Proud were the retainers, when their lord stood among them with his sword.
“Now,” as he mounted his steed, “follow me not. Alone I must be the minister of vengeance. Hark! the Welshman’s horse has gained the eminence. There is the echo of his hoofs. He must be passing the steep descent.”
He dashed his spurs into the flanks of his horse, and without a curvet or a vault, it bounded forward. The influence of twilight is mysterious, both upon man and beast. It gives speed and energy to body as well as mind. In advance before him, there was a part of the horizon beyond the trees which seemed rings of molten gold. The sunset had not yet left it. Against its bright and radiant surface, in haste, a horse plunged on. The rider, Sir Osmund, was lashing it, for the motions of his arm were seen. The next moment it had passed. Sir William furiously spurred his steed through the dark wood, and, as a flash of his eye was shewn by some concealed light of the sky bursting upon it, he seemed the very spirit of revenge riding on the storm. His horse’s head was stretched forward, eagerly and impatiently. He himself crouched down to the very mane, and his eyes gleamed wildly upon the place where he supposed the Welsh knight would be passing.
Swiftly did the noble courser paw the leaves, strewn on the path, and soon he reached the highway, steep and rugged. The lights were now reflected from Wigan, upon the air around. He drew near the gate. The guards started up with their torches, and fixed them against the wall.
“Stay, who art thou?” and they presented their halberds, whilst they seized the reins of his horse. “Who art thou, thus pursuing Sir Osmund Neville to the devil? He’ll lead thee wrong.”
“Stay me not, I am Sir William Bradshaigh.”
They started back. They had heard of spectre horsemen, who rode so furiously, and they trembled. Taking advantage of their terror, he struck up their halberds with his sword. The gate was open, and he spurred through. A few of the townsmen who were loitering at their doors, and in the streets, shouted after him; but none attempted to prevent his course, and soon he had left Wigan far behind. The moon arose brightly; he leaned forward anxiously, and thought that he could descry the object of his pursuit, long before he heard the hoofs of the steed. But soon, he had both heard and seen him. Fleet was the Welsh knight’s courser, but that of Sir William gained at every turn in the road, and their voices were heard by each other, urging them on. Sir Osmund at an angle, avoided the highway, and leapt his horse over into the large park, at Newton. Sir William followed, and soon the sword of Bradshaigh revenged his own, and Lady Mabel’s wrongs.
The dead knight was thrown from his horse, as it dashed on. As soon as the deed of vengeance was over, Sir William’s enthusiasm began to leave him. While in the act of striking, the happiness which should now be his of once more being the lord of Haigh, the husband of his Mabel, and the father of his gallant boys, passed vividly before his mind, and forbade him to spare. But when the blow was given, so strange is man’s nature, all these prospects faded. He seemed to feel that now he had agreed to a miserable compact. He almost wished that he had never returned to claim the little which was left. Death as the arm of vengeance, could not bring him back the past, although it had taken away the cause of change. Sir Osmund Neville lay lifeless before him, never more to claim ought;—but polluting traces were upon all he held dear. As long as Mabel lived, there lived also the evidences. Nay, when she must die, and repose along with him in the tomb, calumny might say, “it was not always thus, for, side by side, when alive, she lay with another.” As long as Haigh Hall stood, the family disgrace would survive.
He writhed in agony at the thought.