Elizabeth Tempest was young, but of a staid and temperate aspect, almost approaching to that of melancholic. Her complexion, pale and sallow; her eye full, dark, and commanding, though occasionally more languor was on it than eyes of that colour are wont to express. She wore a long jacket of russet colour, and a crimson boddice. Her hair, turned back from her brow, hung in dark heavy ringlets below the neck, which, though not of alabaster, was exquisitely modelled. In person she was tall and well-shapen, and her whole manner displayed a mind of no ordinary proportions. She was well-skilled in household duties, her mother having an especial desire that her daughter should be as notable and thrifty as herself in domestic arrangements.
"Elizabeth," or "Elspet," as she was indiscriminately called, cared little about her reputation touching these important functions. She could sing most of the wild legendary ballads of the time; her rich full voice had in it a sadness ravishingly tender and expressive, more akin to woe, and the deep untold agony of the spirit, than to lightness and mirth, in which she rarely indulged.
"Give us one of thy ditties ere supper," said the dame, who was just then laying aside her implements in the work-press. "I wonder thy father does not return. The roofs of Bashall ring with louder cheer than our own, I trow. He is playing truant for the nonce, which is dangerous play at best."
"Is he now at our cousin Talbot's?" inquired the maiden, with a look of more than ordinary interest.
"
If he be not on the way back again," returned the dame, as though wishful to repress inquiry.
"The woods are not safe so late and alone. Comes he alone, mother?"
"Alone! Ay,—and why spierest thou?" The dame looked wistfully, though but for a moment, on her daughter; then changing her tone, as if to recommend a change of subject, she cried—
"Come, ha' done, Elspet; we will wait no longer than grace be said. Now to thy song."
The maiden began as follows:—