Had he been chief warder of a beleaguered fort, Lord Fulmer could not have examined every gate and sally port of the castle more carefully than he did, when he descended from the walls. The figure which he had beheld had evidently seemed to come from the castle; but how it had issued forth he could not divine. Every postern was barred, bolted, and chained; and the porter, and the porter's men were all snoring in their dens, of which he had ocular proof before he retired. The fat old porter, whom he had roused and informed of what he had seen, treated the matter lightly, saying, half sleeping, half waking, it was impossible: it must have been the moonlight on the bank, or a white thorn coming into flower. But, when Fulmer reminded him that the month of May was still far off, and told him he had seen the figure move for some distance, he quietly replied--
"Then it must have been a spirit. There are plenty hereabout;" and, lying down on his pallet again, he was asleep before the young nobleman had quited the lodge.
Fulmer almost felt inclined to believe that the porter's last supposition was correct, and that the music he had heard was a strain of unearthly melody. Perhaps there have been few ages in the world's history more grossly superstitious than those which immediately preceded the reformation. The process of darkening the human mind, by which alone the errors of the church of Rome can be maintained, had been going on for so many centuries, that it had almost reached completeness; and the art of printing, the precursor of Luther, had not yet fulfilled its mission; and though here and there a few great minds were to be found which shook off the garment of superstition with which the papal church had liveried the world--though Wicliffe and John Huss had given the first terrible blow to Rome, yet her partizans laboured but the more strenuously to retain for her the shadowy empire she had created. At this very time new saints were made, and their days appointed to be honoured; and the festivals of old saints were, in many instances, ordered to receive double celebration. In England, especially, every false, abominable, and idolatrous dogma was more sternly and clearly defined, in order to prevent the escape of the Wicliffites through any ambiguity of language. It was solemnly declared that not one particle of the sacramental bread remained bread after consecration, that every drop of the cup was blood. Pilgrimages, the worship of saints, the adoration of the cross and of relics, were enjoined under the penalty of fire; and everything that could lead or tend to superstition was encouraged and upheld. Taught to believe so much of the supernatural within the church, it is not wonderful that the great mass of the people, high and low, should believe in much of the supernatural beyond the church, and that the priest should encourage them in so doing.
Nevertheless, Lord Fulmer was by no means one of the most superstitious of his class. To doubt the occasional apparition of spirits, or even devils, he would not have ventured; but to believe that he had seen one was very different; and, not knowing what to think, or what solution to give to the mystery, he retired to his chamber, and lay down to rest. Sleep did not visit his eyes for some hours; but still he rose early, roused his attendants in the antechamber, and dressed for the day. He then gazed forth from the window for a moment or two; but, as something passed before his eyes, he turned round with a sudden start, and a flushed cheek, and went out.
He passed quickly, through the courts, towards the walls; but, at the foot of the steps, he paused and thought, for a moment or two, and then mounted to the battlements with a slower step and more tranquil air.
About fifty yards in advance was Chartley, the man he sought, walking tranquilly towards him, with his arms folded on his chest, and his eyes bent down in meditation. They were now alone together on the walls; and Fulmer thought that there could be no better time for saying what he proposed to say than that moment. His mood, however, had varied from that of the night before; and, at first, he addressed Lord Chartley courteously enough.
"Good morning, my lord," he said "Summer is coming on us with a swallow's wing;" and he turned to walk back with his companion.
"It is indeed very warm," answered Chartley, mildly; "and the air here seems temperate and fine."
There the conversation halted for a moment, for Lord Fulmer made no answer, and walked on in silence, till they had nearly reached the angle of the wall. There was a struggle going on within--a struggle for calmness; for he felt agitation growing upon him.
At length, however, he said--
"I find, my lord, that you are well acquainted with the Lady Iola St. Leger, and that you rendered her some service a little time ago."
"Service of no great importance," replied Chantey; "and which any gentleman would render to any lady."
"You are, I suppose, aware that she is contracted to me as my future wife," said Lord Fulmer, turning his eyes full upon Chartley's face.
"I was not aware of it at the time," answered Chartley, holding his head very high. "I am now."
"That near connexion," continued Fulmer, "not only gives me a right, but requires me, my good lord, to inquire into the nature of the service that you rendered her, that I may"--he added with a sort of sarcastic smile, "that I may proportion my thanks to its degree."
"I require no thanks," answered Chartley, coldly. "Of what is required of you, my lord, I am no judge. Your right to make the inquiry, I am not called upon to consider; and the lady herself will doubtless give you what information she thinks fit upon the subject."
Fulmer strove to put down the wrath which was rising up in his bosom; but yet there was a great degree of sharpness in his tone as he replied--
"My right to make the inquiry, my good lord, you are called upon to consider; for I make that inquiry of you."
"Then I refuse to answer it," replied Chartley. "If a gentleman have rendered a lady service in any way, it is not his business to speak of it. She may do so, if she thinks proper but his part is different."
"Then, my lord," replied Fulmer, "if you give me not account in one way, you must in another;" and he set his teeth hard, as if to keep down the more violent words which were ready to spring to his lips.
Chartley laughed.
"On my life," he said, "this is the strangest sort of gratitude which it has been my lot to meet with in this wonderful world! Here is a man comes to give me thanks, and then calls me to a rude account, because I will not tell him why! What is the meaning of all this, my lord? Your strange conduct certainly requires explanation--far more than any part of mine, which has always been very open and simple."
"Oh, if you think it requires explanation," exclaimed Lord Fulmer, readily, "I am quite ready to yield it, after the fashion that I hinted."
"Is that a worthy answer, Lord Fulmer?" demanded Chartley. "You seem determined to find cause of quarrel with me, and can meet with no more reasonable pretext than that I once did some slight service to a lady affianced to you."
"Exactly so," replied Lord Fulmer, dryly.
"Well, then," cried Chartley, tossing back his head, "I answer, I will not quarrel with you on such ground. Charge me fairly--accuse me of any wrong that I have done you, or any mortal man, or woman either, and I will either clear myself or make reparation with my person at the sword's point; but I will not bring a lady's name in question, by quarrelling with any man on such a plea as this you bring. If you have aught to say against me, say it boldly."
"Have you not already brought her name in question, by passing one whole night with her in the woods of Atherston?" demanded Fulmer, sternly. "Have you not made it a matter of light talk with lighter tongues--"
"Stay, stay!" exclaimed Chartley, "I do not rightly understand you. Do you mean to say that I ever have lightly used that lady's name--that I have ever made it the subject of my conversation at all?"
"No," answered Fulmer, gravely. "That I cannot say; but I aver that you have given occasion for its being talked of by others, in remaining with her one whole night, as I have said, in the woods of Atherston."
