The page wiped his streaming eyes, and raised them with a soft and melancholy smile, till they met those of his master, when he again sighed, and, dropping them with renewed blushes to the ground, “I am indeed in love,” said the boy, “most unhappily in love, since I burn with unrequited passion. I did indeed believe, vainly believe, that I was beloved; but, alas! how cruelly was I deceived! I found that what I had mistaken for the pure flame was but the wanton flashing of a light and careless heart, that made no account of the pangs it inflicted on mine that was sincere.”
The page’s eyes filled again, and he sighed as if his heart would have burst. Sir Patrick Hepborne sighed too; for Maurice, whilst telling of his unhappy love, had touched his own case most nearly.
“Poor boy,” said he kindly, and full of sympathy for the youth; “poor boy, I pity thee. I do indeed most sincerely feel for thee, that thou shouldst have already begun, at so early an age, to rue the smart of unrequited or unhappy love. Trust me,” continued the knight sighing deeply, “trust me, I know its bitterness too well not to feel for thee.” And again he sighed heavily.
“Then thou too hast loved unhappily, Sir Knight?” inquired the page earnestly.
“Ay, boy,” said Hepborne sadly, “loved!—nay, what do I say?—loved!—I still love—love without hope. ’Tis a cruel destiny.”
“And hast thou never prospered in love?” asked Maurice; “hast thou never fancied that thou hadst awakened the warm flame of love, and that thou wert thyself an object adored?”
“Nay, boy,” said Hepborne, “thou inquirest too curiously. Yet will I confess that I have had vanity enough to believe that I had excited love, or something wearing its semblance; but then she that did shew it was altogether heartless, and I valued the cold and deceitful beam but as the glimmering march-fire.”
Maurice de Grey made no reply, but hung down his head in silence upon his breast, and again relapsed into the dream he had been indulging when Hepborne first roused him. The knight, too, ceased to have any desire to prolong the conversation. His mind had laid hold of the end of a chain of association, that gradually unfolded itself in a succession of tender remembrances. He indulged himself by giving way to them, and consequently he also dropped into a musing fit. Both were [[196]]disturbed by their savage guide, who, having finished his unsophisticated cookery, now made signs to them to approach and eat.
Love, however fervent, cannot starve, but must give way to the vulgar but irresistible claims of hunger. The day’s fatigue had been long, they were faint for want, and the odour of the smoking hot steaks was most inviting. They speedily obeyed the summons, therefore, and made a very satisfactory meal. Maurice de Grey had no sooner satisfied the cravings of nature, than, worn out by his exertions and overpowered by sleep, he wrapped himself up in his mantle, and throwing himself on the heather, under the projecting side of the huge rock, his senses were instantly steeped in sweet oblivion.
Sir Patrick Hepborne regarded the youth with envy. His own thoughts did not as yet admit of his yielding to the gentle influence of sleep. He tried to divert them by watching the decline of the day, and following the slow ascent of the shadows as they crept up the rugged faces of the eastern precipices, eating away the light before them. A bright rose-coloured glow rested for a time on the summits, tinging even their glazed snows with its warm tint; but in a few minutes it also departed, like the animating soul from the fair face of dying beauty, leaving everything cold, and pale, and cheerless; and darkness came thickly down upon the deep and gloomy glen. In the meantime the mountaineer had been busying himself in gathering dry heath, and in carrying it under the Shelter Stone, for the purpose of making beds for the knight and the page.