The rustle of the dark brown woods and the deepening gloom of the hills, marked the decline of the day and year, and Walter's heart became chilled and sad as he galloped up the long dark avenue, which was strewed with the spoil of the passed summer—that happy summer which had passed away for ever.
Lilian sat within the deep bay of a window in the chamber-of-dais, busily embroidering Walter's long-promised scarf: it was of blue velvet, having thistles of silver worked with St. Andrew's crosses alternately. For many weeks her nimble little fingers had plied the needle on it, and now it was nearly finished. The tramp of hoofs made her look down the far-stretching avenue, which, with its arching elms and sturdy oaks, formed a long vista to the eastward, where it was terminated by an ancient and grass-tufted archway; beyond it, the bluff craigs of Salisbury and Arthur's ridgy cone mellowed in the distance, shone redly in the light of the setting sun, above the green and waving woods.
The blood rushed to Lilian's snowy temples: she sprang from her seat, her eyes beaming with delight, which rapidly gave place to surprise on observing the hurried and disordered air of Walter, who was minus cloak and plume. Never before had he come on horseback, and her mind misgave her there was something wrong.
She cast a timid glance at Aunt Grisel. Lulled by an old and favourite ditty, which for the thousandth time the affectionate Lilian had sung to her, the old lady had fallen fast asleep in her great leathern chair, with her relaxed hand on the spinning-wheel, the gay silver and ivory virrels of which glittered in the light of the cheerful fire. She slept profoundly.
Lilian threw on her hood and hurried to the door, where Walter had dismounted, and was in the act of slipping his snaffle-rein through one of the numerous rings in the wall, necessary appendages to the door of a manor-house, and quite as requisite as the "louping-on-stane" in those days, when every visitor of consideration came on horseback.
With a charming mixture of frankness and timidity, the blushing girl held out both her hands in welcome to her lover; but there was a sadness in his smile that made the colour leave her cheek and the lustre fade in her eye.
"Lilian—dear Madam—Lilian, I see you for the last time!" he exclaimed, as he took her hands in his, and raised them to his lips.
"The last time?" reiterated Lilian, faintly.
"Oh, are not these sad and bitter words? But so it is, Lilian; the fatal hour has come—our dream is over. We march for England to-morrow. The Dutch invaders are on the ocean, and in the hearts and swords of his faithful soldiers poor King James can alone rely in the struggle that is to come."
"O, Walter, what horror is this?"