“Sir Anthony Maxwell.”
“Him that ettles to mairry Elliot’s dochter?”
“Ay, the same. And, Edie, I love the lass. I lived—it’s a secret, and I give it to you alone—for twenty years at Hawksglen, and I loved Eleanor from childhood.”
“Ay, twenty ’ear,” repeated Edie, “you’re the lad—”
“That was left one night with nothing but this,” and he touched a little golden reliquary that hung round his neck, “to tell who I was.”
Edie looked keenly at his Captain. Would he tell him there and then that he was the man who had passed him through the portal of Hawksglen, and tell him whence was his origin? Would he?—
Before he had time to do aught, his arms were pinioned behind his back, and three stout Englishmen had thrown themselves suddenly on Ruthven.
The assault was so unexpected and sudden that neither the Captain of Hunterspath nor Edie could offer the least resistance. Amid the jeers of their captors they were mounted on their horses. Sir Dacre de Ermstein rode up to Ruthven and whispered in his ear:
“The robber of Hunterspath shall not always prevail against the house of Ermstein.”