Mabel spoke the truth. Injured love requires it, though it only be paid with a tear, a sigh, or a sorrowful look. Yes, penance, thou art holy, and necessary; for where is the love which is not injured?
All the discontent and melancholy of Sir William passed away. He loved Mabel more fondly than ever, even for the self imposed penance. She might have decked herself in splendid attire to meet her lord, but the lowly garb secured his affections more firmly. The rich sandals of the time might have confined her feet, but naked as they were, Sir William gazed more proudly upon them.
They walked on together. Mabel knew Sir Osmund’s fate, by the very air of Sir William, but she questioned him not. A full bright cloud now began to widen and widen over the stately towers of Haigh Hall. Sir William in silence pointed to it as a happy omen, and as its deep tints were reflected upon the structure, glory and fortune seemed to hover over it. They were passing a narrow winding, into the plantations, when their younger boy rushed forth.
“Father, father, bless your little son.”
“Hugh, my beautiful and brave boy, dost thou know me?”
The knight looked oft, in sorrow as well as pride, on the boy’s countenance; it was so delicately fair, that the very life seemed trembling on it.
“Father, I could die this morning, I am so happy.”
The knight started.
“Die! my little Hugh. No, no, you will live to be a warrior.”