"I bear no malice, sir," rejoined the Lord of Vaudemont; "but if you please, we will ride back to Montl'herry;" and following the invitation, which was now a command, the young knight accompanied his captor, saying to himself, "I felt that this enterprise would end ill, for me at least."
He knew not how far the evil was to extend.
CHAPTER XXXVII.
[THE CAPTIVITY.]
Oh, the long and tedious hours of imprisonment! how they weigh down the stoutest heart! How soul and mind seem fettered as well as body; and how the chain grows heavier every hour we wear it! Days and weeks passed by; weeks and months flew away; and, strictly confined to one small chamber in the castle of Montl'herry, Richard of Woodville remained a prisoner.
The Count of Vaudemont, courteous in words, showed himself aught but courteous in deeds. Every tone had been knightly and generous while he stayed in the château; but no results had followed. He would never fix the ransom of his captive; he would never hold out any prospect of liberty; and ere long he departed for Paris, leaving Woodville in the hands of the Châtelain of the place, who, severely blamed for the escape of the young Lord of Croy, revenged himself upon him, by whose aid it had been accomplished. To that one little room, high up in the château, was Woodville restricted; no exercise was permitted to him, but the pacing up and down of its narrow limits: no relaxation but to sing snatches of the old ballads of which he was so fond, or to gaze from under the pointed arch of the window over the changing scene below. No one was permitted to see him but his own page, who had been captured with him, and one of the soldiers of the castle; no book existed within the walls; and materials for writing, purchased with difficulty in the town, were only granted him in order to write to the Lord of Vaudemont concerning his ransom.
At first he remonstrated mildly; but when no other answer arrived, but that the Count would think of it, he took another tone, reproached him for his want of courtesy, and reminded him, that though he had surrendered rescue or no rescue, the refusal of reasonable ransom, justified him in making his escape whenever the opportunity might occur.
The Count's reply consisted of but four words, "Escape if you can," and from that hour the guard kept upon him became more strict than before. The weary hours dragged heavily on. Summer succeeded to spring, and autumn to summer, without anything occurring to cheer the lonely vacancy of his captivity, but an occasional rumour, brought by the page or the soldier who acted as jailer, either of the great events which were then agitating Europe, or of efforts made for his own liberation. The reports, however, were all vague and uncertain. He heard of war between France and Burgundy, but could with difficulty obtain any means of judging which party had gained the ascendancy. Then he heard of a new peace, as hollow as those which had preceded it; and with that intelligence came the tidings, which the page gained from the soldiers of the garrison, that a large ransom had been offered for him; but whether by the Duke of Burgundy himself, or the Lord of Croy, he could not correctly ascertain. Next came a rumour of dissensions between France and England, and of a probable war; but none of the particulars could be learnt, except that the demands of Henry V. were in the opinion of the Frenchmen extravagant, and that the greater part of the nation looked forward with delight to an opportunity of wiping away the disgrace of Cressy and Poitiers, and blotting out for ever the treaty of Bretigny.
Oh, what would he have given for his liberty then! All his aspirations for glory and renown, all his hopes of winning praise and advancement, all the dreams of young ambition, all the bright imaginations of love, rose up before him as memories of the dead. Those prison walls were their cold sepulchre, that solitary chamber the tomb of all the energies within him. He had well nigh become frantic with disappointment; but he struggled successfully with the despair of his own thoughts, as every man of a really powerful mind will do. No one can obtain full mastery of the minds of others, without having full mastery of his own. He would not suffer his fancy to dwell upon sad things; he strove to create for himself objects of interest; and from the arched window he made himself acquainted as a friend with every object in the wide-spread scene beneath his eyes. Every church spire, every castle tower, every belt of wood, every stream and every road, every hamlet and every house, for miles around, were described and marked as if he had been mapping the country in his own mind. But it was only that he was seeking for objects of interest; and he found them; and variety too, he found; for every hour and every season brought its change. The varying shadows as day rose or declined; the different hues of summer and of winter, of autumn and of spring; the changeful aspect of the April day; the frowning sublimity of the thunder storm; the cold, stern, desolate gloom of the wintry air, all gave food to nourish fancy with, and from which he extracted thought and occupation.
He had withal, one grand support and consolation: the best after the voice of religion, a conscience clear of offence. He could look back upon the past and say, I have done well. There was no reproach within him for opportunities missed, advantages wasted, or ill deeds done; and often and often, he thought of the first song that poor Ella Brune had sung him, and of that stanza in which she said,