Let us take up the history of the woodman, after he and the bishop of Ely had quitted Lord Chartley. They crossed rapidly over the road, hearing the sound of horses advancing, and of men speaking, as they did so. Neither uttered a word; and the prelate was hastily directing his steps towards a spot where, by the dim light, he saw what seemed a continuation of the path he had just quitted, but the woodman seized his arm, and drew him on a little way up the road to a place where the bushes seemed so thick as to afford no passage through them. Putting aside the branches, however, with his sturdy arm, Boyd dragged rather than led Morton forward; and, for some way, the good bishop fancied that they should never find a path again, so thick and difficult seemed the copse. It extended not fifty yards, however; and, though somewhat scratched by the brambles, which clung round his feet and legs at every step, Morton, at length, found himself emerging into an open part of the wood, where the ground was covered with thick fern, out of which, every here and there, rose an old hawthorn or the bushy shoots of an oak or beech felled long ago.
"'Tis a rough road," said the woodman, in a low voice, as he relaxed his hold of the prelate's arm.
"So are all the ways of life, my son," answered the bishop.
"And the roughest often the safest," answered Boyd. "I know it by experience. Smooth paths end in precipices."
At that instant something started up before them out of the fern, and a quick rush was heard through the neighbouring brushwood. The bishop started, and drew a little back, but Boyd said with a laugh,--
"'Tis but a doe, my lord. If she find her way amongst the soldiers, there will be more chases than one to-night. Fear not, however. I will answer for your safety, though not for hers."
"I do not fear," answered the prelate. "Indeed, I am little given to fear; but, as you doubtless well know, my son, the mind has not always that command over the body which can prevent the mere animal impulse from starting at dangers, which calm consideration could meet unshrinking."
"True," replied the woodman. "So long as life is happy it may be so; but with the loss of all that makes existence valuable, the body itself loses its sensibility to all signs of danger. Hope, dread, anxiety, and the struggle with the ills of life, make us vibrate as it were to the touch of all external things; but when hope and fear are dead, when there is neither care nor thought of existence, 'tis wonderful how this blind horse of the body, ridden by that plodding wayfarer, the mind, learns to jog on, without starting at anything that glistens on the way.--But come on, my good lord, for I must take you first to my cottage, and then send you forward some miles upon your journey."
Thus saying, he walked forward; and the good bishop followed through the more open space, musing as he went; for, to say the truth, he was pulled different ways by different inclinations. Self-preservation, was, of course, one great object, and that led him to desire immediate escape; but yet there was another object, which he had much at heart, and which would have bound him to remain. Nor was he a man who would suffer the consideration of personal safety alone to make him abandon what he considered a duty; but, as yet, he knew not fully what were the risks, and what the probabilities; and, as the only means of obtaining information, he, at length, after some consideration, determined to have recourse to the woodman. Boyd was striding on, however; and it cost the prelate two or three quick steps to overtake him, so as to be able to speak in that low tone which he judged necessary in the existing circumstances.
"You think you can insure my safety," he said.
"Beyond a doubt," replied the woodman, laconically.
"But only, I suppose, by instant flight," said the prelate.
"By flight before daylight," replied Boyd.
"But if I tell you," continued the bishop, "that it is absolutely necessary, for a great purpose I have in view, that I should remain in this immediate neighbourhood for some few days, do you think it possible for me to lie concealed here, till I receive the intelligence I am seeking? Remember, I do not heed a little risk, so that my object be attained."
"That is brave," answered Boyd; "but yet 'tis difficult to weigh nicely in the balance, for another man, the estimation of his own life. If I knew what you sought, I could judge better. However, I will say this: the risk were very great to stay, but yet such as any one of courage would encounter for a great and noble object."
"Then I will stay," replied the bishop, firmly. "My object is a great and, I believe, a just and holy one, and life must not be weighed in the balance against it."
"Would that I knew what it is," said the woodman, "for methinks I might show you that more may be gained by going than by staying. Of that, however, anon. Let me see if I can divine your object."
The bishop shook his head, saying--
"That is not possible. You are keen and shrewd, I see; but this you could not discover by any means, without information from others."
"I may have more information than you fancy," answered Boyd; "but at all events you must tell me fairly if I am right. You were once esteemed and promoted by Harry the Sixth. The house of Lancaster gave your first patrons."
The bishop winced a little--
"True," he said, "true!"
"The house of Lancaster fell," continued the woodman; "and, after the king's death, you continued in office under the opposite faction--I do not blame you, for the cause seemed hopeless."
"Nay, but hear me," said the bishop, in a louder tone than he had hitherto used. "You speak somewhat authoritatively; and I must explain."
"I speak plain truth," replied the woodman. "At this hour of the night, and under these grey boughs, we are upon a par. Elsewhere, it is, Morton, Lord Bishop of Ely, and Boyd the woodman. But I have said, I blame you not. What need of explanations?"
