"Last evening I went to give her freedom and to ask her love, when Stephen Holgrave——"
"Did the baron empower you to free her?" eagerly asked the monk.
"Yes,—but Holgrave entered and——"
"She is still a nief?"
"Yes;—when that knave Holgrave entered, I could not speak of what was burning in my breast."
"Stephen Holgrave is not a knave," returned the monk. "He is an honest man, and Margaret is betrothed to him."
There was a momentary conflict in Calverley's breast as the monk spoke;—there was a shade across his brow, and a slight tremor on his lip, but he conquered the emotion—love triumphed, and, in a soft imploring tone, he said—
"Think you, father, Holgrave loves her as I do; or think you his rude untutored speech will accord well with so gentle a creature. Oh! father John, be you my friend. Bid her forget the man who is unworthy of her! She will listen to you—she will be guided by you—you are the only kinsman she can claim;—and surely even you must wish rather to see your sister attended almost as a mistress in this castle, than the harassed wife of a laborious yeoman. Oh! if you win her to my arms, I here swear to you, that not even your own heart could ask for more gentle care than she will receive from me. My happiness centres in her—to love her, to cherish her—to see the smile of joy for ever on her lips."
At this moment a knock was heard at the door. Calverley opened it, and De Boteler's page appeared to say, that if Thomas Calverley had wanted the aid of the priest, he should have applied sooner, for his lord was now waiting for him.
"Tell my lord," said Calverley, "I will attend him instantly."