Chartley laughed again.
"He would have had me leave her to her fate, in the midst of the wood!" he exclaimed; "or else have had her fall into the hands of Catesby's rude soldiery, or the ruffian mercenaries of Sir John Godscroft, who were, even at the moment I met her, daintily engaged in burning down the buildings on the abbey green! By St. Peter, the man seems to have a rare notion of courtesy towards a lady! Let me tell you, Lord Fulmer, that had I left her, she must have encountered those who would have treated her somewhat more roughly than I did. Stay, stay, a moment. I have not yet done. You say that I have given occasion for people to talk lightly of her. Give me the name of one who has dared, even by a word, to couple her name to mine in aught that is not pure--ay, even in a jest--and I will make him eat his words or send him to the devil a day before his time."
Fulmer gazed down upon the ground in moody silence. "There may be words," he said at length, "which, separate from the tone and manner, imply but little, but which, eked out with nods and smiles and twinklings of the eye, would go far to blast the fairest reputation. In a word, Lord Chartley, I will not have it said, that the woman I make my wife has passed the whole night alone, in a wild wood, with any living man."
"Then do not make her your wife," answered Chartley. "That is easily settled."
"There is another way of settling it," replied Lord Fulmer, bitterly, "by cutting the throat of him who has done so with her."
"So, so, are you there?" answered Chartley, now made angry, in spite of himself.
"If such be the case, my lord, I will not baulk you. I might refuse your appeal, as a prisoner in ward. I might refuse it, as having no reasonable grounds; but I will not do so; and satisfaction you shall have of the kind you demand; for no earthly man shall say I feared him. But this, my good lord, is not without a condition. It shall be fully and entirely known, how and why you have forced me to this--what is the quarrel you have fixed upon me--and why I have consented. All this shall be clearly stated and proclaimed, for my own character's sake. This I have a right to demand."
"But the lady's fair name!" exclaimed Fulmer, alarmed at the condition.
"Who is it that blackens it?" demanded Chartley, fiercely. "Not I, but you, Lord Fulmer. I proclaim her pure, and good, and true, to you, to me, and all men; and you, if any one, shall stand forth as her calumniator, in forcing this unjust quarrel upon me. I cast the responsibility upon you; and now I leave you."
"Stay, sir, stay," exclaimed Fulmer, driven almost to fury. "You have called me calumniator; and you shall answer for that word, or I will brand you as a coward in every court of Europe."
"Methinks you would get but few to believe you," replied Chartley, proudly; "but let me tell you, if you dare venture to use that term to me, before any competent witnesses, I will punish you on the spot as you deserve. You think, my lord, by taking me here in private, to gratify your malice while you conceal your own weakness, and to leave, perhaps, the blame upon me; but you are mistaken, if you think you have to do with a feeble-minded and passionate boy like yourself."
Fulmer lost all command over himself; and drawing his sword at once, though close before the castle windows, he exclaimed, "Draw! I will bear no more."
But Chartley was comparatively cool, while his adversary was blind with passion; and, springing upon him with a bound, he put aside the raised point with his hand, and wrenched the sword from his grasp, receiving a slight wound in doing so. Then, holding his adversary in a firm grasp, he cast the weapon from him over the castle wall.
"For shame," he said, after a moment's pause, "for shame, Lord Fulmer Go back, sir, to the castle; and, if you have those honourable feelings, those somewhat fantastic and imaginative notions, which I have heard attributed to you, think over your own conduct this morning--ay, think over the doubts and suspicions, unjust, and base, and false as they are, in which such conduct has arisen, and feel shame for both. I am not apt to be a vain man; but when I scan my own behaviour in the events which have given rise to all this rancour on your part, and compare it with your conduct now, I feel there is an immeasurable distance between us; and I regret, for that sweet lady's sake, that she is bound by such ties to such a man."
"You have the advantage, my lord, you have the advantage," repeated Fulmer, doggedly. "The time may come when it will be on my part."
"I think not," answered Chartley, with one of his light laughs; "for we are told God defends the right, and I will never do you wrong."
Thus saying, he turned upon his heel, descended the steps, and walked back into the castle.
Fulmer followed with a slow and sullen step, his eyes bent down upon the ground, and his lips, from time to time, moving. He felt all that had occurred the more bitterly, as he was conscious that it was his own fault. He might feel angry with Chartley; his pride might be bitterly mortified; he might have every inclination to cast the blame upon others; but there was one fact he could not get over, one truth, which, at the very first, carried self-censure home. He had violated all his own resolutions; he had given way to passion, when he had resolved to be calm and cool; and this conviction, perhaps, led him some steps on the path of regret for his whole conduct. At all events, passing through his ante-room without speaking to any of his servants, he entered his own chamber, and cast himself down upon a seat, to scrutinize the acts he had committed.
Let us return to the close of supper on the preceding night. The abbess and her two fair nieces, with some other ladies who had been congregated in the castle, retired, first, to a little hall, above that where they had supped, and then, after a short conversation, separated into various parties, and sought the chambers where they were to take repose. Iola, Constance, and their aunt, retired to the bed-room of the former, before they parted for the night, and sat and talked for a few minutes in a calm tone.
"My dear child, you look sad," said the abbess; "has any thing vexed you?"
"No, dear aunt, nothing more than usual," answered Iola, forcing a laugh. "I suppose a man may be merry enough, when he knows he is to be hanged at the end of a year; but the case alters when he finds himself at the day before the hanging."
"A hang dog simile, my child," said the abbess. "But fie, Iola, put away such thoughts. Marriage is an honourable state, though it lacks the sanctity of devotion; and I doubt not it is a very comfortable condition, though, good lack, I have never tried it, and never shall now;" and she laughed a little at the thought. "Well, well, methinks you ought to be content," she continued; "for, certainly he is a very fair and handsome young man."
"Is he?" said Iola, in an indifferent tone. "I thought he was dark."
"Well, his hair and eyes are dark," replied her aunt, "and his skin somewhat brownish; but what I meant was, that he is good-looking and manly. I do not think your fair men, with pink cheeks, handsome for my part, though I take but little heed to men's beauty--why should I? However, I say he is as handsome a young man for a husband as woman would wish to choose."
"I must have him for a husband whether I choose or not," answered Iola; "so, handsome or ugly, it comes to the same."
Constance thought for a moment, and then said, in a quiet tone, "I do not think he is so handsome as Lord Chartley;" and she gave a quick glance towards her cousin's face as she spoke.
Iola's cheek was crimson in a moment, but she said nothing; and the abbess exclaimed gaily, "Oh, this world, this world. I see it will steal your heart away from us, Constance. No more vows and veils for you now. Well, do as you like, my child. I have found a convent life a very happy one--perhaps, because there was no choice, and I resolved to make the best of it; and, if Iola would take her aunt's advice, she would look upon marriage as much the same, and make the best of it too."