"Yes, there is need," answered the bishop. "I had my motive for doing as I have done, and that motive sufficient for my own conscience. As you say, the cause of Lancaster had fallen, and hopelessly fallen. All efforts in its favour could but produce more bloodshed, and protract a desolating civil strife. By yielding to the conqueror, by giving him the counsel of a christian man, not unversed in affairs of state, I did believe--I do believe, that I could, and did, do more good than if I had withdrawn from the counsels of the ruler of the country, and joined with those who sought to throw him from his seat. I never advised in those affairs where York and Lancaster opposed each other. It was part of my compact with him, that I should take no share in acts or councils against a family I once had served. Yet in my humble way I could do good, in moderating the fury of men's passions, and the rancour of party strife."
"You plead, my lord, to an indictment I have never laid," replied the woodman. "I blame you not. I never thought of blaming you. But hear me on! You became attached to a prince who favoured you greatly--a man of many high qualities, and also of many great vices; brave, courteous, graceful, and good-humoured; lewd, idle, insincere, and cruel; a consummate general, a short-seeing statesman, a bad king, a heartless kinsman, a man of pleasant converse, and a devoted friend. You loved him well; you loved his children better, and would not consent to their murder."
"Nay, nay, not their murder," cried the bishop; "no one ever ventured to speak of their death. Even now, we know not that they are really dead; but I believe it. If you had said, I would not be consenting to their deprivation of their rights, you had been justified."
"'Tis the same thing," answered the woodman; "deposed princes live not long, where they have many friends in the realm they lose. However, committed to the Tower, and then to the custody of Buckingham, you found means to make of your jailor your friend, choosing dexterously a moment of disappointment to turn him to your purposes. I speak now only from hearsay; but, I am told, you two together framed a scheme for choosing a new king from the race you first served, and uniting him to the heiress of your second lord. It was a glorious and well-devised plan, worthy of a great statesman--ay, and of a christian prelate; for thereby you might hope to end for ever a strife which has desolated England for half a century--but rash Buckingham lost all at the first attempt. The scheme still lives however, I am told, though one of the great schemers is no more. The other walks here beside me, returned in secret to his native land, after a brief exile, and the question is, for what? Money, perhaps, or arms, or friends, I may be told. Yet he would linger still for some intelligence, even when his life is staked! Has he heard of machinations going on in Britanny, for the overthrow of all his plans, by the betrayal of him on whom their success depends? Has he heard of secret negotiations between the usurper and a feeble duke or his mercenary minister? Does he wish to obtain the certainty of such things? and is he willing to stake his life upon the chance of discovering the truth?"
He paused as if for an answer; and the bishop, who had been buried in deep thought--considering less the questions put and the tale told, for all that was speedily digested, than the character of his companion--replied at once--
"You are an extraordinary man, sir, and must speak from something more sure than a mere guess."
"Assuredly," replied the woodman, "I speak from calculation. He who, in the calm retirement of a lowly station, removed afar from his fellow men, has still a fair view of the deeds they do, can often, by seeing things hidden from the eyes of those who are near the scene of action, judge of the motives and the result, which the one part of those engaged do not know, and the other do not perceive. I once stood upon a high hill, while a battle raged at my feet, and could I have directed, with the prospect of the whole before me, I could have made either army win the field; for I saw what neither saw, and understood what neither understood. Thus is it with a man who stands afar from the troublous strife of human life, with his eye above the passions, the prejudices, and the vanities which more or less interrupt each man's vision on the wide plain of the world where the combat is going on. But yet you have not answered my question. Have I divined rightly or not?"
The bishop paused for another instant, and then replied--
"Why should I not speak? My life is in your hand. I can trust no greater thing than I have trusted. You are right. I have heard of these machinations; and I have laid my plans for frustrating them, or at least discovering them. My faithful servant, companion, and friend, who has accompanied me in all my wanderings, has gone on with Sir Charles Weinants even now; for that is the man who has been entrusted with many a secret negotiation between England and Britanny. He, my servant, will return in disguise to seek me at the abbey; and, if I should go before he arrives, I carry no definite information with me."
"You must go before he arrives," replied the woodman, "or 'tis likely you will not go at all; but you shall not go bootless.--Now let us be silent and cautious, for we are coming near more dangerous ground."
The hint was not lost upon the bishop, who, though bold and resolute, as I have shown, did not think it necessary to sport with life as a thing of no value. While this conversation had been taking place, they had traversed that more open space of forest ground, which has been mentioned, and were approaching a thicker copse, where sturdy underwood filled all the spaces between the larger trees. It seemed to the bishop, in the dimness of the night, that there would be no possibility of penetrating the vast mass of tangled thicket which rose sweeping up the side of the hill before his eyes; but still the woodman bent his step straight towards it, till at length he paused at a spot where there seemed no possible entrance.
