As the phrase, “there be a lady,” fell from the lips of the sentinel, the heart of Henry Holtspur, throbbed quick within his bosom. Sweet thoughts welled up at the words.
Could he have been mistaken in believing his midnight visitor a domestic of the mansion? Might it not be its mistress?
In the dim light he saw a female form closely wrapped in hood and cloak. In that guise, she might be either a peasant or a princess. The figure was tall, upright, commanding. Such was that of Marion Wade!
Holtspur’s fond fancy was destined to a short indulgence. The lamp was passed through the half-opened door; and placed upon a stool that stood near. Its glare fell upon the form of his visitor—lighting up a crimson cloak—lighting up features of a gipsy type, with dark, flashing eyes—beautiful features, it is true, but altogether unlike the angelic countenance he had been conjuring up—the countenance of Marion Wade.
“It is not she—only Maid Marian!”
Holtspur’s hopeful glance suddenly changed to one of disappointment, as he identified the daughter of the deer-stealer. Perhaps it was well for him—for both—that Betsey did not observe the transformation. The obscure light of the lamp hindered the girl from having a chagrin, equal, if not greater, than his.
“Mistress Betsey!” he exclaimed, on recovering from the first flutter of his surprise. “You here! What has brought you to my prison?”
“Hush!” ejaculated the girl, moving rapidly forward from the door—which the sentry had taken the precaution to shut behind him—“Speak only in whispers! I’ve come to save you—to get you out of this ugly place.”
“But how? ’Tis not possible, I fear? The door is guarded—the sentry is outside? I could not go forth without being seen?”
“You will be seen—that’s true. But it won’t matter a bit. If you’ll follow my directions, you’ll get out without being hindered. That’s sufficient. Father and Master Garth planned it all, before we left home. They are waiting for you on the edge of the wood—up the hill, just behind the house.”