“Hush, hush, my darling!” whispered Lady Markham. “You do not know what pain you are giving me. Heaven’s will be done, my child. Let us pray for the safety of those we love.”
She softly sank upon her knees beside her child in the darkness of the sombre chamber, and through a broken casement the bright starlight shone down, shedding sufficient lustre to show the two upturned faces with their closed eyes.
The trampling and bustle had gradually died out. The loud orders and buzz of talking had ceased by degrees, and now the silence of the night was only broken by the impatient stamp of a horse, the regular tramp of armed sentries, and from time to time a low firm challenge.
Some time before Lady Markham’s attention had been drawn by Lil to the gathering of a little detachment of horsemen, and she had recognised the voice of him who gave the order to advance, while from the open window, themselves unseen, they had watched the faint gleam of the men’s breastplates, as they rode down the avenue, to be seen afterwards like a faint moving shadow on the banks of the lake before they disappeared.
Then all was still. The frightened servants had gathered, as it were, under the wings of their mistress, and two of them were occupying the inner room—Lil’s, and had sobbed themselves to sleep.
“But you will not go to bed, mother?” Lil had whispered.
“No, my child; I will sit up, and watch by you.”
“But I could not sleep, mother,” said Lil; and the result was that they were keeping vigil, and sank at last in prayer for those in danger far away.
How still it all seemed as Lady Markham rose from her knees at last, and went with Lil to the open window, where they seated themselves to look out at the darkened landscape, and the faint glimmer of the star reflections in the lake.
They felt calm now and refreshed, but neither spoke. It was as if they were unconsciously waiting for something—they knew not what, but something that was to happen before long—and in which they were to play some part.