"We are now coming near one of the wider roads of the wood," he said, in a whisper; "and the little path by which I will lead you runs within a hundred yards of it, for more than a mile. We must therefore keep silent, and even let our footfalls be light."
"If we have to force our way through all this brushwood," answered the bishop in the same tone, "the noise will instantly betray the way we take."
"Fear not," replied Boyd, "only follow me close and steadily. Leaders make bad followers, I know; but it must be so just now."
Thus saying, he pushed aside some of the young ash trees, and held them back with his strong arm, while the bishop came after. Three steps were sufficient to bring them, through the thick screen, to the end of a small path, not above three feet in width, but perfectly clear and open. It was drawn in a line as straight as a bowstring, and had probably been formed for the purposes of the chase; for arrow or bolt sent along it could not fail to hit any object of large size, such as a stag or fallow deer, at any point within shot. The bishop, it is true, could not see all this, for the boughs were thick overhead, though cleared away at the sides; and he followed slowly and cautiously upon the woodman's steps, setting down his feet with that sort of timid doubt which every one feels more or less when plunged in utter darkness.
Steadily and quietly the woodman walked on, seeming to see his way as well in the deep night as he could have done in the full day; and at length, after having proceeded, for what seemed to his companion much more than one mile, he again stopped, where the path abruptly terminated in another thicket. As no sign would have been effectual to convey his meaning, in the profound darkness which reigned around, the woodman was fain to whisper to his companion, to remain for a moment where he stood, while an examination was made to ascertain whether the great road was clear. He then forced his way forward through the boughs; and a moment after the bishop heard the whining of a dog, followed by the voice of the woodman, saying, "Down, Ban, down. Seek, boy, seek. Is there a strange foot?"
A short interval elapsed; and then was heard the sound of a low growl, very close to the spot where the prelate himself was stationed.
"Nay, that is a friend," said the woodman, in a low tone. "Come in, Ban! To heel, good dog."
The sound of the stout and stalwart form of his companion, pushing its way once more through the brushwood, was then heard; and Boyd again stood by the good prelate's side.
"All is safe," he said; "and now you must force your way forward, at the risk of tearing your gown. But never mind that, for you must not travel in this attire;" and he led the way on.
After a struggle of some difficulty with the brambles and thin shoots of the ash which formed the copse, the bishop found himself in the midst of a small open space, with the road running across it, and the woodman's cottage on the other side. The door was open; and a faint glare, as from a half-extinguished fire, came forth into the air, showing the tall sinewy form of the woodman, and the gaunt outline of his gigantic hound. The cottage soon received the whole party; and, closing and barring the door, Boyd pointed to the threshold, saying to the dog, "Down, Ban! Watch!" and immediately the obedient animal laid himself across the door way, and remained with his head raised, his ears erect, and his muzzle turned towards the entrance, as if listening for the sound of approaching footsteps.
"Now, reverend father and good lord," said Boyd, "we must not daily. You must throw away that gown, and put on this common waggoner's frock. You must cover the tonsure with this peasant's bonnet, and take part in driving a load of wood a stage on the way to Litchfield. You will be met with by those who will see you safely to the coast; and you will have one with you who will in reality perform the office--unworthy of your profession and name--which you must seem to fulfil only for the sake of security. I will bring you the garments in a moment; but first," he continued, "let me place in your hands this letter, which you must conceal with the greatest care, and contrive to convey it to the earl of Richmond. How it fell into my hands matters not; but, if you run your eye over it, you will see that it contains all the information for which you were inclined to wait.--Stay, I will give you a light;" and, stirring the fire into a blaze, he lighted a lamp at the flame.
"Ha, from Landais, himself," exclaimed the bishop, as he read the letter, "with a promise to arrest the earl and all his companions, as soon as Richard's ambassador has arrived, and the money is paid!--The money is paid! What may that mean?"
"Can you not divine, good father?" asked the woodman. "In this good world of ours, there is a price for everything. We are all merchants, traders with what we make, or with what we possess. One man sells his barony, another his honour, another his conscience, another his soul. One acquires for himself power and sells the use of it, another gains a reputation and trades on that, as others do on learning or on skill. There is a difference of prices too; and the coin in which men require payment is various. A kingly crown is the price which some demand; a high office the price of others. The crosier or the triple crown is one man's price; the smile of a fair lady is another's; the sordid soul requires mere money; and this Landais, this Breton peasant, risen to be the minister and ruler of his imbecile prince, sells the duke's honour and his own for hard gold, Ha, ha, ha! He is quite right; for, of all the things which go to purchase such commodities, gold is the only solid permanent possession. What is honour, fame, power, or even woman's smile, but the empty, transitory, visionary deceit of an hour. Gold, gold, my lord bishop, untarnishable, persisting, ever-valuable gold is the only proper payment, when honesty, honour, feeling, and character are to be sold--Upon my life, I think so!--But there is the letter. Let the duke have it; show him the toils that are around him; and bid him break through before they close upon him."
