sir Miers’ helmet and neck-piece, bore him headlong from his saddle, and stretched him, grievously wounded, on the plain. Meanwhile, before Assueton had time to recollect himself, on came the party of de Willoughby, and, with the natural impression that he would dismount to put their leader to death, charged himen masse. His own spearmen rushed to his rescue, but, before they came, he had so well bestirred himself that he had prostrated three or four of the enemy. The battle now became general; but though the numbers were on the other side, yet the victory was very soon achieved by the prowess of Assueton and his people, who left not a man before them; all, save one only, being either thrown to the ground or forced to seek safety in flight.That one, however, was Ralpho Proudfoot, who at the first onset had singled out Robert Lindsay, with a bloody thirst of long-cherished hatred. Their spears having been splintered in the shock, he had grappled Lindsay by the neck, and the latter seizing his antagonist in his turn, they were both at once dragged[170]from their horses. Rising eagerly at the same moment, however, they drew their swords and attacked each other. Some of Lindsay’s comrades having now no antagonist of their own to oppose, were about to assist him.“Keep off,” cried he immediately, “keep off, my friends, if ye love me; one man is enow, in all conscience, upon one man; so let him kill me if he can, but interfere not between us.”They rained down their blows upon each other with tremendous force, and the combat hung doubtful for a considerable time. Proudfoot’s expression of countenance was savage and devilish. He tried various manœuvres to break through Lindsay’s cool determined guards, but without effect; and, being more desirous of wounding his adversary than of saving himself, he received some severe thrusts. At length, as he attempted to throw his point in on Lindsay’s body, he received a cut from him that laid his arm open from the shoulder to the wrist, and at once rendered it useless. The sword dropped from his hand, and, fainting from the loss of blood that poured from his other wounds, he staggered back a few paces, and fell senseless on the ground. The generous Lindsay, forgetting the brutal threats Proudfoot had uttered against him, ran up to his assistance.“He was my companion when we were boys,” cried he; “oh, let me save him if I can.”And so saying, he ran to the stream, filled his morion with water, and poured it on Proudfoot’s face. He then bathed his wounds, and bound up his arm, and tried to staunch the bleeding from the thrusts he had given him. Nor were his pious and merciful exertions unattended with success. Proudfoot opened his eyes, and, his senses returning to him, he gazed with silent wonder in the face of the man who had, a moment before, fought so manfully against him, and who was now so humanely employed in endeavouring to save his life, and assuage the acuteness of his pains. His own villainous and cruel determinations against Lindsay, which he had been contemplating, the having it in his power to carry into execution that very night, now rushed upon his mind. His conscience, long hardened by guilt and atrocity, was at once melted by that single, but bright ray of goodness, which darted on it from the anxious eye of Lindsay; and days long since past recurring to his memory, he remembered what he had been, and burst into an agony of tears.Assueton had no sooner rid himself of his enemies than he went to assist the wounded and discomfited Sir Miers de Willoughby; and on unlacing his helmet, discovered, to his no small[171]surprise, the features of the very forester who guided him to Burnstower.The evidence of Sir Miers de Willoughby’s villainy was now complete; yet was not the gallant Assueton’s compassion for his hapless state one atom diminished by the discovery. The wound in his neck, though not mortal, bled most profusely, and he lay in a swoon from the quantity of blood he had already lost. The Lady Isabelle and the esquire now coming up, every means were used to stop the effusion, and, happily, with success, but he still remained insensible. Assueton therefore ordered his people to catch some of the horses of those who had fallen; and having placed de Willoughby, Proudfoot, and one or two others of whose recovery there seemed to be good hope, across their saddles, they proceeded charily onwards, and after some hours’ slow travel, brought them safely to Carham, and lodged them under the care of the Black Canons of its Abbey.Having rested and refreshed themselves and their horses there, they crossed the Tweed, and being impatient to return to Hailes, that they might relieve the anxious mind of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne, they arrived there by a forced march.The joy of Sir Patrick at the unexpected return of his daughter may be conceived. He had, as he resolved, gone in pursuit of Assueton, and had used every means in his power to discover the direction in which the Lady Isabelle had been carried; but all his efforts had been fruitless, and they found him in the deepest despair. It is easy to guess what happiness smiled upon that night’s banquet.
