For days past, and every hour of the day, had Holtspur been asking himself this question; but as yet it remained unanswered.
Little did young Walter Wade suspect the profound though well—concealed pleasure with which his fellow traveller had heard, and accepted his proffered hospitality. The promised introduction on the morrow would surely enable the lover to obtain some explanation—if only a word to resolve the doubt that had begun to torture him?
That morrow had arrived. The introduction had been given. The interview had ended; ill-starred he might deem it: since the conduct of Marion remained inexplicable as ever. Her speeches during the brief dialogue held between them had appeared even cold. With more pain than pleasure did Holtspur now recall them.
Man of the world as he was—far from being unskilled in woman’s heart, or the way of winning it—he should have reasoned differently. Perhaps had the object of this new passion been an ordinary woman, he might have done so. Many had been his conquests; maidens of many climes, and of many shades of complexion—dark and fair, brunette and blonde—all beautiful; but none so brilliantly beautiful as that blue-eyed golden-haired Saxon girl, who had now made conquest of his heart, and held even his reason in captivity.
He gazed upon the glove with a glance at once tender and inquiring—as if he might obtain from it an answer to that question of all-absorbing interest:—whether, under the shadow of that sacred tree it had fallen to the ground by accident, or whether it had been dropped by design?
His steed struck the turf with impatient hoof, as if demanding a reply.
“Ah! Hubert,” muttered his rider, “much as I love you—even despite the service you have this day done me—I should part with you, to be assured, that I ought to esteem this spot the most hallowed upon all the earth. But, come, old friend! that’s no reason why you should be kept any longer out of your stall. You must be tired after your tournament, and a trot of twenty miles at its termination. I’faith, I’m fatigued myself. Let us home, and to rest!”
So saying, the cavalier, by a slight pressure of his knees against the side of his well-trained steed—a signal which the latter perfectly understood—once more set Hubert in motion; who carried him silently away from that scene of uncertain souvenirs.