With this piece of exceeding good counsel, the worthy lady rose and left her two fair companions; and, no sooner was she gone, than Constance moved closer to her cousin, and, laying her hand upon Iola's, looked tenderly into her face.
"Give me your heart, Iola," she said. "You have withdrawn your confidence from me, and your heart must have gone with it."
Iola bent down her forehead on her cousin's shoulder, and wept without reply.
"Nay, dear cousin," continued Constance, "if not for my sake--if not for old affection's sake, and for love, which, unlike the love of the world, can never weary or wax old--for your own sake, give me your confidence as in days of yore. Tell me your heart's feelings and your mind's thoughts; for, be sure that there are few, if any, situations in life, in which counsel cannot bring comfort."
"I will, I will, Constance," said Iola, wiping away the tears. "These foolish drops," she continued, "spring but from a momentary weakness, my Constance. I have borne up and struggled hard till now. It is kindness that shakes me."
"But then tell me," said her cousin, "tell me whence they spring, Iola. I see you are unhappy--miserable. I would fain help you, or, at least, console you; but I know not how."
"What would you have, dear Constance?" said Iola, mournfully. "You must see it--I love him not--I can never love him; and yet in a few days, I know not how soon, I must vow at the altar to love him for ever. Is not that a hard fate, dear Constance?"
"It might be worse," answered Constance. "How worse?" demanded Iola in surprise. "If you loved another," said her cousin, slowly and sorrowfully.
Again the crimson glow spread over Iola's brow and cheek, followed by a warm gush of tears; but Constance twined her arms round her saying:
"I have your secret now, dear Iola. That is over. Let us speak freely of all things. But first, for some comfort--though it be but a reprieve. My uncle told me, just before supper, that the king's consent to the celebration of the marriage has not been obtained; that Richard begs him to delay, till he and the queen can be present. It may be long first; for poor queen Ann, they declare, is gone mad upon the death of the prince. It must be some months; for they cannot be present at a marriage in mourning. But, what is very strange, my uncle seemed well satisfied with the delay."
Iola sat and gazed at her as she spoke, with a look of wonder, as if the tidings were so unexpected and incredible, even to hope, that she could hardly comprehend what she heard. The next instant, however, she started up and clapped her hands with a look of childlike joy.
"A reprieve!" she cried. "Oh, it is everything. It is everything. It is comfort. It is life. It is hope!" and then, casting herself upon her cousin's neck, she wept again, sobbing as if her heart would break.
Constance tried to calm her, but her words seemed not to reach Iola's mind; for, when the tears had had their way, she sprang up, clasping her hands again, and crying, with the same radiant look, "Months, did you say? Oh, moments were a blessing--who can tell what months may bring forth? They have sometimes swept away empires. Now, we shall have time to think, and speak, and act. Before, I thought it was useless to take counsel even with you, dear Constance; for what could counsel avail, when the event was hurrying on with such terrible rapidity. It seemed like one of those mountains of snow, which I have heard of, falling in the Alps, where, though they be seen thundering down, 'tis vain to fly, or move, or think; for their coming is too rapid, their extent too wide; and all that remains is to call upon the name of God and die."
"Good Heaven, what an image!" exclaimed Constance; "and have you really suffered all this, my poor Iola?--But now tell me what has passed between you and Lord Chartley?"
"Nothing," replied Iola; and, be it remarked that, at every word she uttered, her spirits seemed to revive more and more, as if nothing but the intolerable burden which had been cast upon them had been able to keep them down, and that, as soon as it was removed, they sprang up again fresher than ever. "Nothing at all, but what I have told you, dear Constance. For the world, I would not have told you a falsehood."
"Then, nothing has been said to make you think he loves you as you love him!" asked Constance.
Iola blushed a little, and looked down; but, there was an expression of arch meaning about her smiling lips; and she replied:--
"Nothing has been said, it is true, dear Constance; but a good deal has been looked. How the tone, how the eyes change the whole meaning of cold words: I have not loved, unbeloved, I hope--I trust--I believe. Men are deceivers, you will say, and in nought more deceitful than their looks. Perhaps you will tell me too that Chartley, this very night, was gay and joyful, that he laughed and talked with those around him, not at all like a disappointed lover. But he was not joyful at his heart, Constance. I watched and saw it all. I saw that the laugh was forced, the merriment unreal. I marked the sudden fit of thought, the gloomy look that chequered the smile, the head held high, and the curling lip which scorned the words the tongue uttered."
"Alas, that you should have watched so closely," answered Constance; and, after a moment's thought, she added; "but, as we are to have confidence in each other, dear Iola, I must feign nothing with you; and I do believe that it is as you say. Nay, more. There is another, who knows him better than I do, who thinks so too."
"Who? Who?" demanded Iola, eagerly.
"None other than good Sir William Arden," answered Constance; and she went on to give her cousin a sketch of the conversation which had taken place between herself and her companion at supper.
"I saw you talking very busily," replied Iola, with a smile; "but in truth, dear Constance, I almost fancied you and the good knight had better subjects of conversation than the fate of Iola and Chartley. Well, thank Heaven, we have got another in the plot, who can give us good help too, in the hour of need, perhaps."
"A plot!" said Constance, with a look of apprehension. "What plot do you intend to form, Iola?"
"Now she is frightened out of her wits!" cried Iola, laughing as merrily as ever. "No plot, dearest cousin. I spoke in my wild way, and gave it a wild name. Only this, Constance, be sure of, that if there be a means of escape--and what may not this respite produce--I will not give my hand to Lord Fulmer--no, even though a convent should be my only refuge, though Heaven knows, thinking as I think, that would be bad enough."
"Thinking as you think--I do not understand what you mean, Iola," said her cousin in some surprise.
Iola thought gravely for a moment or two, before she spoke; but at length she replied:
"Perhaps I am not so devout as you are, Constance, and yet, in some things more devout. There is another enigma for you; but I know a convent would not suit me. You will say, I seemed happy enough in one; but yet I have come to the belief that they are not truly holy or good institutions. To take the vows I should have to take, were I to enter one, to live according to all the rules and ordinances, to go through all the ceremonies, and to make all the professions, I should be a hypocrite, Constance. But to marry this Lord Fulmer, to vow that I will love him when I love another, would make me worse than a hypocrite."
Constance gazed at her with a bewildered look; for, though her words were not very plain, yet they created doubts.
"I do not know what to think of your language, Iola," she answered. "Holy men, fathers of the church, successors of the apostles, have founded convents, and blessed them. Surely they cannot be evil institutions with such a sanction."
