Robin turned, and beheld the slender form of a daintily appareled youth, whose full cheeks were wrinkled with laughter, while his merry hazel eyes seemed dancing in the light of their own glee.
“Out of temper!” exclaimed rough Robin, as he glanced at the laughing youth; “out of temper! By St. Withold! there’s good reason for’t, too. Look ye, my bird of a page, never since I left the service of mine own native prince, the brave Richard, of the Lion Heart—never since the day when the gallant Geoffrey o’ th’ Longsword drew his sword in the wars of Palestine, under the banner of Count Julian Di Albarone, have I felt so sick, so wearied in heart, as I do this day—mark ye, my page! ‘Out of temper,’ forsooth! Answer me, then, popinjay—does not our gallant Lord Julian lie wasting away in yon sick-chamber, with the poison of an incurable wound eating his very heart? Answer me that, Guiseppo.”
“Ay, marry does he, my good Robin,” the page answered, as he played with a jeweled chain that hung from his neck; “but then thou knowest he will recover. He will again mount his war-horse! Ay, my good Lord Julian will again lead armies to battle in the wilds of Palestine! He will, by my troth, Rough Robin!”
“I fear me, never, never,” the yeoman replied, in a subdued tone. “Look ye, Guiseppo, what dost think of this thin-faced half-brother of the Count, the scholar Aldarin? There’s a mystery about the man—I like him not. Thy master, the Duke of Florence, hath now been three days at this good castle of Albarone—why is he so much in the company of this keen-eyed Aldarin? By St. Withold! I like it not. Marry, boy, but the devil’s a-brewing a pretty pot of yeast for somebody’s bread! Guiseppo, canst tell me naught concerning the object of the visit of thy master, the Duke, to this castle—hey, boy?”
“Why, Robin,” replied the page, as, placing one small hand on either side of his slender waist, he glanced at the yeoman with a sidelong look; “why, Robin, didst ever hear of—of—the fair Ladye Annabel? Eh, Robin?”
“The fair Ladye Annabel! Tut! boy, thou triflest with me. The fair Ladye Annabel—she is the lovely daughter of this crusty old scholar. Her mother was an Eastern woman; and the fair girl first saw the light in the wilds of Palestine, when the scholar Aldarin accompanied his brother thither. Marry, ’tis more than sixteen—seventeen years since. ’Tis long ago—very long. By St. Withold! those were merry days. But come, sir page, why name the Ladye Annabel and the Duke in the same breath?”
The restless Guiseppo sprang aside with a nimble movement, and then folding his arms, stood at the distance of a few paces, regarding the stout yeoman with a look of mock gravity and solemn humor.
“What wouldst give to know, Robin?” he exclaimed, with a peculiar contortion of his mirthful face. “Hark ye, my stout yeoman, ‘My Lord Duke of Florence and the Ladye Annabel, Duchess of Florence.’ Dost like the sound? What says my rough soldier, now?”
“I see a light,” slowly responded Robin; “I see a light!” and he slowly drew his sword half-way from the scabbard. “But as yet ’tis but a pestilent Jack o’ lanthorn light, dancing about a tangled marsh of pits and bogs, with plenty o’hidden traps to catch honest men by the heels, i’ faith. Annabel and the Duke! Ho—ho! Then the game’s up with the son o’ th’ Count—my Lord Adrian?”
“Wag that clumsy tongue o’ thine with a spice o’ caution, Robin,” whispered the merry page. “See, the sharp-faced steward o’ th’ castle draws nigh, and with him a group of sworn grumblers. The four old esquires who followed our lord to battle in the wilds o’ Palestine—a soldier, with a carbuncled visage, and a lounging servitor, the huntsman o’ th’ castle. Hark! didst ever hear such eloquent growling?”