"By courage, I do not mean an indifference that is the result of misanthropy, or a boldness that is gathered from despair. At your years, Quentin, either were unnatural," said Askerne, kindly.
"My brave lad," said Monkton, putting an arm round him as an elder brother might have done, "have you really no fear of—of death?"
"To say that I have not," replied Quentin, with quivering lip, "would be to state that which is false; but I know death to be the ordinance of God—the fate of all mankind. It is but the end of the course of time—welcome only to such as are weary of their lives. I am not weary of mine, therefore I would indeed find it hard to die. I have always known that I must die, but never considered where or how—how near or how distant the day of doom might be; but I do shrink with horror at the contemplation of dying with a disgrace upon me—a stigma which, though I am innocent, time may never remove."
"I fear that we are but poor comforters, and that you are taking the very blackest view of matters," said Askerne; "but be advised by me, and take courage—a resolute and modest bearing always wins respect. In the court to-morrow are friends who will not see you wronged, for every member there is alike a judge and a juryman. Put your trust in Heaven and in your own innocence; sleep well if you can——"
"And be sure to take something by way of breakfast—a broiled bone and a glass of Valdepenas—you have a long and anxious day before you."
"And so, till we meet again, good night—God bless you, my hearty!"
They shook him warmly by the hand, and retired.
He heard their footsteps descending the stone steps of the old tower (erst trod by the feet of many a turbaned Moor and steel-clad crusader), and then dying away in distance; but soothed and relieved in mind by a visit performed at such risk by his friends, and hoping much—he knew not what—from the notes made by Rowland Askerne, Quentin lay down on his pallet and strove to sleep, amid a silence broken only by the beating of his own heart, and the rush of the Tormes in its deep and rocky bed.
"They at least believe in me, and will not desert me!" he repeated to himself again and again.
But, the brave boyish spirit and hope—the enthusiastic desire to achieve something great and good, no matter what, by land or sea, by flood or field—a glorious deed that present men should vaunt, and those of future times would speak of—where were that hope and spirit now?