“Not sir,” said Walter, looking earnestly towards him, “not, I trust, till you have given me an opportunity of thanking you for the service you have rendered me. But for your companionship, the adventure, as well as my day’s journey, might have had a very different termination. I should certainly have been plundered—perhaps impaled on the long pike of your quondam servitor. Thanks to you, that I am to reach home in safety. I hope, therefore, you will not object to my knowing the name of one, who has done me such an essential service.”
“I have but slight claim to your gratitude,” replied the cavalier. “In truth not any, Master Wade. By the merest accident have we been thrown together as compagnons de voyage.”
“Your modesty, sir,” rejoined the young courtier—as he spoke bending gracefully towards his companion, “claims my admiration equally with that courage, of which I have now witnessed more than one display. But you cannot hinder me from feeling gratitude; nor yet from expressing it. If you deny me the privilege of knowing your name, I can at least tell my friends, how much I am indebted to Sir Henry the Unknown.”
“Sir Henry! Ah! Garth styled me so. The old forester is fond of bestowing titles. My father was so called; and honest Gregory, in his luck of heraldic skill, thinks the title must be hereditary. It is not so, however. I have not received the honour of knighthood from the sword of sacred majesty. What’s more, it’s not likely I ever shall. Ha! ha!”
The words that concluded this speech—as well as the laugh that followed—were uttered in a tone of defiant bitterness: as if the speaker held such royal honours in but slight estimation.
The young courtier thus baulked in obtaining the name of his protector, remained for a moment without making rejoinder. He was thinking whether in the matter of names he could not claim a fair exchange of confidence—since he had freely given his own,—when the cavalier, as if divining his thoughts, again accosted him.
“Pardon me,” resumed the latter, in a tone of apology. “Pardon me, Master Wade, for my apparent want of courtesy. You honour me by asking my name; and, since you have treated me so frankly, I have neither the right nor the wish to conceal it from you. It is plain Henry Holtspur—not Sir Henry, as you have just heard me designated. Furthermore, Master Wade; if you know anything of a rather dilapidated dwelling yclept ‘Stone Dean,’—situated in the heart of the forest, some three miles from here—and think you could find your way thither, I can promise you a welcome, a mouthful of venison, a cup of Canary to wash it down; and—not much more, I fear. During most mornings I am at home, if you will take your chance of riding over.”
“Nay, you must visit me first,” rejoined Walter, “I should ask you in now; but for the lateness of the hour. I fear our people have retired for the night. You will come again; and permit me to introduce you to my father. I am sure he would like to thank you for the service you have done me; and my sister Marion too.”
A thrill of sweet secret pleasure shot through the heart of Henry Holtspur, as he listened to the last words. Thanks from Marion! A thought from her—even though it were but given in gratitude!
Love! love! sweet art thou in the enjoyment; but far more delicious is the dream of thy anticipation!