The old man instantly recognized it; and, looking at it in silence for some moments, the feelings of a sorrowing and bereft [[123]]parent came upon him with all the strength of nature; his heart and his eyes filled, and burst into a flood of tears. He stepped forward to lift it up and imprint kisses upon it; but the stern and unfeeling Ancient called out, in a harsh voice,—
“Touch it not, on thy life, else all my mystic labours have been in vain. Stand aloof there, and, if thou wilt, be a witness of the power I possess in diving into secrets that are hid from other men.”
Sir Walter obeyed. The Ancient arose and struck a light; and having darkened the loophole window, he lighted his lamp and put it into a corner. He then approached the circle, and squatting down, he with much labour and difficulty drew his unwieldy limbs within its compass, and, kneeling over the mantle, he proceeded to mutter to himself, from a book of necromancy which he held in his hand, turning the pages over with great rapidity, and making from time to time divers signs with his forefinger on his face and on the floor. After this he laid his head down on the pavement, covered it with the mantle, and continued to mutter uncouthly, and to writhe his body until he seemed to fall into a swoon. He lay motionless for a considerable time; but at length he appeared to recover gradually, the writhing and the muttering recommenced, and raising up his body with the mantle hanging over his head and shoulders, he exposed his horrid features to view. To the inexpressible terror of Sir Walter, the forehead blazed with the same appalling flame which he had seen it bear on the night of his long interview with the wizard.
“Seek thy daughter in the South,” said the Ancient, in a hollow voice; “seek her from Sir Rafe Piersie. Remember thy destinies. The balance now wavers—now it turns against thee and thy destinies. If but an atom of time be lost, they are sealed, irrecoverably sealed.”
Quick as the lightning of heaven did the ideas shoot through the old man’s mind, as the Ancient was solemnly pronouncing this terrific response. He remembered that Sir Rafe Piersie had left Norham, in a litter, the very day preceding the night his daughter had disappeared; and it flashed upon him that some of the grooms had remained behind their master, under pretence of one of his favourite horses having been taken ill, and had afterwards followed him during the night. That they must have found means to carry the Lady Eleanore off with them, was, he thought, but too manifest. The very name of Piersie, when uttered by the Ancient, had made Sir Walter’s blood run cold, from his superstitious belief of the impending [[124]]fate that was connected with it; and the weight of his feelings operating on a body oppressed with fatigue and want of sleep, and on a mind worn out with the agitation and affliction it had undergone, became too much for nature to bear. He grew deadly pale. He made an effort to speak, but his tongue became dry and cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and his lips refused their office; an indistinct, mumbling, moaning sound was all that they could utter—his cheeks became rapidly convulsed—one corner of his mouth was drawn up to his ear, and he fell backwards on the floor in a state of perfect insensibility.
Fenwick became alarmed. He started up with the ghastly look of a newly-convicted felon, and the fear of being accused of the murder of Sir Walter came upon him. He crept towards the knight, and raising him up, made use of what means he could to endeavour to restore him to life; but all his efforts were unsuccessful. Trembling from the panic he was in, he then lifted the old knight in his arms, and with great difficulty conveyed him down the narrow stair to his own apartment. Horror was depicted in the faces of the domestics when they beheld the hated but dreaded monster bearing the bulky and apparently lifeless body of their beloved master. A wild cry of grief and apprehension burst from them. The Ancient laid Sir Walter on the bed, and, as the attendants stood aloof and aghast, he took up a small knife that lay near and pierced the veins of both temples with the point of it. The blood spouted forth, and the knight began to show faint symptoms of life. Never negligent of any circumstance that might raise his reputation for supernatural power, the Ancient now began to employ a number of strange necromantic signs, and to utter a jargon of unintelligible words in a low muttering tone, laying his hand at one time on the face, and at another on the breast, of the semi-animate body, that he might impress the bystanders with the idea of his magic having restored Sir Walter to life; for, seeing the blood flow so freely, he anticipated the immediate and perfect recovery of the patient. But he was mistaken in the extent of his hopes. Sir Walter opened his eyes, stared wildly about him, and moved his lips as if endeavouring to speak; but he continued to lie on his back, altogether motionless, and quite incapable of uttering a word.
The dismayed Ancient shuffled out of the apartment, and hastily retired to his lofty citadel. A murmur of disapprobation broke out among the domestics the moment he was supposed to be beyond hearing. They crowded about their master’s bedside, every one eager to do something. All manner of restoratives [[125]]were tried with him, but in vain. He seemed to be perfectly unconscious of what they did, and he lay sunk in a lethargy, from which nothing could rouse him.
Sir Walter was the idol of his people and garrison. By degrees the melancholy news spread through the keep of the Castle, and thence into its courts, barracks, stables, guardhouses, and along its very ramparts, until every soldier and sentinel in the place became aware of the miserable condition of their beloved Governor, as well as of the immediate share which Master Ancient Haggerstone Fenwick, the sorcerer, had had in producing it. General lamentations arose.
“Our good Governor is bewitched!”—“The monster Ancient hath bewitched him!”—“The villain Fenwick drew his very blood from him to help his sorcery!”—“What can be done?”—“What shall we do?”—“Let us send forthwith for some holy man.”—“Let us send for the pious clerk of Tilmouth Chapel; he hath good lore in sike cases.”
The suggestion was approved by all, and accordingly a horseman was instantly despatched to bring the clerk with all possible haste. The messenger speedily returned, unaccompanied, however, by the pious priest of Tilmouth, who chanced to be sick in bed, but who had sent them a wayfaring Franciscan monk, of whose potent power against magic he had largely spoken. The holy man was immediately ushered into the Governor’s apartment. Having previously taken care to inform himself of all the particulars of the case, from the horseman behind whom he had been brought, he approached the bed with a solemn air and surveyed Sir Walter for some time, as if in deep consideration of his state and appearance, with intent to discover his malady. He looked into his eyes, felt him carefully all over, and moved his helpless legs and arms to and fro. Meanwhile the officers of the garrison, the attendants, and even some of the soldiers, were awaiting anxiously in the room, about the door, on the stairs, and on the bridge below, all eager to learn the issue of his examination.