By an ill-turn of Fortunes wheel the man who had beaten off the English foe from Hawksglen was now in the hands of that same foe—the victor led off in bonds by the vanquished!
A long night ride saw the forces of Sir Dacre de Ermstein across the Border, and on the afternoon of the following day the towers of Warkcliff Castle rose before Sir Dacre and his followers.
The Lady of Warkcliff, the childless wife of Sir Dacre de Ermstein, was sitting at her chamber window, vacantly watching the conflict that raged in the bosom of the sweet valley, between the heavy morning mists and the sun and wind. Lady de Ermstein had come of a noble English line: in her youth she had been peerless for her charms, but middle-age had reft all those youthful charms away; still, she was a stately dame, and still possessed those graces of manner which had so much enhanced her youthful beauty. But she was childless. This was the secret sorrow that preyed everlastingly upon her soul. Her husband was the last of his ancient line. With him would perish the noble house of De Ermstein, and the lordly domains of Warkcliff would pass away to the stranger.
Watching the battle in the valley between the mists and the sun and wind, she thought of that great cloud which had heavily enveloped her heart and hopes so long, which no sun, no breath of promise, would ever dissipate. Her husband burst into the chamber. His countenance was flushed, and his eye kindling, and his look elated. The lady had heard the tumult in the castle, but it only cost her a passing thought.
“Such tidings as I have to tell, Alice!” he exclaimed, grasping her by both hands. “Such tidings as make my heart leap!”
“They are not of sorrow, then!” said the lady, with a wan smile.
“No! why of sorrow? I have won a proud triumph, Alice. Mountjoy, whom I despatched to watch the Scots at their Weaponschaw, or military muster of the shire, has captured the villain Somervil, the robber who keeps a tower on the Cheviot hills, who infests the whole English marches, Mountjoy has made him a prisoner.”
“And brought him to the castle?”
“Yes; and the mosstrooper now lies in the Donjon with iron on wrist and ankle.”
“He has troubled the Border long,” said the lady thoughtfully. “But you do not resolve to have his life?” she added, looking full in her husband’s face.