"This is important, indeed," said the bishop, who had been reading the letter attentively; "and it shall be in the hands of the earl as soon as it be possible to deliver it. One question, however, let me ask you. Who, shall I tell the earl, has procured and sent to him this most valuable information? for I do not affect to believe that you are that which you seem to be."
"Nothing is what it seems to be," replied the woodman; "no, nothing in this world. It is a place of unreal things; but yet you might have satisfied yourself at the abbey, that Boyd the woodman is a faithful servant of the good abbess and nuns of St. Clare, and has been so long enough for them to have great confidence in him. However," he continued, in a somewhat changed tone, "tell the earl of Richmond, you have had it from a man who may ask his reward hereafter; for we are all mercenary. That reward shall neither be in gold, nor estates, nor honours, nor titles; but, when the struggle before him is accomplished, and he is successful, as he will be, then perchance Boyd the woodman may ask a boon; and it shall be but one.--Now I bring you your disguise;" and, passing through the door in the back of the room, he disappeared for a moment or two, and then returned, loaded with various pieces of apparel. The bishop smiled as he put them on; and the transformation was certainly most complete, as the frock of the carter was substituted for that of the monk, and the peasant's bonnet took the place of the cowl.
"We must get rid of your sandals, my lord," said the woodman; "and that is the most difficult part of the matter; for my foot is well nigh twice as large as yours, so that my boots will fit but ill."
"We will manage it," answered the bishop, "for I will thrust my feet in, sandals and all, and that will fill them up."
The woodman laughed; but the plan seemed a good one, and was adopted.
"Here is a little Venice mirror," said the woodman. "Now look at yourself, my good lord. I will not ask, if your best friend would know you, for dear friends always forget; but would your bitterest enemy recognise you, though hatred has so long a memory?"
"I do not think he would," answered the bishop, smiling at his own appearance; "but yet I fear, if we should be met in the wood by any of these people, and detained, they may discover me by the tonsure."
"We will not be met," answered Boyd. "Now, follow me; but first stick this axe into your girdle, which may serve, both as an ensign of your new trade, and a means of defence."
The woodman then led his companion through the door in the back of the room into another large chamber behind. Thence, after locking the door, he took his way through a shed, half filled with piles of firewood; and then, proceeding through an orchard, surrounded on three sides by the forest, he entered a little garden of pot-herbs, at the farther end of which was a fence of rough-hewn oak.
On approaching the paling, the bishop found himself standing on the edge of a very steep bank, at the bottom of which he could catch the glistening of a stream; and, after a warning to take good heed to his footing, the woodman led him down a flight of steep steps, cut in the bank, to a small path, which ran along by the side of the water. The dell, which the stream had apparently channelled for itself, and which was flanked by woody banks, varying from twenty to forty feet in height, extended for nearly a mile through the wood, and at length issued forth from the forest screen, at the edge of a rich and well-cultivated tract of country.
At this spot there was a bridge, over which ran one of the roads from the abbey; but the little path, which the woodman and his companion were following, passed under the bridge by the side of the river; and Boyd continued to pursue it for two or three hundred yards farther. He then ascended the bank, which had by this time become low and sloping, and took his way across a field to the right, so as to join the road at some distance from the bridge. A few yards in advance was seen a lantern, and a wood-cart with its team of horses, and two men standing by its side. To one of these the woodman spoke for a few moments in a low voice; and then, turning to the other, he said, "You understand your orders, David. Here is the man who is to go with you--Now, my lord," he continued, in a whisper; "you had better get up on the front of the waggon. I must here leave you; for I have the security of some others to provide for."
"I trust my fair guide from the abbey has met with no peril on her return," said the bishop in a whisper. "It would be bitter to me indeed if any evil befel her in consequence of her charity towards me."
"I trust not," said the woodman; "but yet I now find she could not return to the abbey, and has taken refuge elsewhere. There were eyes watching her she knew not of, and help at hand in case she needed it. But I must go and provide for all this; for a fair girl like that ought not to be trusted too long with a gay young lord. He seems a good youth, 'tis true, though wild and rash enough."
"Oh, he may be fully trusted," replied the prelate. "I will be his sponsor, for he was brought up under my own eye, and I know every turn of his mind. His rashness is but manner, and his light gaiety but the sparkling of a spirit which has no dark thought or memory to make it gloomy. If he is with her, she is safe enough; for he would neither wrong her nor see her wronged."
"Nevertheless, I must see to the safety of both," replied the woodman; "so now farewell, and peace attend you--Stay, let me help you up."
Thus saying, he aided the bishop to mount upon the front of the cart; and at a crack of the waggoner's whip the team moved slowly on.
