But sometimes, when alone, a kindly thought of Eleanor Elliot brought a mist to his eyes as he considered how ill-suited a Border-raider was to be a mate of such a gentle lady. From the topmost turret of his own keep he would gaze in the direction of Hawksglen, and try to discern the towers of the ancient castle where his childhood and youth had been passed.
“Some day, some day,” he would sigh, “God grant that I may clasp my fair angel to my breast.”
Since the morning when he had said good-bye to Sir James and Lady Elliot, more than three years ago, no word had ever passed between him and Eleanor. But something told him that the fair daughter of Hawksglen, who had looked into his eyes with the eyes of affection, was true to his undeclared love, and would yet welcome him to her arms. Had he known that Lady Elliot was assiduously endeavouring to arrange a marriage between Eleanor and Sir Anthony Maxwell of Rutherwell, it would have filled him with alarm, but even knowledge of that kind would not have shaken his faith in the companion of his early years. One summer evening, when he was more than usually moody, the long-desired opportunity of seeing Hawksglen came in his way. Edie Johnston burst in upon the mosstroopers.
“The English loons are owre again!” he exclaimed. “Sir Dacre de Ermstein and twa hunder o’ his men are spreading disaster on every hand. I hear that Elliot’s place is the next mark for them.”
“Elliot? Hawksglen?” queried Ruthven, as he sprang to his feet.
“Ay, the very same,” replied Edie.
“Then to-night we must strike a blow for the honour of Scotland. The quarrel of Elliot shall be our quarrel, and God help the English loon that fa’s in our way.”
A few minutes later, at the head of his followers, Ruthven Somervil was advancing rapidly towards Hawksglen. Already news of the attack from the English enemy had spread in the district, and barons and their retainers, from different quarters, had assembled to help Elliot, and resist their common foe. When Ruthven and his men appeared upon the scene the conflict was at its height. Sir Anthony Maxwell, cheered by the thought that Eleanor’s hand might be the reward of his valour, fought nobly for the house of Elliot. But it was evident that Sir Dacre de Ermstein was to be victor. Once or twice the defenders had been forced back, and the spirits of the garrison began to droop. Then came the turn in fortune’s wheel. The reivers burst through the lines, and changed the fate of Hawksglen.
Another half-hour and the defeat of the English was complete. Horse and foot broke away from the fatal conflict, and fled for refuge in every direction. A murmur of rage broke from the lips of Ermstein, and he turned to one of his followers.