The party led by Robert Lindsay marched off, and Roger Riddel proceeded to seek out a retired spot where the Lady Isabelle might enjoy a little rest. A mossy bank within the shelter of the wood was soon discovered, and the knight and his fair companion seated themselves, whilst the squire secured their horses at no great distance. Assueton was extremely desirous to learn the history of the lady’s capture, and she proceeded to satisfy him.
As she was passing through the woodlands, on her return towards Hailes Castle, after parting from her brother, she was suddenly surrounded by Sir Miers de Willoughby’s party, seized, put on horseback, and carried rapidly off. She was compelled to travel all that day and next night, halting only once or twice for a very short time, to obtain necessary refreshment for the horses and the people; and early next morning they arrived with her at the Castle of Burnstower, where, although every comfort was provided for her, she was subjected to confinement as a prisoner. Sir Miers de Willoughby had taken every opportunity that so rapid a journey afforded, to tease her with offers of love and adoration; and after they reached Burnstower he had spent several hours in making his offensive addresses to her. The lady had repulsed him with a spirit and dignity worthy the daughter of Sir Patrick Hepborne, called upon him boldly to release her at his peril, and made a solemn appeal to Heaven against his treachery and baseness. At length she was relieved of his presence by his being called on some expedition, from which, fortunately for her peace, he did not return till a very late hour, and she saw no more of him that night. But next morning he came again to her apartment, where he compelled her to listen for some hours to addresses which she treated with scorn and indignation. He became enraged, and, in his fury, talked of humbling her pride by other means than fair speeches if he did not find her more compliant on his return from an expedition he was about to proceed upon. She trembled to hear him; but fortunately his immediate absence saved her from further vexation, until she was finally rescued from the villain’s hands by Sir John Assueton.[167]
Having completed her narrative, the Lady Isabelle anxiously demanded a similar satisfaction from Assueton, who gave her all the particulars of his adventures, the recital being characterized by the modesty which was natural to him. The lady shuddered and trembled alternately at the perils to which he had been exposed on her account, and her eyes gave forth a plenteous shower of gladness and of gratitude when he had finished. He seized the happy moment for making a full declaration of his passion, and he was repaid for all his miseries, fatigues, dangers, and anxieties, by the soft confession he received from her.
After their mutual transports had in some degree subsided, Assueton called Roger Riddel from the spot where, with proper attention to decorum, he had seated himself beyond earshot of their conversation, and interrogated him as to what had occurred to him and Lindsay. Their story was short, and Roger, who was always chary of his words, did not add to its length by circumlocution.
“Why, Sir Knight,” said he, “they carried us like bundles of straw to a drearisome vault, and locked us up in the dark. Next day came one Ralpho Proudfoot, with divers rogues—caitiff lossel had some old pique at good Rob Lindsay—swore he would now be ywreken on him—threatened him with hanging—and would have done it with his own hands then, but they would not let him till he got his master’s warrant—swore that he would get the warrant and do execution on Rob to-morrow. So we got beef and ale to breakfast and supper, and slept till your honour wakened us to wend with thee.”
Sir John now prevailed upon the Lady Isabelle to take a short repose, whilst he and Riddel watched over her safety. In a little time afterwards, Robert Lindsay returned at the head of his remounted cavalry. Assueton was now himself again, and, with spirits light as air, he and the lady got into their saddles, and proceeded slowly down the glen. To prevent all chance of surprise, Robert Lindsay preceded them with half the party as an advance guard, whilst Roger Riddel brought up the rear with the remainder.