The lighted brand which Chartley carried in his hand hardly remained unextinguished till he and Iola had passed through the deep gateway into the large hall; but there they found much more light than they had expected, for the fire in the court-yard threw a broad glare over the two large windows, and served, in some degree, to illuminate the interior. It was one of those vast old halls, of which but few are now remaining, though at that time no great baronial residence was without one of them. Some indeed were of greater extent than the one I now speak of; but few, if any, had a bolder sweep of arch than was displayed by the vaulted roof which now covered the young nobleman and his companion. Time had spared it; and ruin had not as yet laid any hand upon it, so that the eye could roam through the framework of richly carved oaken beams above, without detecting any flaw in the slating which overspread the whole. No columns or obstructions of any kind interrupted the sight from one end to the other; and, by the flickering of the fire-light, Chartley could perceive two doors opening out of the opposite end of the hall, one upon the right hand and another upon the left. To the door upon the right, two or three stone steps led up from the pavement; and he inquired at once, remembering that Iola had boasted a thorough knowledge of the building, if she could tell him whither that entrance led.
"To the great square tower," she replied, "by a staircase in the little turret that you might see at the side of the keep. It is very narrow, but quite good and perfect still."
"If the door be still there and sound," replied Chartley, "it will be as good a place of refuge as any; for the mouth of a narrow staircase is no bad spot for defence."
"I think the door is there," replied Iola; "but we can soon see."
"Thanks to the fire without, we can, sweet Iola," replied Chartley, walking forward by her side; but, as he did so, his foot struck against something lying on the pavement, which he sent rattling to the other side of the hall. "Why, what is here?" he exclaimed, stooping down. "Some one has been lighting a fire here, not very long ago. And on my life here is a lamp too, seemingly not very long extinguished; at all events, there is oil in it."
"Oh yes, it is long ago," answered Iola, "as long ago as Christmas. I remember all about it now. The nuns come up here every year, on the morrow of Christmas, for there is still a mass kept up once a-year in the chapel; and, the last time, sister Bridget left her lamp behind her, which she brought to light the tapers on the altar. It may now serve us in good stead; and I do not see why we should not light a fire here too; for they do so every Christmas day, and heat a flagon of Malvoisie, for the priest who says the mass."
"Would to Heaven we had a flagon of Malvoisie to heat," replied Lord Chartley, laughing. "I know few things better, on a cold night or in a doubtful hour. Strange, sweet Iola, that so spiritual a thing as hope should go up and down, burn more faintly or more brightly, for the want or the possession of a few drops of grape juice."
"It may be so with men," answered Iola; "but I do not think it is so with women. Hope with me never burns brighter than in a fine clear summer morning, when I hear the birds sing. There seems, in the sweet sounds and in the sweet sights, a world of promises from a voice that never lies."
"Oh yes, but Malvoisie is good too," answered Chartley gaily, "especially when summer mornings are not here, when no sweet bird gives music, unless it be the hooting owl; and even Iola's eyes do not afford light enough to show one this great thick door, the hinges of which seem somewhat rusty."
As he thus spoke, with his foot upon the second step, he swung the heavy door backwards and forwards, with a grating sound, which seemed, to make the old hall shake.
"Come," he continued, "I will go light sister Bridget's lamp at the fire, and see what good Ibn Ayoub is about. His watch has been undisturbed, or we should have had his Arabic gutturals finding their way into the hall, and echoing round and round as harshly as this rusty hinge. You shall stay near the other door, till I return; but mind, if there should be anything like a fray, you run up here and shut yourself in. I am bound by knightly courtesy to take you back to the abbey safe and sound; and so if I am killed you must take the task upon yourself, in justice to my reputation."
"Killed! Oh do not talk of such a thing!" exclaimed Iola. "I beseech you, my noble lord, think not of risking life in such a case."
"To protect and serve you," answered Chartley, "I would risk more than life, sweet girl, if I had any thing more than life to lose. A man's life is worth very little in these days; for there is so little certainty of its continuing from one hour to another, that, good faith, I am fain to shake my head every morning when I rise, to see that it is upon my shoulders. Buckingham and Hastings, Vaughan, Grey, and others, besides some hundreds more, would have done better to have died in the field, or in defence of some fair lady, than to have waited for the headsman's axe. I trust, whenever my hour comes, that it will find me sword in hand. It is the only way I ever could make up my mind to look upon death complacently. I suppose I am a sad coward, for the thought of a sick bed, and feverish pillow, and lamentable friends, and the grave doctor with a potion in his hand, frightens me immensely. Nor is the axe much better for it usually has its dull antecedents of trial, condemnation, gaping fools, and blocks and scaffolds; whereas, on the battle field, or in the lists, lance to lance, for a lady's honour, with stroke for stroke, and clanging trumpets, and charging horse, and shouts of victory, the spirit springs forth triumphant through the wounds of the flesh, and soars away to glory, with the light of renown upon its wings."
