Feeling, he knew not why, an abhorrence to his own solitary hall, the young knight remained leaning his arms upon the slight balustrade of the beffroy-tower, which, open on all sides, was only carried up farther by four small pillars supporting the roof, where hung the heavy bell call the bancloche. As he thus continued meditating on all that was gloomy in his situation, his eyes still strayed heedlessly over the prospect; sometimes turning in the direction of Paris, as he thought of seeking fortune and honour in arms; sometimes looking again towards Vernon though the object of his love was no longer visible.
On the road from Paris, however, two objects were to be seen, which he had not remarked before. The first was the figure of a man on foot, at about half a mile's distance from the castle, to which it was slowly approaching: the other was still so far off, that De Coucy could not distinguish at first whether it was a horseman, or some wayfarer on foot; but the rapidity with which it passed the various rises and falls of the road, soon showed him that whoever it was, was not only mounted, but proceeding at the full speed of a quick horse.
For a moment or two, from old habits of observation as a soldier, De Coucy watched its approach; but then again really careless about every thing that did not refer to his more absorbing feelings, he turned from the view, and slowly descended the steps of the tower.
His feet turned once more mechanically to the drawbridge, and placing himself under the arch of the barbican, he leaned his tall, graceful figure against one of the enormous door-posts, revolving a thousand vague schemes for his future existence. The strong swimmer Hope, still struggled up through the waves that Reflection poured continually on his head; and De Coucy's dreams were still of how he might win high fortune and Isadora of the Mount.
Should he, in the first place, he asked himself, defy Guillaume de la Roche Guyon, and make him yield his claim? But no;--he remembered the serious vow of the old count; and he saw, that by so doing he should but cast another obstacle on the pile already heaped up between him and his purpose. Sir Julian had said, too, that Isadore's hand was not to be given away till the coming wars were over. Those wars might be long, De Coucy thought, and uncertain,--and hope lives upon reprieves. He must trust to accident, and, in the mean time, strive manfully to repair the wrong that Fortune had done him. But how? was the question. Tournaments, wars,--all required some equipment, and his shrunk purse contained not a single besant.
"Oh! 'tis a steep and rugged ascent!" thought De Coucy, "that same hill of Fortune; and the man must labour hard that would climb it, like yon old man, toiling up the steep path that leads hither."
Such was the only notice that the young knight at first took of the weary foot-traveller he had seen from above; but gradually the figure, dressed in its long brown robe, with the white beard streaming down to the girdle, appeared more familiar to him; and a few steps more, as the old man advanced, called fully to his remembrance the hermit whose skill had so speedily brought about the cure of his bruises in Auvergne, and whom we have since had more than one occasion to bring upon the scene.
De Coucy had, by nature, that true spirit of chivalrous gallantry, even the madness of which has been rendered beautiful by the great Spaniard. No sooner did he recognise the old man than he advanced to meet him, and aided him as carefully up the steep ascent as a son might aid a parent.
"Welcome, good father hermit!" said he. "Come you here by accident, or come you to rest for a while at the hold of so poor a knight as myself?"
"I came to see whether thou wert alive or dead," replied the hermit. "I knew not whether some new folly might not have taken thee from the land of the living."