The night was so far spent that day dawned ere they had threaded the pass that formed the entrance into the territory of Sir Miers de Willoughby. The sun rose high in all its glory, and threw a flood of golden light over the romantic scenery they were passing through. All nature rejoiced under the benignant influence of his cheering rays; a thousand birds raised their happy wings and melodious voices to heaven; nay, all vegetable[168]as well as animal life seemed to unite in one general choir to pour out their grateful orisons. Nor did the souls of the lovers refuse to join the universal feeling. They each experienced inwardly a joy and a gratitude that surpassed all the power of expression, but which was, perhaps, best uttered in that silent, but not less fervent language used by the devout spirit, when, impressed with a deep sense of the blessings it has received, it rises in secret thanksgivings to its Creator. Each being thus separately occupied in thought, they rode gently on until they had cleared the defiles, and were entering the wider pastures, where the space in the bottom was more extended, and the trees that clothed the sides of the hills, or dropped down occasionally on the more level ground, grew thinner and more scattered.
As they were entering one of those little plains through which the stream they had followed meandered, they were surprised by the appearance of a party of armed horsemen approaching from the other extremity of it. Assueton immediately called forward his esquire.
“Riddel,” said he, “we know not as yet whether those who come towards us may prove friends or foes; but be they whom they list, to thy faithful charge do I consign the care and protection of the Lady Isabelle; leave not her bridle-rein, whatever may betide. Take three of the spearmen, and let her be always kept in the midst. Should that bandon yonder, that cometh so fast, prove to be hostile, remember thou art in no wise to act offensively unless the lady be attacked; but be it thy duty, and that of those I leave with thee, to think only of defending her to the last extremity. I shall myself ride forward with the rest, to see who these may be.”
The Lady Isabelle grew pale with alarm, partly because her lover was probably about to incur danger, but even yet more, if possible, because, in the knight who was approaching at the head of the troop, she already recognized the figure and arms of him from whose power she had so lately escaped.
“Blessed Virgin protect us,” cried she, “’tis the caitiff knight de Willoughby who advanceth!”
“Is it so?” cried Assueton, his blood boiling at the intelligence; “then, by the Rood of St. Andrew, he shall not hence until I shall have questioned him for his villainy.”
He stayed not to say more, but, galloping forward, he reined up his steed in the middle of the way, and instantly addressed the opposite leader.
“Halt!” cried he, in a voice of thunder; “halt, Sir Knight, if yet thou mayest deserve a title so honourable; for, of a truth,[169]thou dost not, if thou art he whom I take thee to be. Say, art thou, or art thou not, that malfaitour Sir Miers de Willoughby?”
“Though I see no cause why I should respond to a rude question rudely put, yet will I never deny my name,” replied the other, “I am so hight. And now, what hast thou to say to Sir Miers de Willoughby?”
“That he no longer deserves to be called a knight, but rather a caitiff robber,” replied Assueton.
“Robber!” retorted the other; “dost thou call me robber, that dost wear my baldrick and bugle hanging from thy shoulder?”
“Thine!” replied Assueton; “if they be thine, ’tis well thou hast noted them so; I wear them as the gage of my revenge; and I have sworn to wear them until thou payest dearly for the wrong thou hast done to the virtuous Lady Isabelle Hepborne, for I speak not of the base treachery thou didst use towards myself.”
“Nay, then,” replied de Willoughby, “it seems thou art determined that we shall do instant battle. Come on, then.”
And so saying, he put his lance in the rest and ran his course at Assueton. The Scottish Knight couched his, and, exclaiming aloud, “May God and St. Andrew defend the right,” he put spurs to his horse and rushed at his opponent. They met nearly midway. Sir Miers de Willoughby’s lance glanced aside from Assueton’s cuirass, without doing the firmly-seated knight the smallest injury; but Assueton’s point entering on one side, between the joinings of Sir Miers’ helmet and neck-piece, bore him headlong from his saddle, and stretched him, grievously wounded, on the plain. Meanwhile, before Assueton had time to recollect himself, on came the party of de Willoughby, and, with the natural impression that he would dismount to put their leader to death, charged himen masse. His own spearmen rushed to his rescue, but, before they came, he had so well bestirred himself that he had prostrated three or four of the enemy. The battle now became general; but though the numbers were on the other side, yet the victory was very soon achieved by the prowess of Assueton and his people, who left not a man before them; all, save one only, being either thrown to the ground or forced to seek safety in flight.