Iola laughed, seeming not inclined to grapple with the question; and then, with a playful gesture of the hand, she asked abruptly--
"Would you like now, now as you sit here, to devote yourself for life to one of them?"
"That is not a fair question," answered Constance, with a blush and a smile; "but now, let us think, Iola, of what must be your conduct between these two men. To one you are bound by a contract, valid it seems in the eye of the law, and from which you cannot escape, although it was entered into when you had no power to assent or to refuse. To the other you are linked by ties of affection, which are even less easily broken, I do believe."
"Most mathematically put, dear cousin," answered Iola, in her old gay tone; "but yet I can hardly reply. I must seek advice of some one who knows more of the world's ways than either you or I do."
"My aunt?" suggested Constance. "She will say, there is but one thing to be done--to yield, and make the best of it."
"No, no. Not to her will I apply," said Iola. "Of the world's ways, dear Constance, of its laws and rules, she knows but little--hardly more than we do. She can deal with foresters and bailiffs, sell timber or wheat, collect the abbey dues, regulate its expenses, rule her nuns wisely, though not strictly, and make devotion cheerful, without depriving it of reverence; but there is a wide, wide circle beyond all this, of which she knows nothing--nor I either, but that it exists."
"Then to whom can you apply?" asked Constance; and Iola, rising, laid her hands upon her cousin's, with a grave smile.
"I will apply to one who will advise me well," she said; "but here, dearest Constance, I must--however unwillingly--hold back a part of my confidence from you. Were it my own alone, you should have it all, fully and at once; but there is another, whose confidence I must not break. Rest satisfied with this, that, as far as Chartley and I are concerned, every secret of my heart, every act that I perform, propose, or think of, shall be told to you at once. You shall see into my breast, as if it were your own."
"But yet there will be one dark spot," said Constance, almost reproachfully.
"Not concerning myself," answered Iola. "I tell you I am going to seek advice. What that advice is, you shall know. Where I ask it, who gives it, you must not know. This shall be the only reserve."
"And you will not act in anything without speaking to me?" asked Constance anxiously.
"Certainly not," replied Iola; "but, you must promise in return, Constance, that my confidence will never be violated, that no notions which you may have imbibed of duty or propriety, or anything else on earth--no, not of religion itself--shall make you ever betray to man or woman that which I shall tell you."
Constance seemed to hesitate; and Iola added, firmly, but sadly--
"You must promise, Constance, or there can be no confidence. My heart must hide itself from you, as from the rest of the world, unless I know that its secrets are as safe with you as with myself. Will you promise, without any reservation, remembering, that I shall look upon no consideration of 'my own good,' as it is called, as an excuse for your violating that engagement. I know you will keep your promise when you have given it."
"Assuredly I will," replied Constance; and, after a moment's thought, she added; "and I will give the promise too, Iola. If I did not, you could easily withhold your confidence from me; and I do think that it will be better for you to have some one, of whose love you can have no doubt, to consult with and rely on. Remember I do not know and cannot divine who this secret adviser is, nor how he or she should have followed you hither, to give you counsel on any sudden occasion. Surely you would not rely upon your maid, in preference to your cousin."
Iola laughed gaily.
"Nay, Heaven forbid," she cried, waving her hand. "Besides, what knows she of the world? Poor Susan's utmost experience reaches but to know, that Harry Smith, the abbey gardener's son, bought her pink ribbons at Tamworth fair, and asked her to marry him at Shrovetide next. No, no, dear Constance. All my confidence you shall have--that is to say, all my own. I will only keep from you the confidence of others; and now your promise is given, is it not--fully and without reservation?"
"It is," answered Constance. "I know you have always hated that doctrine of mental reservation, and called it unchristian and uncandid. I do not like it, and will never act upon it, though very good men say that it is sometimes needful."
"Fie on them!" cried Iola, warmly. "Those who would teach that would teach any other kind of falsehood. But now, my own dear cousin, now for a petition. Will you help your Iola to seek this advice?"
"How can I help you? What would you have me do?" asked Constance.
"'Tis but to endure imprisonment for an hour," said Iola, "to stay here and watch till I come back, and, if any one comes to the door, merely to answer, 'You cannot come in!'"
"That is easily accomplished," replied her cousin; "and I may as well perform my devotions for the night here, as in my own chamber hard by."
"Quite as well," answered Iola, with a smile. "But now I must clear the way;" and, opening the door into the ante-room, she said--"Here, Susan. Have the guests left the hall?"
"Oh yes, lady," replied the rosy country girl, who appeared in answer to her summons. "They did not sit long to-night. They have all gone to their chambers some time."
"Well then, I shall not want you for an hour," said Iola; and she added, with a laugh--"I know there is some one whom you want to talk with. But be discreet, Susan; and you shall have a present on my marriage, to furnish house with."
The girl blushed, and simpered, and retired.
"And now," said Iola, "I must cover over these gay robes;" and, opening one of those large cupboards, which, from the use that they were sometimes applied to, retained, for many years, and still do in some parts of Europe, the name of armoury, she drew forth a white serge gown and hood, which she threw over her other apparel.
"But where are you going?" demanded Constance, in a tone of alarm. "Surely not beyond the castle walls. Your wanderings round the abbey used to frighten me sometimes, when the broad daylight shone upon you; but now you make me fear still more."
"Fear not, and ask no questions," answered Iola. "I shall not be without protection in case of need."
"Oh, Iola, Iola, think well of what you are doing!" exclaimed her cousin, detaining her by the hand.
"I have thought," answered the lady. "See how the moon shines; and, hark, there is my summons."
Constance looked out and listened; and, faint upon her ear, the closed casement dulling the sound, came the same strain of music which Fulmer had heard from a different part of the castle. Gently disengaging her hand, Iola glided into the ante-room, and opened the door leading into the passage. She returned the moment after, however, saying--
"There is some one moving. I must wait a little;" but, ere two minutes more were over, she went out again, and closed the doors behind her.
Constance remained where her cousin left her, listening with anxious ears, for several moments, but Iola returned not; and, locking the door, her cousin cast herself upon her knees, and prayed fervently.
We must give a glance beyond the waters. "What waters?" The reader may ask, "the waters of time?"
No, alas, that we cannot do. Let the eager eye stretch as it will, aided by whatever glass the ingenuity of man can devise, or his presumption use, that wide horizon will never present any object distinctly. A mirage may raise the images which lie beyond the scope of natural vision; but, after all, it is a fading picture, where everything is indistinct, uncertain, and confused.
No, the waters that I speak of are those which flow between the white cliffs of England and the shores of France; and I leap over no particle of time; for the day and hour were the same as those of which I have just been speaking; and it is to keep up the perfect synchronism of my narrative that I am obliged to change the scene, and travel all the way to France, carrying the unwilling reader with me.
