THE HOUR BEFORE THE DAWN.
"What outward form and feature are
He guesseth but in part;
But what within is good and fair
He seeth with the heart."
Coleridge.
Through the woods with sure-footed fleetness their powerful horses bore Oswald and Wulfhere on the fateful night of their visit to the monastery. Matters of most momentous importance to Oswald at least, as well as to Alice and the Count her father, called for urgency, and would brook no delay. Presently the pair stood together in the wood, hard by the place of the mysterious passage. "Hold the horses, Wulfhere, and await my return; our rest will be more welcome, and much sweeter when we have brought peace unto others, and disburthened our minds of the momentous issues following on this day's work." So saying, he swung himself aloft, and speedily disappeared in the cavernous recesses of the giant oak.
Meanwhile, on the turret a lonely figure paced round and round its battlemented heights in the shivering cold, but all unconscious, and insensible to its chilling influences. It was Alice De Montfort who waited and watched in the loneliness of the night, hoping, yet despairing of hearing the welcome voice, or seeing the welcome form of her Saxon lover. Ever and anon, as she paced to and fro, she lifted up her tear-stained eyes in voiceless prayer to the heavens above her; but the driving clouds as they scudded across the face of the sky, seemed to shut out hope, and all response from the vaulted blue, toward which she looked for succour and for comfort. Then in mute agony she turned from the Omnipotent, whose form she could not see; and whose voice she could not hear, but who, though as yet there was no token, had nevertheless heard her prayer ere it was uttered, and in His own way was sending fleet messengers of hope.
Was there hope and help in man? She mounted the parapet and peered long and anxiously over the bastions into the cheerless night, listening with strained attention for sound of voice or human footfall. But the teeth of the driving wind bit with piteous severity her wan cheek, and she sank down again beneath the shelter of the wall.
"Will he come to-night?" she yearningly asked of the empty air.
Her faint heart gave the answer to the question.
"No, he is a fugitive and a hunted Saxon; a wolfshead and an outlaw; and after this day's vengeance he must hide himself as best he can. But I love him all the more for that, for he is brave and true, and I will gladly share poverty and exile with him. What would I not give this moment to know that he is safe? to feel the grasp of his strong arm; to hear his voice, resolute as a hero's should be, yet withal so tender, that a little babe would be hushed to sleep by its gentleness, as though 'twere a mother's lullaby. How danger seems to fly from me, and dark, overhanging fate is fronted by silver-winged hope when he is nigh! But, alas! vain are all my hopes, for he comes not. Perhaps already the traitorous minions have avenged themselves in his blood, and I shall never see him more. I must fain get me to my chamber and weep, and pray the night away, in the hope that with to-morrow's light there may come some tidings of him. Just one last look from the bastion ere I descend."
So saying, she rose to her feet. Ah! a footstep on the stone stair arrests her attention. Some spy upon her movements—she is discovered! Her heart beats feverishly, and she sinks to the ground with the day's carnage flitting indistinctly before her mental vision. Ah! what is that? The tall form of the Saxon chieftain is outlined in the dim light, and with a cry of uncontrollable delight, and with supernatural energy she bounds across the intervening space, and flings herself into his strong arms in sweet insensibility.
"You are my own now, sweetheart," said Oswald, folding her to his breast, and imprinting a kiss upon her cold brow. "You anxious one; whatever have you been doing? watching in this chill night air all alone, and so scantily clad too."
The ears into which he uttered his loving words were deaf; and the eyes into which he vainly strove to look were closed.
"Poor child," said he, "this is too bad."
Then he folded her tightly in his arms and rested his warm cheek against hers. Her eyes slowly unclosed, and for a moment she gazed up into his face. Then slowly they closed again, and a sweet smile passed over her features, the revulsion of feeling from despair to the joy of hope was delicious. Like a little child waking in agony from some horrid dream, and finding its mother's form bending over it, and forthwith dropping once more into sleep, and peace, and rest.
For a minute or two she was perfectly passive, whilst the new joy seemed to be saturating her whole being.
"I am so glad you have come," she said, rousing herself. "I was filled with most dreadful forebodings of disaster to you, to my father, and to all of us. Excuse my silence, but the joy was so great I could do nothing but quietly drink it in. This horrid day has nearly killed me. Even now I am more afraid of the future. After you fled the Abbot boldly charged my father with disloyalty, and with having planned the day's slaughter of his brother. His rage and his threatenings were dreadful to hear, for he vowed that he would forthwith lay the matter before the king."
"Fear not, dearest, the worst is past. Everything has this day been purged away in blood. I care not to think about it, much less to talk about it. But after all, only the barest justice has been done, and I know of nothing that calls for repentance. Has the Count retired to rest?"
"No. I fear there will be little rest for him to-night. I left him some time ago pacing his room in despair, and revolving in his mind various plans for frustrating the malicious intentions of the Abbot."
"Other hands have already frustrated the evil designs of that most wicked and loathsome representative of the Church. The avenger has met him face to face, and he is no more. Come, let us go down to the Count. I am the bearer of news which will make him look kindly upon even a Saxon outlaw. Come with me, one telling of the story will suffice."
So together they descended the turret stair and sought De Montfort's room. Alice gave a gentle knock upon the heavy oaken door, but there was no response. Then she gently pushed open the door, and the pair entered together. The Count was sat with his elbows on the oaken table, his face buried in his hands, and totally oblivious of their entrance.
"Father!" said Alice gently.
The Count gave a start and raised his head, and immediately started to his feet at the spectacle which met his sight; for the stalwart Saxon once more stood before him: his astonishment being still more inflamed, as he witnessed his fair daughter lovingly clinging to the outlawed chieftain's arm, and radiant with smiles.