Iola sighed, she knew not why; but still the enthusiasm touched her, and she felt a thrill run through her veins at his high words, which made her almost fearful of the sensations which were creeping over her heart.
"You do not make me brave," she said; "and therefore I will come with you under the arch, for I shall feel frightened if I lose sight of you."
"Oh, I will willingly live ever in your eyes," answered Chartley; "and he who reaches you must first pass over my corpse."
Iola started; for it is not to be supposed that, in that age, she, or any one, was without superstition; and she read a sort of double sense in his words, which seemed to her almost to have the force of prophecy. She followed him closely, however, and only paused when she again got sight of the court-yard, with the Arab still standing quietly by the fire, upon which he had piled some more wood.
"Has no one come?" demanded Chartley. "Have you heard the steps again?"
"I have heard the steps," answered the Arab; "but no one has come. They seem to wander round and round the court; but the eye sees not the walker. 'Tis most likely an Afrit, watching this old castle. There may be treasures buried here."
"There is a treasure hidden here," replied the young nobleman, speaking to himself but thinking of Iola. "As to Afrits, they never cross the sea. However, good Ibn Ayoub, as we have not men enough in the garrison to man all the walls or guard all the gates, we will withdraw into the great hall, light our fire there, and close the door, though we cannot drop the portcullis. Bring as much of the embers in as you can contrive to carry, without burning your garments, and a quantity of wood, of which there seems a great store there in the corner."
"'Tis an old gate broken to pieces," said the Arab. "'Twill soon burn, for it is as dry as camel's dung."
Chartley waited and listened, while his slave performed the task he had set him about; and then returning to Iola, after he had lighted the lamp, he said--
"I can hear no sound. It was good Ibn Ayoub's fancy, I suppose, though his ears are as sharp as those of a page in a fairy tale. He traced me through the forest to-night, by the sound of my horse's feet, as surely as a hound traces the deer by the scent.--Nay, cheer up, sweet Iola, or we shall both grow sad and fanciful in this old pile. What though we have no Malvoisie, there is better wine than ever flowed from the grape, or was imprisoned in a bottle--the wine of the heart, dear lady, of the heart unconscious of evil, the bright gay spirit, the cheerful contentment with the event of the hour, the fearless trust of the morrow. 'Tis but a little time weaken be together. Let us make the moments pleasant as they fly; for to me they will fly all too soon. Come, let us look round the hall, and see what it contains;" and he held the lamp high up above his head, gazing round, but unable to see the whole of the vast extent of the chamber.
"Oh, there is nothing here," answered Iola. "It has been stripped of every thing, long, long ago. But there are some things in the chambers above, which the plunderers did not think it worth while to bring down, I suppose--settles and stools, and a huge bed, which they say was made in the room where it stands, and cannot pass the door."
"Come, we will go and see them," cried Chartley. "Sitting on these cold stones is not made for those delicate limbs; and perchance we may find something which we can bring down. But first let the Arab light the fire here; and then we will try and close the great door."
No great difficulty occurred in either process; for the Arab contrived, on two broad pieces of wood, to bring in a sufficient quantity of embers speedily to kindle a large fire on the wide hearth of the old hall, and the ponderous door, though it had one or two large holes in it, and groaned most desperately at being forced to turn upon its hinges--a process which it probably had not undergone for more than half a century--nevertheless swung to easily enough, and the heavy bolt was forced into the deep hole made for its reception in the stone-work.
When the young lord turned round, after aiding the Arab in this work, the aspect that the hall presented was cheerful enough. The pile of wood on the hearth had caught fire at once; and, mingled with the smoke which was rushing up the wide chimney, were thick columns of many coloured flame, which cast a warm and flickering glow over the ancient stone walls and upon the painted glass of the windows, where knights, and priests, and angels, and apostles, were grouped in somewhat strange confusion. In the bright blaze of the fire, on the opposite side of the hearth, stood the fair form of Iola, wrapped indeed in the earl's surcoat, which veiled, without altogether concealing, the beautiful outline of the figure. The long sable-lined sleeves, trailing upon the ground, seemed to form a sort of train behind her as she stood, while the beautiful neck and shoulders rose from the furred collar, lightly fastened over her chest, and the fair and speaking countenance, turned towards those who were closing the door, was now shown in bright light, now cast into shadowy indistinctness as the flame rose and fell.
Chartley gazed at her, and thought it was the fairest sight he had ever seen; and sensations rose up in his breast, which he took no pains to master. He was young, free, trustful, full of happy confidence in the future, and he said to himself--"Why not? Roam the world over, can I find anything more lovely than sheis, more gentle, more sweet, more full of noble feelings and bright thoughts, than sheseems. In marriage one always cuts one's fate upon a die, the fall of which is uncertain,--Why not?--But not now, not now," he continued, the spirit of gentlemanly courtesy coming to guide him instantly; "I must wait till she is free from danger, and then seek her when she is safe and in the midst of her friends again. I must not agitate or alarm her now."