It was in a small room, lined with shadowy tapestry and ceiled with black oak, carved in a strange and peculiar fashion--in the form of pentagons, piled one upon the other, and each centred with a little gilded star--that there was seated, towards the first hour of the morning, an elderly man of dignified though quiet aspect, habited in the robes of a bishop. Near the door stood two ecclesiastics, with a boy of some fourteen years of age between them, apparently equipped for a journey.
"And you are sure you know every step of the way, my son?" said the bishop, fixing his eyes upon the boy, and speaking in French.
"As well as I know the steps to my mother's door, my lord," answered the boy.
The bishop mused, and motioned one of the ecclesiastics to come nearer. The good man approached, and bent down his head, till his ear was on a level with the prelate's lips; and then, in reply to a whispered question, which the other seemed to ask him, he exclaimed--
"Oh, I will be his surety, my lord; for he ran between the armies, in the times of the late troubles with Britanny, and never betrayed his trust in a single instance."
"Well then, take him away for the present," said the bishop; "and I will write the letter at once; for there is no time to be lost, Entreat him kindly, and feed him well before he goes. I will call when I want him."
The two priests and the boy retired; and, when left alone, the bishop took some little time for thought.
"So far all is safe," he said to himself. "Once more I am upon these hospitable shores of France; and my escape is well nigh a miracle. I trust no evil has befallen those who were, under God, my kind preservers. That dear child, I trust she got safely back to the arms of her good aunt, the abbess. 'Tis very strange, how often, by the merest seeming accidents, a kindness shown to a fellow creature returns to bless us after many years. Nor has man's gratitude any great share in it; for how rarely do we find anything like gratitude, especially amongst the high and noble. Often too, those whom we have served have gone away from earth, and cannot show gratitude, if they would; yet still the good deed rises up, in after years, to shelter us, as a tree against a storm. Little did I think, when I entreated for St. Leger's life, and not only won it against all odds, but obtained that his estates should be not confiscated to the crown, but transferred for life to his brother, with a provision reserved for himself--little did I think that his sister would shelter me at the peril of all worldly good, and his daughter would guide me to escape in safety."
"Now for another act," he continued, drawing a sheet of paper towards him. "I pray God this may be for the benefit of my country. Gratitude, in this instance, I want not, expect not, and shall not obtain. It is not in his nature--well, if he turn not and rend me! It matters not; it is right and shall be done. Better a cold and greedy prince upon the throne, than a murdering usurper. This man must labour for a people's good, for his own interest's sake; and then a marriage with the heiress of York will cure all divisions, and heal the wounds of my bleeding country."
He still seemed to hesitate, however; for although he had drawn a sheet of paper to him, and taken pen in hand, he did not write for several minutes.
"It must be done," he said at length; and, when he began, his letter was soon finished.
"There," he said, when it was completed. "Now he can act as he sees meet. If he be wise, and occasion serves, he will say no word to this weak duke of Britanny, even should he be in one of his lucid moments, but will fly at once to France, where, thanks to my efforts, all is prepared to give him friendly reception. If revenge get the mastery--and he has no small share of it in his nature--he will endeavour to strike at Peter Landais, and be given bound into the hands of Richard. Then farewell to England. Stay, I will add a few words more of caution and advice; for I must needs enclose the despatch obtained by my good friend, the woodman, to let him see the extent and nature of his danger."
The postscript to his letter was soon written, the paper, which the woodman had given him, enclosed, the letter tied with the silk, and sealed; and the boy was then recalled and charged with the packet. Manifold were the directions given him, as to how he was to conceal the dangerous despatch; and the youth, who seemed quick and active, retired furnished with a packet of ordinary letters, addressed to the Marquis Dorset, and several other English noblemen then living in exile at the court of Britanny.
His weight was light, the horse prepared for him strong and active; and, mounting in the court-yard, he set out upon his way, passing through the heart of Normandy in perfect security. Séez, Alençon were reached; and, shortly after, the peril of the enterprise began; but he knew all the roads well, and, after sleeping at a small village on the confines of Normandy, he rose some hours before daylight, and made his way through narrow lanes into the duchy of Britanny, under cover of the darkness.
It is rare that a journey is performed with so little difficulty, even when there are much fewer dangers; but the messenger met with no impediment till he reached the town of Rennes, where his horse was detained for several hours, on the pretence that so fine an animal could not fairly belong to a youth of his appearance. But the letters he produced, addressed to the Marquis Dorset, accounted for his possession of the animal; and, though there was not wanting inclination on the part of Landais' officers to seize it, for their own or their master's use, they did not venture to do so; for it was a part of the treacherous minister's policy to lull the English exiles into security by seeming kindness, till he could deliver them into the hands of Richard.
The letters, however, were strictly examined, and, when returned to the boy, had evidently been opened; but the secret despatches, concealed in the large wooden boot which he wore, passed undiscovered. The contents of the letters, which had been read, only served to convince Landais that his meditated treachery was unknown to the friends of the exiles in England.
Hastening on with all speed from Rennes to Vannes, the boy nearly accomplished the distance of more than twenty leagues in one day; but he arrived at night, and was forced to remain till morning at a small inn in the suburb, on the right bank of the river Marle. He there gathered intelligence, however, of some importance. A strong body of archers, he learned, had entered Vannes the day before, and the earl of Richmond, with many of his chief friends and followers, had sought hospitality at the fine old abbey of St. Gildas, situated on a little peninsula in the neighbourhood. Thither then, on the following morning, he took his way; but he did not arrive in the court of the abbey till the earl and his companions were just mounting their horses to set out upon some early expedition. The boy's shrewd eyes instantly detected, amongst those present, several who were not Englishmen; and, with the keen good sense for which he had been selected for that mission, he determined at once upon his course. The earl of Richmond he had never seen; but, perceiving that to one particular person there present, a spare but somewhat forbidding-looking man, all the others paid much reverence, he walked up to him with a letter in his hand, and asked if he were the Marquis Dorset.
"No," answered Richmond, who had his foot in the stirrup, to mount. "Yonder he stands. Is that letter for him?"
"Yes, my lord," replied the boy; "but I have several others from England."
"Have you any for me, the earl of Richmond?" asked the other; and, dropping his voice to a low tone, the boy replied:
"I have a word for the earl of Richmond's private ear."
"Deliver your letters, and then come back to me," said Richmond, in the same low tone; and then he added, aloud, "Here is a little courier from England, my lords and gentlemen, with letters from home, for most of you, but none for me. Take them and read them. We can well afford to put off our ride for half an hour. In the mean time, I will question the boy as to the news of our native land--Here, Bernard, hold my horse. Boy, give them their letters, and then come with me."
