THE TRYST.
"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day.
The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea.
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me."
Gray.
From the flagstaff on the tower of the castle was to be seen for a little while at midday a pennant, with long streamers fluttering in the breeze. There was no one on the tower at the time but Alice. What is the significance of this? Nothing, apparently, but a freak of fancy. But any one sufficiently observant would notice that Alice takes her stand on the north side of the tower, and, leaning her elbows on the battlements, looks long and eagerly towards yonder grim mountain looming blackly in the hazy distance, whose scarred limestone precipices seem fearful to look upon. But presently there became visible to any one possessed of strong, keen vision, a dark speck of something which had sprung into sight against the clear background of heaven's blue. It seemed perfectly motionless in the air, and might be some bird of prey hovering on poised wing, and watching for its prey. But it was no bird of prey. Alice gave an exclamation of surprise.
"He sees it," she said; "he will be here to-night. Speed away laggard hours that separate me from him! There is music in his voice, and refuge in his strong arms and loving heart!"
She piously uttered a prayer to the saints to guide him. But perhaps, wise one, that prayer was breathed into the idle April breeze—a contribution of nothingness—an impalpable seedling, flung out of a needy human soul, but deposited nowhere, and having fruition never—I trow not, for prayers, like curses, have an assured harvest, and are as surely reaped by the sowers, no inspired vision being requisite to see it done from day to day.
The laggard hours quickly passed, and the lingering twilight deepened into sombre night. The thrushes which carolled to each other from tree to tree as the deepening gloom gathered about them, as though loth to say good-bye to the joyous day, had long since sought their resting-place for the night. Standing beside the old oak in the wood might be seen the form of Oswald, listening intently for sound of human voice or human footfall. Nothing disturbs the silent night air that gives uneasy thoughts to the listener, though there are many sounds distinctly audible to one so familiar with nature, and the woods are most alive now that man has gone to his rest. There is the hurried pattering here and there and everywhere, of game and vermin, or the unhurried crawl of the urchin as he issues from his bed in quest of food. Overhead the bats are flitting in and out amongst the branches of the trees, followed by the heavy beat of the owlet's wing, whose eyes, catlike, are gleaming like live coals in the darkness. In the distance the sharp yelp of the fox proclaims Reynard also to be abroad and busy.
None of these sounds give uneasiness to Oswald. On the contrary, they are to him most reassuring. He turns his gaze towards the tower, the outlines of which are clearly marked against the starlit sky. Soon he sees a dark figure move towards the battlements, and peer over on the side on which he stands. Perhaps some sentinel keeps watch from the lonely heights whilst his comrades below are resting in peace. No; that is no sentinel, for the figure waves something to and fro for a moment or two, then slowly sinks behind the battlements. On witnessing the signal, Oswald quickly mounts the tree, and disappears in its cavernous recesses. The journey along the underground passage is quickly traversed, and he emerges on the battlements, and the muffled figure is folded in his arms, and a loving kiss is implanted on her cheek.
"What ails you, Alice, dear? No ill news, I trust?"
"Alas! I have only ill news for you, dearest, and I know you are hard beset without my adding other troubles to your perplexities."
"Hush, darling! Never think your needs add to my perplexities. I never feel so like surmounting everything as when I think I live for you; to champion your cause against all comers, and flaunt defiance in the face of your enemies."
"I fear the championing of my cause will bring you into deadly peril, perhaps to death."
"If it does, dearest, you gave me my life when an ignominious death awaited me. If I die in defence of you, well, I am willing, aye, more than willing. But let us not cherish thoughts like these, for I think a merciful Providence will always reserve a blessing for one like you; so let us have faith, and never doubt the future. I am full of faith and hope. Come, tell me what new trouble distracts and disturbs your mind."
Then they sat together on an abutment, and Alice, nestling close to her virtuous knight, told of the new complications which had arisen.
"My father has been very wroth to-day, chiding me roughly because I make not preparations for my nuptials, and threatening my marriage to Vigneau by force."
"He is still determined, then, to press on this hateful and heathenish alliance?"
"Yes; but judge him not too harshly, dearest. I am well assured he loves me dearly, in spite of this seeming harshness. I have seen again and again a frown on his brow, and heard bitter words break from his lips at the intrusion of Vigneau. I am satisfied that if it were not for the hateful power he wields over my father, I should not be forced into this alliance. But Vigneau claims my hand as the price of peace."
"You still hate this man, and abhor a union with him, Alice, dear? Is it not so?"
"I loathe him with my whole heart, and would rather die a hundred deaths than marry him. But what it may be my duty to do, for my father's sake, I know not."
"And will it come to this, that, as the price of peace, you are to be offered to this devil incarnate—to one whose hands are red with the blood of murdered men and women, and whose life is one coarse round of brutal indulgence?"
"The prospect is most sickening. But what can I do in an extremity like this?"
"Rest assured, my love, you will not do that," said Oswald, drawing his sword. "Here is a trusty friend which will cut this Gordian knot, if it be not unloosed by more peaceable means. This Vigneau owes his villainous life a hundred times told, for the foul crimes he has committed, and is committing from day to day, upon my helpless countrymen. The sword has been hanging over him a long time, and it will fall before he claims you as his bride. Though he live to stand at the altar with you, he shall not compass his vile ends, for I will confront him there; and rest assured I will make sure of him if it be the last stroke my trusty sword shall ever make. Drive the matter to the utmost verge of delay, and if relief come not in the meantime, it will come ere the extremity. But come now, let us think of other things, for this matter, I see, sits like a grievous nightmare upon your spirits. I am pleased to be able to report upon the forward state of the fortress on the hill."
"But, alas! I have ill news for you with regard to that matter. It was partly on that account I summoned you from the hills to-night."
"What is it, dearest? Come, unburthen your mind of all troublesome matters. I can assure you, nevertheless, that we are now very indifferent as to what steps may be taken."
"But I am afraid this will be serious. The king is now at York with a large contingent of his men-at-arms, and a number of mercenaries, intent on quelling any attempts at insurrection on the part of the Saxons. One of his Bodes[2] arrived here this morning, asking for all information with regard to the attitude of your people. My father is having a parchment writing made out, with full particulars of your doings, and asking for help to reduce your fortress, and slay your rebellious followers. I fear me if William exerts himself he will not desist, until he has captured your stronghold; and he will give no quarter to those who try to thwart him."
"This is, indeed, serious news, and we must move heaven and earth to prevent this despatch reaching its destination. Do you know when the messenger will depart?"
"The day after to-morrow, I heard my father say. See, I have here a copy of the despatch. I drew it up at father's dictation."
"Many thanks, my dear. We must devise some expedient to meet this emergency. I think I know a sly rogue who will, either by hook or crook, circumvent the king's messenger. But no time must be lost. Give me a parting kiss. Ah! get you to bed, you trembling puss, and may sweet sleep enfold you in his gentle arms! Adieu, adieu, for a little while."