That one, however, was Ralpho Proudfoot, who at the first onset had singled out Robert Lindsay, with a bloody thirst of long-cherished hatred. Their spears having been splintered in the shock, he had grappled Lindsay by the neck, and the latter seizing his antagonist in his turn, they were both at once dragged[170]from their horses. Rising eagerly at the same moment, however, they drew their swords and attacked each other. Some of Lindsay’s comrades having now no antagonist of their own to oppose, were about to assist him.
“Keep off,” cried he immediately, “keep off, my friends, if ye love me; one man is enow, in all conscience, upon one man; so let him kill me if he can, but interfere not between us.”
They rained down their blows upon each other with tremendous force, and the combat hung doubtful for a considerable time. Proudfoot’s expression of countenance was savage and devilish. He tried various manœuvres to break through Lindsay’s cool determined guards, but without effect; and, being more desirous of wounding his adversary than of saving himself, he received some severe thrusts. At length, as he attempted to throw his point in on Lindsay’s body, he received a cut from him that laid his arm open from the shoulder to the wrist, and at once rendered it useless. The sword dropped from his hand, and, fainting from the loss of blood that poured from his other wounds, he staggered back a few paces, and fell senseless on the ground. The generous Lindsay, forgetting the brutal threats Proudfoot had uttered against him, ran up to his assistance.
“He was my companion when we were boys,” cried he; “oh, let me save him if I can.”
And so saying, he ran to the stream, filled his morion with water, and poured it on Proudfoot’s face. He then bathed his wounds, and bound up his arm, and tried to staunch the bleeding from the thrusts he had given him. Nor were his pious and merciful exertions unattended with success. Proudfoot opened his eyes, and, his senses returning to him, he gazed with silent wonder in the face of the man who had, a moment before, fought so manfully against him, and who was now so humanely employed in endeavouring to save his life, and assuage the acuteness of his pains. His own villainous and cruel determinations against Lindsay, which he had been contemplating, the having it in his power to carry into execution that very night, now rushed upon his mind. His conscience, long hardened by guilt and atrocity, was at once melted by that single, but bright ray of goodness, which darted on it from the anxious eye of Lindsay; and days long since past recurring to his memory, he remembered what he had been, and burst into an agony of tears.
Assueton had no sooner rid himself of his enemies than he went to assist the wounded and discomfited Sir Miers de Willoughby; and on unlacing his helmet, discovered, to his no small[171]surprise, the features of the very forester who guided him to Burnstower.
The evidence of Sir Miers de Willoughby’s villainy was now complete; yet was not the gallant Assueton’s compassion for his hapless state one atom diminished by the discovery. The wound in his neck, though not mortal, bled most profusely, and he lay in a swoon from the quantity of blood he had already lost. The Lady Isabelle and the esquire now coming up, every means were used to stop the effusion, and, happily, with success, but he still remained insensible. Assueton therefore ordered his people to catch some of the horses of those who had fallen; and having placed de Willoughby, Proudfoot, and one or two others of whose recovery there seemed to be good hope, across their saddles, they proceeded charily onwards, and after some hours’ slow travel, brought them safely to Carham, and lodged them under the care of the Black Canons of its Abbey.
Having rested and refreshed themselves and their horses there, they crossed the Tweed, and being impatient to return to Hailes, that they might relieve the anxious mind of the elder Sir Patrick Hepborne, they arrived there by a forced march.
The joy of Sir Patrick at the unexpected return of his daughter may be conceived. He had, as he resolved, gone in pursuit of Assueton, and had used every means in his power to discover the direction in which the Lady Isabelle had been carried; but all his efforts had been fruitless, and they found him in the deepest despair. It is easy to guess what happiness smiled upon that night’s banquet.