"Why, this has been opened," cried the marquis of Dorset, looking at the epistle which he received from the boy's hands.
"I know it has, noble sir," answered the boy aloud. "All my letters were taken from me at Rennes, and, when they were returned, I could see they had been read."
"Out, young cur," cried one of the Landais' officers, who was present. "Say you the people of the duke of Britanny would open your letters? Doubtless you opened them yourself."
"Not so, noble sir," answered the lad; "for, alas, I cannot read."
"Well, well, come with me," said Richmond, seeing that the nobles crowding round him had taken the packet, which the boy had held in his hand, and were distributing them amongst themselves, according to the superscription. "This way, lad--permit the boy to pass, reverend father;" and entering the abbey by a small door, at which appeared an old monk, he walked onward, followed closely by the boy, till he reached his bed-chamber.
"Now, what have you to say to me?" he exclaimed eagerly.
But the boy, before he answered, closed the door behind him, and pushed the bolt.
"I have a packet for you, noble lord," replied the boy; "but I was ordered to deliver it to your own hand in private, and I have kept it concealed from all eyes, here in my boot."
"Then the people at Rennes did not find it?" asked Richmond, sharply.
"No one has ever seen it, from the moment I received it," answered the boy. "That I will swear to; for I have slept in my boots; and, when I took them off for ease, I kept them always in my sight."
The boots of an unarmed courier or post of that day were of a kind, I believe, now utterly banished from use, but which might still be seen in France, amongst postilions, at the end of the last war. They consisted of an inner covering of leather, with large and rudely-shaped pieces of light wood, fastened round them with straps of leather, to guard the leg against any blow or accident. Out of these cumbrous appendages, the boy had withdrawn his feet while he was speaking; and now, unbuckling the wooden cases from the leather, he opened a little sliding lid in one of the former, and drew forth the packet which Morton had entrusted to him. Richmond took it eagerly; but, with his usual cool observing spirit, before he opened it, he looked carefully at the silk and the seal, to ascertain that it had not been examined previously. Satisfied on that point, he cut the fastening, broke the seal, and read the contents. His countenance, though the boy's eye fixed upon it while he read, gave no indication of what was passing in his mind. It was cold, quiet, resolute. When he had done, he thought in silence for a moment or two; and then looking at the lad, he said--
"Thou hast performed thy task well. There is gold for thee. Were I richer it should be more. Now tell me how it came that they chose one so young to carry tidings of some import?"
"Because I knew every inch of the country well," replied the boy; "because I had carried many letters between the armies in the time of the war, and because my mother, and father Julien, said that I was honest."
"Good reasons," said Richmond; "knowledge, experience, honesty. I think you deserved your character. Do you know the country between this and Tours well?"
"Every part of it," replied the boy.
"And between this and Angers?" asked Richmond again.
"As well as the other," answered the boy.
"Well, then," said Richmond, "open the door and call one of my valets. I retain you in my service, if you are free."
"Oh yes, my lord, I am free and willing," replied the boy; for there was that in the manner of the future king of England which, though dry and cold, and somewhat stern, inspired respect; and the boy's character was peculiar too. The man who knows how to command will always find those who are willing to obey; and the attachments inspired by the strong-minded and the stern are often more rapid, generally more permanent, than the affection excited by the weak and gentle.
The boy's nature was brief and laconic; and, as soon as he had made his answer, he went out into the passage, and sought one of the attendants of the earl, with whom he returned to his presence.
"Take care of that boy," said Richmond, to the man, "and bring him to me as soon as I return. Treat him well, and let him have whatever he wants; for he has rendered me service."
"Thus saying, he walked out into the court again, assuming a moody and somewhat discontented air. The reading of his letters and his conversation with the boy had not occupied five minutes; and some of the English gentlemen were still studying the epistles they had received in the court."
"You have been very brief, my lord," said the Marquis Dorset, thrusting his letter into his pocket. "What news did the boy give you? I have little or none."
"I have none at all," answered Richmond. "The boy only came from Rouen, I find. The English messenger stopped there. So I must wait for another long tedious fortnight before I get intelligence. I am glad to hear from Rennes, however, my Lord of Morlaix," he added, addressing one of the Breton gentlemen, who had been placed with him more as a guard than an attendant, "that your noble duke is perfectly recovered, and gone towards Maine for better air, to give him strength again."
"Indeed, my lord. I had not heard it," answered the gentleman he addressed.
"It is true, notwithstanding," answered Richmond. "Come, gentlemen, let us mount;" and, springing on his horse, he rode forth, followed by his whole train.
As he went, he continued to talk of the duke of Britanny's recovery, in a public and open manner, addressing some of his observations to the Bretons who accompanied him.
"I fear," he said at length, "that his highness may think me somewhat remiss if I do not go to compliment him on his recovery."
He remarked a slight frown come upon the face of Morlaix, as he spoke; and that gentleman ventured to say--
"Perhaps, my lord the earl, it might be better to send a messenger first, giving some intimation of your purpose; for his highness, if you recollect--"
"I know what you would say," replied Richmond, as he paused and hesitated. "His highness assigned me my residence at Vannes; and I am well aware that observance of a prince's wishes is of more importance than any mere point of ceremony. You, Dorset, are in the same case; but, in this instance, happily we can do both; remain at the spot assigned us, and yet show our gladness at our princely friend's recovery. We will send every man, not tied down to this spot as we are, to offer our sincere congratulations, and to show that we do not come ourselves solely front respect for his commands."
"That, my lord, is indeed obviating all difficulties," said Morlaix, with a smile; "and doubtless," he added hypocritically, "you will soon receive an invitation to the court, to receive the honours due to your station."
Richmond's face expressed no satisfaction at this answer; and, turning to the rest of the English exiles, he merely said--
"Well, gentlemen, we will not ride far or fast to-day, as you will need your horses for a longer journey to-morrow. I will write a letter of compliment to his highness, which you shall deliver for me, and explain that I only regret I could not be my own messenger. Monsieur de Morlaix, if you will do me the honour of breaking your fast with me, at an early hour to-morrow, we will see these gentlemen depart."
The other bowed with all due reverence, and, with much satisfaction, seeing that the arrest of the earl of Richmond, and his delivery into the hands of Richard's emissaries, which he knew was meditated by Landais, would be much more easily effected, during the absence of so large a body of the earl's friends and followers, than it could be while they so closely surrounded his person. It was necessary however for the Breton to obtain distinct directions as to how he should act; and, as soon as he returned to the abbey of St. Gildas, he despatched letters to Landais, informing him of the proposed movements of Richmond's friends, and requiring orders for his guidance.