Though the resolution was a strong one, as well as a good one, it was difficult to keep the feelings which were busy at his heart from influencing his manner in some degree. Nor, to say truth, did he keep them in such subjection. He would have liked very much to make her sit beside him, and, with his arm cast around her, pillow her beautiful head upon his bosom, while she took the repose so needful to her. He would have liked to stand before that open hearth, with her hand clasped in his, and their eyes fixed upon the faces and landscapes in the fire, talking of love and dreaming of happy days. He did none of these things; but yet there was a softness and a tenderness in his manner and his tone, every now and then, which went thrilling through Iola's young fresh heart, and creating dreads for herself and for him, which might have shaken her terribly, had it not been for the gay and sparkling spirit which broke forth in his conversation from time to time, and carried away all heavier thoughts upon its wings.
"Now come," he said, taking up the lamp after he had paused by her side for a moment, "let us go up to these chambers above, and see if we can find some seat or another, that we can bring down. You have been walking and standing a long long while; and those beautiful little feet will be sadly tired, unless we can discover some means of resting them. I would rather walk a hundred miles than stand an hour. I have always thought that a bird's life must be a sad wearisome one, except when it is on the wing, to stand all day on a bare bough with those thin shanks of its, and nothing to do but trim its feathers."
"And sing its songs," said Iola, following him. "It must have its consolation there."
Chartley went first, lighting her by the way; and the stairs, narrow and worn with many feet, soon afforded a fair excuse for taking her hand to lead her up. When once it was in his, it was not easy to part with it; and, as he held it neither very loosely nor very tightly, there seemed no plea for withdrawing it, so that it remained where it was, even after they had reached the top of the stairs, and had entered a low-roofed stone corridor, and a large old-fashioned vaulted chamber, which had probably been the state bedroom of the former possessors of the castle. There, still, remained the great bedstead which Iola had mentioned, probably of the reign of Edward III., formed of dark black wood, apparently ebony, richly carved and inlaid with ivory upon the lower cornices. The rich hangings, with which it had been at one time adorned, had all been torn down and carried off with the bedding; but the framework was so artificially joined, that no means of removing it were apparent, without breaking it all to pieces; and it is probable that the rude soldiers, who had sacked the castle, were not disposed to burden themselves with any heavy booty. Marks on the floor showed where three truckle beds had stood, but not one now remained; and the only seat to be seen was a large chair, of the same materials as the bed, with a footstool, from which the embroidery that once covered it had been ripped.
"These will do," cried Chartley. "The chair must have come up, and so it can go down the stairs. Then we will set it by the fire; and it shall be your throne, queen of the May, while I sit on the footstool at your feet, and Ibn Ayoub crouches, as is his wont, upon the dry hearth. But you must be my lamp-bearer, or I shall never get them down;" and; giving the light to Iola, he raised the chair in his strong arms. "It is as heavy as iron," he said, "but it shall come down, if it were made of adamant."
As he spoke, an extraordinary sort of sound, like a low groan, echoed through the room, so clear and distinct, that there could be no doubt their ears deceived them not. Iola started, and well, nigh dropped the lamp, while Chartley set down the chair, and laid his hand upon his sword.
"It is some door, moving on its rusty hinges," he said, after listening for a moment. "The wind is blowing it backwards and forwards;" and taking up the chair again, he bore it into the corridor, while Iola went before with the light, gazing timidly around.
Nothing occurred to disturb them however; and at length, though not without difficulty, Chartley got the cumbrous seat down the narrow stairs. The Arab was now standing in the midst of the hall, gazing towards the door, with his naked scimitar in his hand.
"What is the matter, son of Ayoub?" asked Chartley. "What have you heard?"
"Feet, and a groan," answered the Arab, with his dark eyes glaring in the fire light.
"Pooh, 'tis some rusty hinge," said Chartley, "and the feet of rats or martins, driven to take shelter here by this long continued wintry weather.--Seat yourself here, sweet Iola. Put your feet to the fire, and dream of pleasant things, while I go up again and bring the stool."
Thus saying, he took the lamp from her hand, and re-ascended. He was not long absent; but Iola listened anxiously for his returning step. She felt safe while he was near her, but fearful the moment he was away.
Chartley was soon at her side again, and placing the stool close to her feet, he seated himself thereon, and, leaning upon the arm of her chair, gazed up into her face with a gay smile.
