“His daughter,” the Earl continued, “beheld me; they told their father that an armed stranger was present. His sword was on the table—he grasped it—but instantly laid it down. ‘He is welcome, though I cannot see him. All is dark—dark—not even shadows. But your errand, sir stranger?’—and his sightless orbs seemed to turn upon me, with the sweetest, and yet most dignified expression. I dared not announce with what views I had come, but I went close to his side, and took the hand (it scarcely touched as if it were human) which was stained with my master’s blood, and I kissed it in profoundest admiration. I remained for hours, happy, useful hours. He arose, as I prepared to depart; I yet see his form; I yet hear his step. He led me to the door, and blessed me. I have often thought of the interview, and as I passed the Darwen a few hours ago, I repeated his lines—though they were commemorative of the king’s defeat,—
‘And Darwen’s streams with blood of Scots embrued.’”
Here the stranger was much moved, and frequently repeated to himself, “my Milton! my Milton!”
“Yes,” added Sir Thomas Tyldesley, “it was on such a night as this, three years ago, that Cromwell defeated the Duke of Hamilton.”
“It was,” replied the stranger, averting his gaze.
The conversation now began to turn upon their warlike plans, and Henry Tyldesley, conceiving that he might be more agreeably occupied, led Anne to a seat in the recess, where our fair readers, we doubt not, have been frequently wishing them to be, together and alone.
Music was heard from the battlements, through the casement; the moon shed her softening light upon the young hero’s armour, and he almost fancied that the rays were the fingers of his beautiful companion. They spoke not, though their eyes had met, and though the emotions with which they were lighted up, could not be mistaken. They loved fondly, and to them both it was that holy and rapturous thing—first love—which is for ever remembered, even in old age, as something more beautiful and real than a dream of earth. In war, love is seen only as in a glimpse, yet then it is most interesting. Does the dove ever appear so much the spirit of peace and hope, as when her silver wings are seen, like eternal types of light, through the darkness of the storm, ascending to heaven? How beautiful then is every flutter! Darkness is over all, except these wings, and they appear purer and whiter than ever! Thus is it with love, when it clings, fonder and fonder, in the midst of danger; and when slender arms twine themselves around the martial form, as if they could give a charm against wounds and death, which reach through corslet and shield.
Young Tyldesley had taken her hand, and she had not withdrawn it, when a shadow was reflected from the casement, at which they sat within hearing of the Darwen. Anne started, and on turning round beheld her maid, who motioned her to leave the hall. There was an unusual earnestness in her manner as she whispered “for God’s sake—for your own—not a moment’s delay, my lady!”
Her mistress silently obeyed her.