“The innocent accessory, I fear, to others' villany,” Claude interrupted; “still, hear me,” he continued, “and forgive me if I bring you tidings that shall hang as heavy on your soul as lead; yet have given me the leaden bullet's swiftness, or that of the blast, to waft them hither, blasting, to yourself.—Sir, you have been robbed, bereaved; the star of Stillyside is set,—or, worse, plucked from its firmament; my life, my lady, oh, my new-made love, your peerless ward is stolen.”
“Stolen!” the advocate echoed.
“Stolen; even from my very arms is plucked,” continued Claude.
“Ill-freighted messenger,” groaned the old lawyer; “stolen! oh, Montigny, you have stolen half the strength from these old limbs, and strained the sinews that have never bent before, neither to man nor to misfortune. Stolen! How stolen? It is false; you jest, you mean that you yourself have stolen her,—have stolen her heart; you know I lately caught you in the act;—but, for her person, she would not, could not, give it you without my leave. Montigny, you have not stolen together to the church?—but this is in the street; come in.”
Claude tied his courser to a young maple that grew near the door; and, whilst he was doing so, the advocate retired within, murmuring: “Montigny, Seigneur Montigny, this is your work, and yet may prove the dearest piece of petty larceny that ever man committed; as dear as would have been to have furnished the dower you refused me. No;” he continued musing, “trouble does not spring from out of the ground. Then whence comes this? Who hates me?” he continued sharply; “Covets her? Whom would her absence serve? who, except the father of you boy, the Sieur Montigny?” and he had scarcely finished his soliloquy when he was rejoined by Claude, who, straightway in the obscurity of the library, related to him the adventure of the night.
The old man listened in silence, but his bosom heaved, and when Claude had ceased, he grasped him by the hand and exclaimed:
“Montigny, we are bound together in that girl, the outrage upon whom has made us rivals in the task to find and rescue her. Yet are you sure the voice you heard was her's? You did not see her carried off; you only heard, or thought you heard, her cry. You may have been deceived. Hasten back to Stillyside. She may be there now sleeping between the unruffled sheets, making them sweeter than the perfuming lavender;—if she be not—why then—alas! what then?” And he struck his palm against his brow, holding it there, perplexed, revolving.
“You say you heard your name pronounced?” he enquired at length.
“I did,” said Claude, unhesitatingly; and this seemed to satisfy the lawyer's doubts, and, rising, he said, shaking his companion by the hand: “Montigny, go. Beat up the bush at Stillyside; and if she be not there,—why all the country side shall be roused to find and bring her back. But, Claude, she is safe. Yet hie you thither; mount again your horse, and bring me word before the day breaks: begone.” And in a few moments Claude was scouring back to Stillyside, and the advocate ruminating alone amidst the shadows of his library.