"Now this is comfortable," he said. "We may pass the remaining hours of night cheerfully enough here; and if you doze, sweet Iola, your little head will but fall upon Chartley's shoulder, where it may rest as securely, though not so softly, as on your own pillow in the abbey. There, seat yourself there, Ibn Ayoub, in the nook of the chimney, or your southern blood will be frozen in this cold northern night. Think no more of groans and footfalls. These are all tricks of the imagination--It is wonderful," he continued, turning to Iola, "what wild fancies superstition will beget, ay, and sad as well as wonderful, when one thinks of the horrible cruelties which reasonable men will commit upon the strength of stories that a child should be whipped for believing. When I was in Flanders a few years ago, a poor woman was burned alive, in the public market place; and what do you think was the crime of which she was accused?"
"Nay, I know not," answered Iola; "but, it should be a terrible crime indeed to draw down so terrible a punishment."
"The tale is simply this," replied Chartley. "There was a poor woman in one of the towns of Flanders, who gained her bread by the work of her needle. One of those who employed her was the wife of the bailiff of the black monks of that town; but when her work was done, the bailiff and his wife refused to pay the wages promised, and, being poor and distressed for money, she was naturally importunate. Obtaining no redress, she applied to the curate of the village, where she was born; for advice and assistance. It happened, however, that the good man had been entangled in a lawsuit with the bailiff of the monks, and whatever was the advice he gave to the poor woman, their conference resulted in evil to both. The woman sent her daughter to demand a part of that which was due, if she could not obtain the whole; and the poor girl arriving, while the bailiff and his family were at dinner, stood beside the table for some time, petitioning for payment in vain. Several days after, one of the family was taken ill and died. The disease, it would seem, was infectious; and before its ravages ceased, the bailiff and two others were dead. The rest of the family took it into their heads to accuse the poor woman, her daughter, and the curate, of having bewitched them; and fools and knaves enough were found to relate, and to believe, that the curate had baptized a toad, and had administered to it the blessed sacrament, at the instigation of the poor needlewoman. The toad, cut in four pieces, was said to have been thrown under the table, where the bailiff dined, by the woman's daughter; and upon this fabricated charge, the unhappy creature was cast into prison, put to the torture, and afterwards burned to ashes."
Iola shuddered.
"It is very horrible," she said, "and one can hardly believe that such cruelty can exist in the breasts of human creatures."
"Or such folly either," answered Chartley, "as to suppose that the quarters of a baptized toad could bewitch to the death three innocent people. If there be charms and periapts, they must be produced by other means than that."
"But do you doubt there are such things?" asked Iola. "We read of them continually."
"Ah, fair Iola," answered Chartley, "we read and hear of many a thing which, tried by the strong tests of reason and religion, vanish away like empty dreams. If we but ask ourselves, thinking for one moment of the goodness and majesty of the Almighty, is it probable, is it possible, that God can suffer such things, there will be found an answer in our own hearts, which will banish all such imaginations."
Iola mused; and Chartley, laughing at the grave subject he had introduced, was proceeding to change it for some lighter topic, when the Arab suddenly rose up from the spot where he had seated himself, and lifted up his finger as a warning to listen.
"I hear something move," he said, "and not far off. Hark! You will hear."
Even as he spoke, a strange kind of whining sound, and then a dull groaning, came upon the air; and Chartley, starting up, exclaimed--
"This is indeed very strange."
The sounds had ceased almost instantly; but a sort of long-drawn sigh seemed to follow, and then a heavy rattling fall, as if a part of the wall had rolled down.
"Whatever that is," exclaimed Chartley, "it is in the court-yard. I will go out and see."
"Nay, nay, I beseech you," cried Iola, clinging to his arm, "do not, dear lord, do not rush into needless danger. Let us go up to the rooms above, and look forth from the windows there, as these are too high."
"Stay, I can reach them by the chair," said Chartley; and, placing the heavy seat underneath the window, the sill of which was a few inches above his eyes, he mounted upon it and looked out in silence, while Iola crept to his side, and raised her eyes towards his face. After gazing for a few moments, Chartley held out his hand to her, saying--"Come up hither beside me, sweet Iola, and see what is here. Be not afraid. There is no danger."
Iola gave him her hand, and, setting her light foot on the seat beside him, rose till her eyes just came above the window sill.
Her first impulse, had she not repressed it, when she obtained a view through the dim small pane into the ruinous court, would have been to utter a cry of terror and surprise; for certainly such were the sensations which she felt. The fire which she and her companion had left nearly extinguished had been relighted and piled up with fresh wood, which was sending forth a volume of flame, higher than a man's head; but the object which most struck the fair girl, as she gazed forth, was a dark black-looking figure, sitting between the window and the fire, crouched up in the position often assumed by an ape, and seemingly holding its hands, to warm them at the blaze. The attire, as far as it could be seen, which was very indistinctly, for the back being turned towards them was in deep shadow, appeared to be quaint and strange; and, rising straight up, though somewhat on the left side of the head, appeared a long thin object like a horn. Chartley continued gazing on this apparition in silence; but one glance was enough for Iola; and, springing down, she covered her face with her hand, saying in a low terrified voice--
"Oh, come down, come down!"