Sir Osmund complied, and Father Cliderhoe added,
“Now, knight, you must get Lady Mabel’s name too. I’ll come in an hour—have her signature by that time. Adieu for the present, Sir Osmund.”
Let us return to the gallery. We have already noticed the overpowering emotions which shook the frame of the palmer, as he turned from Lady Mabel, and his eye fell on Sir Osmund, dismounting at the porch.
“Holy pilgrim,” said the lady, “thou art fatigued, Be seated. Alas! now, Haigh Hall is no home for the weary and the aged;—aye, not even for its lawful owners. For me, it is now a cell. In other days, there was not a room, however dark and gloomy—so happy was I,—that I did not call my bower. Then you would have found rest and refreshment, and your blessing in return, might have been felt to be no mockery. Now, the ministers of religion and charity are driven forth. But where hast thou been wandering?”
A long gaze, and a short verbal answer was the reply,
“Lady,—in the Holy Land.”
Mabel’s paleness, which had hitherto expressed so beautifully her resignation to sorrow, was now indicative of that breathless fear which longs to know more of danger and evil, or good and happiness; and yet dares not. Its sweet light seemed doubtful whether or not it should be turned upon the palmer to know more. She shaded her face, whilst in low and trembling accents she meekly inquired,
“And in all thy wanderings didst thou ever hear of a gallant English knight, who fought beneath the banner of the Holy Cross? He was once the lord of this mansion, and my—”
“Brother?” interrupted the palmer, in a tone of melancholy, mingled with scorn and severity, as he supplied the word “your brother?”