While he was thus occupied, the young messenger from the bishop of Ely was again brought into the earl's presence, and the door closed and bolted. Richmond eyed him for a moment attentively, and then said--
"What do you know, lad, of the contents of the packet you brought me?"
"Nothing, my lord," replied the boy.
"What do you guess?" demanded Richmond, who seemed to comprehend and be comprehended at once.
"That your lordship is in peril from something," replied the other.
"Why do you guess that?" asked Richmond.
"Because I was told to be secret and swift," answered the boy, "to destroy the packet if there was danger of its being taken, and to find means of telling you, if I should be prevented from delivering it, to be upon your guard against enemies. Moreover, I heard last night that three hundred archers had marched into Vannes in the morning."
"Ha!" said the earl. "I heard not of that. They are rapid, it would seem. Now, young man, are you willing to serve me well?"
"Right willing," replied the boy.
"Can you guide me, by the shortest and most secret ways, hence to the town of Angers?" demanded Richmond.
"None better," said the boy.
"Well then, you shall do it," said Richmond; "but be silent and secret. Utter no word of what I say to you, even to those who seem my dearest friends. I have an expedition to make to Angers, to take counsel with persons much in my interest there; but none must know of my going. That is all. Stay, a word or two more," he continued, thoughtfully. "It were as well that none should remark your staying here, or know that we hold private conference together. It may seem as if the news you brought from Rouen was of sufficient import to justify suspicion. I will send you into Vannes. Stay there at the suburb at the Golden Dolphin, and mind you chatter not."
"I chatter little, my lord," said the boy.
"I trust so and believe it, my good lad," replied Richmond; "but it sometimes happens that youths like you, when speaking to persons of superior station, are silent and discreet enough, and yet find a noisy and loquacious tongue when with their fellows. But I will not doubt you. You must have been proved, ere Morton trusted you. Only remember, that if you are not now discreet, you may lose a good master, who will make your fortune should you prove worthy."
"I will not lose him," said the boy.
"To-morrow night I will speak with you more," said Richmond; "do you know a place near Vannes called Carnac?"
"What, where the great stones lie?" asked the lad. "Many a time I have played amongst those stones, when I was eight years old."
"Then meet me there with your horse, just at the hour of sunset, to-morrow evening," the earl replied. "Set off upon the road to Rennes. Turn round by the great fish-ponds, and wait between the first and second line of stones till I arrive--though I may tarry a little, still wait."
"I will, my lord," replied the boy, and left the earl's presence.
He kept his word to the letter; for, though he laughed, and jested, and talked with the people of the little cabaret where he put up, the name of the earl of Richmond never escaped his lips. He talked of the long journey he had had, and of how tired his horse was, and complained a little that the Marquis Dorset had not paid him for his services.
"Doubtless you are well paid before," said the landlord of the inn, to whom he spoke. "You seem a sharp boy, and not one to go without payment."
The lad laughed, and said nothing, confirming the man's suspicions, that he had desired somewhat more than his due. Upon the pretence of his horse needing repose, he continued to linger where he was during the whole of that day and great part of the next, always talking of going back to Rouen, till, at length, when evening approached, he paid his score and departed. The landlord remarked, as he went away, "Ay, there goes a young truant, who will be scolded roundly, I will warrant, for lingering so long, and yet will not want an excuse for his tardiness."
Slowly jogging on his way, the boy rode even somewhat farther than Richmond had directed him. But, to say the truth, he knew the country better than the earl himself; and he knew also the habits of the place, which brought to the point at which Richmond had told him to turn off, a considerable number of the country people, going into Vannes, at that hour, to hear the evening service, at the church of St. Paterne. Passing completely round the large tank or fish-pond there, he approached the great Druidical temple of Carnac--the most remarkable, perhaps, in the world--just as the sun was setting; and, dismounting from his horse, he stood and gazed forth at the bright sky, with interest very different from that which he might have felt had he known where he stood. The boy was ignorant indeed of all the historical associations connected with the place. He had never heard of Druids, or Celts, nor of any other religion but the Roman Catholic; but yet there was a curious sort of solemn grandeur in that scene, with the thousands and thousands of tall stones, most of them then standing upright in their five curious ranges, with the rosy coloured light of the evening sky pouring in amongst them, which produced a sensation almost akin to awe in his young though not very imaginative heart.
"This is a strange place," he thought. "I wonder what it means? These stones must have been put here by somebody. Perhaps they intended to build a church here long long ago. But why should they spread them out so far and set them all on end. It can't have been for a church either. But they are all dead and gone, that's clear, and the stones remain;" and his mind being then led on from point to point, by some process within himself, he said, "I wonder what will become of me. It is very droll, one can never tell what is to happen to oneself afterwards. That earl said he would make my fortune. What will that fortune be, I wonder?"
The sun gradually sank, and all was darkness; but shortly after a pale gleam, coming upon some clouds to the eastward, showed that some other light was coming; and the moon soared up in time, and shed her light over the same scene. The boy looked round him somewhat timidly. He began almost to fancy that ghosts of the dead might haunt those solemn places. All remained still and quiet, however, till at length he heard the sound of horses' feet, and ventured to look out. The riders were not near enough for him to see anything, however; for the night was so still that he heard them afar. At length they came nearer and nearer; and, taking his stand at his horse's side, he gazed along the line of stones till four horsemen rode in and approached him.
"Mount and come on," said the voice of Richmond; and the boy sprang into the saddle at once. The earl had not stopped to speak the words, and, ere the lad was mounted, he had ridden on some hundred yards, as it seems in a wrong direction, for he speedily heard a low voice, saying, "To the right, my lord. It is safer and shorter."
"But this is the road to La Roche Bernard," replied Richmond, turning, and eyeing him by the moonlight.
"But you must not go by La Roche," replied the lad, "but by Redon and Nozay. We will cross the Villaine near Redon. Then there is nothing to stop you till you get to Nozay, neither towns nor castles, but sandy tracks through the bushes. There is the castle of Furette, indeed; but it was burnt in the last war, and there is no one in it."
"Play me not false," said Richmond, in a threatening tone, but turning his rein at the same time in the direction the boy pointed out. "Ride here," he continued, "between me and this good lord. Now tell me, how far is it to Angers by this road?"
"Some twenty-six leagues, my lord," replied the lad, "and by the other more than thirty."
"You are right there," said the Marquis Dorset.
"And what will one find on the other side of Nozay?" asked the earl.
"Nothing to stop you, sir," said the boy; "between it and Angers there is the little village of Conde, where you can bait your horses; and there is a good road thence to Angers, with nothing but hamlets or scattered farm-houses, till you reach the town. No one would be able to take you from Redon to Nozay but myself--at least, nobody at Vannes; but from Nozay to Angers you could go by yourself if you liked."