"Alice!"
"Father, give this noble Saxon a hearty welcome, for he richly merits it. A long time since I unwittingly gave him my heart, or rather he took it, and he has proved himself our bravest and truest friend. He is bearer also to-night, I believe, of most welcome news."
So saying, she led her Saxon lover to the Count, and Oswald, dropping on one knee, said,—
"Noble sir, your lovely daughter some time ago, in pure pity, gave me my life. On the night of the taking of this castle she opened the prison doors, and with her own hands undid my shackles——"
"Alice, I little thought that it was your doing!"
"Wait, father, till you hear this noble Saxon's story, and you will chide me no more for that act of mercy."
"Noble sir," said Oswald, "we Saxons never permit a debt of honour to go unrequited. I have endeavoured as best I could to discharge the debt of honour so nobly laid upon me; but the fair creditor has taken possession of my heart. I cannot eject her, if I would; and I would not, if I could, eject so lovely and so winsome a tenant."
"Pray be seated, Saxon; I confess I do not understand the language used by either you or my daughter, nor do I know how far it is permissible for me to hold friendly intercourse with one whom my king expects me to be at deadly enmity with. But Saxon or not, you deported yourself to-day as a brave man and a true knight should do. The disguise was well planned and complete, and your advent timely. It was most daring, but what its purpose was I am at a loss to know."
"Its purpose was to rid you and yours of a most deadly viper, and to rid our race of a blood-thirsty tyrant."
"I divine thou knowest more of my concerns than it is meet a stranger should. But, be that as it may, I know not whether I am indebted to thee or not, for one viper laid low has given birth to others, whose venom I dread even more, and whom I have no means of appeasing.
"It is better I should explain, sire. It is true I became possessed of your secret, but the gratitude I owed to your daughter for the life given back to me from the jaws of death, as well as for the love I bore her, also for the fierce retribution I and my people owed to the brothers Vigneau, for numberless cruelties and outrages dealt out to our people, caused me to watch with scrupulous care, that I might serve you and yours and rid my people of a deadly terror. I have news for you, sire. Not only is Baron Vigneau dead, but also the Abbot, his brother, has fallen by the avenging hand of an outraged countryman of mine, and has been carried to his burial in the silent woods. Furthermore, here are the fatal letters," said Oswald, drawing them from his bosom and handing them to the Count.
"No living man, save ourselves, I believe, is aware of the nature of them, so it is easy to end their potency for mischief."
At the sight of the fatal letters which had for so long a time hung over him like the sword of Damocles, the countenance of the Count lighted up as though it were by magic, and, reading them over carefully, one by one, he ejaculated, "Thank God!" Then rising from his seat he walked to the huge fireplace, in which were the smouldering remains of a wood fire, and he dropped them into the embers, and watched the quick flame as it sped up the chimney. After this he most carefully raked over the filmy remains a pile of burning charcoal; then he returned to the table, and turned a satisfied and kindly look upon Oswald.
"Did I understand you to say, Saxon, that the Abbot was dead also?"
"Yes, sire, I knew well that the work was but half done and the deliverance half accomplished whilst the Abbot lived. I knew also that the least delay would be fatal, so I and a few followers made bold to force an entrance to the monastery, where we found the Abbot in close consultation with one Pierre, whom doubtless you have met."
"Yes, yes, Pierre—I know him well—a brave man, but an arrant villain withal. I trust he is not acquainted with this foolish act of mine."
"We found the Abbot communicating the whole matter to him, and by bribes and promises inciting him to proceed at once to London, and lay the letters before William. He hoped to bring down upon you the King's vengeance, and then to possess himself of your lands and possessions."
"And what of Pierre? then, is he at large, and in possession of this information?"
"No, sire. The stalwart fellow who acted the part of squire to me in the tournament had cause of quarrel with him personally, as well as a long catalogue of crimes against our people to avenge. He challenged Pierre, and single-handed, and in fair fight slew him; so he also is no more."
"Saxon, 'tis well done, whilst I have been moping and irresolute how to act, you have planned and executed. It is well done, as I have said, and I am a life-long debtor to you. But what is this betwixt yourself and my daughter? I am bewildered. Alice, are you two lovers?"
"Yes, father."
"And this thing has been going on for some time evidently, and under my very nose, and I as blind as a bat. This is passing strange; I confess, almost with shame, my obtuseness."
Alice rose from her seat, threw her arms about her father's neck, and affectionately imprinted a kiss upon his cheek, saying,
"Forgive us, father; we meant you no wrong, and we dared not confess until the circumstances were favourable; but all the while have we been carefully planning how we might extricate you from the power of your enemy."
"I have nothing to forgive, truly, you silly child. But was it wise to turn your heart adrift like a rudderless boat on a tempestuous sea, and leave the errant winds to drive it into port whenever they listed. A kindly providence, however, has watched over you, and you deserved it. Blindly, humanly speaking, your love has been placed, but it has been well placed, in the keeping of a brave man and true, though he be not of our race. But whither will all this tend, and how will imperious William receive the tidings—that the daughter of De Montfort has a Saxon lover?"
"Father, let us have patience and faith; all fear of disaster is now removed. This valiant Saxon lover of mine can wait the pleasure of our liege lord; and I—my happiness is so complete, I scarcely know whether I shall be, happiest as a lover or a wife. There remains much to be done, and I doubt not but William will know how to estimate the value of an ally and friend, who is at once wise and brave, even though he be a Saxon."