Martin seated himself on the bench beneath the window at the end of the corridor, and as he gazed upon the portraits of the Clopton family hanging on either hand, his reflections became even more saddened. In that array of beautiful females and noble-looking cavaliers, how many died early! Amongst those scowling and bearded men of middle age, arrayed in all the panoply of war, how many had perished in their harness! There was Hugo de Clopton, the crusader, the fiercest of a brave race, who had smote even a crowned king in Palestine rather than brook dishonour. There was the templar, who had died at the stake in France, true to his vow; and Blanch Clopton, whom the lascivious John had solicited in vain, and who had been celebrated at tilt and tourney throughout Christendom as "La belle des belles."
Each and all of these portraits, it seemed to him, had a curious history attached to them—a sad and stern tale in life's romance—and as he sat and regarded them he thought upon their descendant now lying sick in their close vicinity—her father accused of treason and a prisoner, at a time so inopportune.
"Strange," he thought to himself, "that this family, so noble in disposition, so high in their sense of honour, should seem thus marked out and pursued by fate.
"'Tis true the good Sir Hugh hath been called, by the clergy of his own persuasion, but a luke-warm member of the true Church; an irreligious man.
"Nay, Eustace hath upbraided him with leaning towards heresy; and the Protestant churchmen at Stratford, again, hath accused him of being neither of the one religion or the other—altogether a heathen.
"These churchmen are both men, however, who wrangle and fight so much about religion, vice and virtue, that they have no time to practice either the one or the other; whilst the good Sir Hugh hath, during life, been so fully engaged in acts of benevolence, that saving the hours he hath spent amongst his horses and dogs, he hath indeed little leisure to think about such controversies."
Whilst Martin sat thus chewing the cud of bitter fancy, the old attendant returned to him. "She again sleeps," she said, weeping, and you may look upon her sweet face once more. "But oh, Martin, I fear me we are indeed in trouble; you will scarce behold that countenance, even yet so beautiful, without terror."
"Is she already so changed?" said Martin. "In the name of Heaven, what can be her complaint?"
"No noise," said the attendant, "but go in, and judge for yourself."
In a few moments Martin returned. Horror was in his countenance. "Her face is filled with livid spots!" he said. "We are indeed unhappy; she has caught——"