"You seem to know it well," said Richmond.
"I was born at Nozay," replied the boy.
There the conversation stopped; and they rode on in silence for some time, going at a very quick pace, till at length the Earl said,
"We must spare our horses a little, or they will hardly bear us out. Twenty-six leagues; think you we can do it in one day, boy?"
"Oh, yes, my lord," replied the boy, "if your beasts be strong and willing. The night is fresh, and the ground soft; and we can afford to stop and feed the horses at Nozay, for, if any one comes after us, a thousand to one they will take the other road."
"That is one recommendation to yours at all events," said Dorset, laughing; "and the ground is soft enough indeed, for it seems to me as if we were entering a morass."
"So we are," answered the boy, coolly. "We had better ride one by one. Then if I make a mistake, I shall be the first to pay for it."
Thus saying, he rode on boldly and rapidly, till, at the end of about half a league, the swampy ground ceased, and the country began to rise a little. Ascending by gradual slopes the road which they now followed, and which was clearly enough defined by its sandy colour, gained a considerable elevation above the sea; and Richmond was just in the act of observing that they must have got at least eight miles from Vannes, when they heard the distant report of a cannon boom upon the air, and Dorset exclaimed:
"What may that mean?"
"That they have found out you are gone," said the boy, laughing.
"Did it seem to come from Vannes?" demanded Richmond.
"To a certainty," answered the boy. "The wind sets this way; but it is our own fault if they catch us now."
No other indication of pursuit reached their ears as they pursued their way, till at length the boy, pointing forward with his hand, said:
"There is Redon. You can either go through the town or by the ford. The ford is shortest."
"And safest too, in all probability," replied Richmond.
"I think they could hear that gun," said the boy, "if they could but make out what it meant."
"Then take the ford, by all means," said Richmond; and, pursuing a narrow path to the left, which ran some way up the river, the lad led them to the bank of the stream, and passed safely through, though the water rose to the horse's girths. The rest followed; and, turning over the shoulder of the hill, at the end of a few miles, they entered a wild and desolate track, where woods and bushes seemed scattered over a wide extent of shifting sand, amidst which all vestige of a road seemed lost. Straight on went the boy, however, without pause or hesitation, appearing to be guided, in finding his way back to his native place, by the same sort of instinct which is possessed by dogs and some kinds of pigeons.
All seemed so dark--for the moon had by this time gone down--so wild, so trackless, that Richmond at length exclaimed, with anxious sternness:
"Are you sure you are right, boy?"
"Quite sure," replied the boy; and on he went, leading the way through one wide patch of bushes, round the angle of a little wood, down a little dell, across a rivulet, up a slope, into another track wilder than before, as if not a tree had been cut down or a bush grubbed up since last he was there.
"There comes morning," he said at length. "We shall reach Nosey just at break of day."
"And right glad will my horse be to get there," said Dorset; "for he is well nigh knocked up. He has been stumbling at every step for the last hour."
"Food will set him up," said the boy, "and that he can soon have. There is Bohalard and its windmill, to the right, peeping through the dusk, like a great giant with his arms stretched out to catch us."
The sight of the windmill, and the boy's instant recognition of it, relieved Richmond a good deal; for he had not been able to divest his mind of some doubts as to his young guide's accuracy; for the country had been so wild and trackless, that it seemed impossible to him for any one accurately to remember every step of the way, and one mistake must have been irretrievable in the darkness. A few minutes more set him at rest completely; for as the air grew lighter every moment, he perceived at no great distance in advance a tower upon an elevated spot, and a little beyond that again, but lower down, the spire of a church.
"What is that tower, boy?" he asked, as they rode on.
"It is called Beauvais, my lord," replied the lad; "and that is the church of Nozay."
"Then let us slacken our pace a little," said Richmond, and, according to the boy's prediction, they rode into the small town just as the sun was rising.
"Here, stop here," said the boy, drawing in his horse's rein before a house, which seemed somewhat like an inn of the second or third class; "this is not the best cabaret, but the landlord is the honestest man;" and, by thundering with his fists at the large gate, he soon brought forth some of the inmates from their beds.
"Ah, petit!" cried the landlord, who was amongst the first; "is that you again, Pierre la Brousse? and so you have brought me some guests."
"Who must have food for themselves and horses, in a minute, father," replied the boy, "for they want to be in Angers before mass."
"They'll hardly manage that," said the landlord, looking at the horses; "however we must do what we can. Come in, come in. Jacques tend the horses. Come, in, Pierre."
"No, I must up to the top of the church," said the boy, "to see who comes after; for Maître Landais is no friend of mine, and, if his people catch me, I shall taste hemp. So keep my horse saddled while he feeds. The gentlemen can do as they like, for they can find their way now; but I'll be away as soon as I see any one coming over thelandes."
This was said aloud, and Richmond answered--
"No, no. We will go with thee, lad."
"Stay, stay; my son shall go up the steeple," cried the landlord; "he is quick enough in all conscience, and his eyes are good. You stay and feed, Pierre."
Such was then the arrangement. The son of the landlord was sent up to the top of the church to watch, while the whole party of travellers halted at the little inn, to rest, feed their horses, and partake of what coarse refreshment the place afforded. The horse of the Marquis of Dorset, however, would not feed; but, by the mediation of Pierre la Brousse, that nobleman procured another very fair animal to carry him on, and the furniture of that which he had been riding was transferred to the back of the fresh steed. The other four horses took their provender willingly enough; and, having seen this most necessary point settled, Richmond and his companions entered the house, and soon had some eggs, meat, and wine set before them. They had time to make a tolerable meal, but no more; for, just as they had finished, the landlord's son came running in to say, that he saw a party of horsemen coming over thelandes, at the distance of about three miles.
"How many are they?" demanded Richmond, in a calm tone.
"A good number, sir," replied the young man, "but I did not stay to count them."
"How can they have tracked us?" cried the boy.
"They had something running before them which looked like a dog," said the landlord's son. "It was too far to see exactly what it was; but it might be a blood-hound."
"My dog for an hundred angels!" said Richmond, in a low tone; "we must to horse at once. Were they coming quick?"
"No, slow enough," answered the young man, following the strangers to the court-yard.
"Thank Heaven, their horses must be as tired as ours," said Dorset; and, paying the reckoning, the party of fugitives mounted in haste to depart.
"There is a gold crown for thee, young man," said Richmond to the landlord's son, before they set out; "and if thou and thy father can contrive to delay those who come after for one hour, I promise, on the word of an English nobleman, you shall have ten such sent to you by some means. If I reach Angers in safety, you may come and claim the reward. Now, on gentlemen, as fast as whip and spur will carry us."