’Twas ever thus, dear maids and men,
Whene’er ye walk abroad—
’Tis e’er the little breeze that blows
Each lady to her lord!
Lady Betty takes the air, etc.
Every one joins in the chorus with a hearty good will; all save Her Ladyship. Peggy dares not lift her woman’s voice, lest Escombe at right, or Wootton at her left, shall hear its most unmannish lilt. She mouths the words, though, and listens, as she has many a time before, to Sir Percy’s tones, and wonders if the sentiment is making him think of the Lady Diana.
The Lady Diana, however, is very far from Sir Percy’s imagination. He has been moodily ruminating on the possibilities of Tom Kidde (the most renowned desperado in all England of that day) suddenly bursting upon the party, and leaving a corpse behind him—that of Sir Robin McTart! He has been picturing to himself the profound pleasure it would give him to assist in fetching Sir Robin to the nearest church for decent burial, and the almost hilarious joy that would be his in attending his rival’s body to the grave! These were, according to the strict code, most murderous thoughts, and yet how pleasant, if how altogether unprofitable they were also.
Mr. Chalmers is in the midst of his last verse, his voice echoing into, and back, from the depths of the great green wood; there is not a wisp of the moon visible by this, and no light, save the halo from her beauty which lines and rims the vast masses of clouds above them.
Peggy is listening to the song; she hears it well: also the crunch of her horse’s hoofs on the narrow path; also, the crackle of the fresh twigs as they snap before the advance; and too, so sharp are her ears, the sleepy cheep of some disturbed bird in its nest, and, what else?
What is this curious stealthy stir, far-off, and creeping nearer in the wood?