The Lady Mariota, still leaning on the arm of Maurice de Grey, led them into that part of the square occupied by the Earl’s mansion, and soon introduced them into a banqueting-hall of magnificent proportions, hung round with arms, and richly furnished for the times we speak of, and where, notwithstanding the draft made that morning on the forces of the place, there was still a considerable show of domestics in waiting.
“Let us have the banquet immediately,” said the Lady Mariota to the seneschal. “Sir Knight,” said she, turning to Hepborne, “if our hospitality should lack its wonted comfort to-day, thou must lay it to the account of our late absence from the Castle; and if it should want its usual spirit, it must be set down to the score of the Earl’s absence. But to-morrow both these wants shall be supplied. Andrew, thou wilt see Sir Patrick Hepborne rightly accommodated. As for this naughty page, Maurice de Grey, I shall myself see him fittingly bestowed in a chamber near mine own, that I may have all proper and convenient opportunity of repeating those lessons I have already endeavoured to impress upon him. Come along then, good-for-nothing boy; come along, I say.”
The page cast an imploring look at his master, who regarded it not; then hanging his head, he followed the Lady Mariota with an unwilling step, like a laggard schoolboy who dreads the ferula of his pedagogue; whilst Hepborne was ushered to his apartment, where, having procured the attendance of the faithful Mortimer Sang, he proceeded to array himself in attire suitable to the evening. [[224]]
CHAPTER XXX.
The Castle of Lochyndorbe—An Evening Episode on the Ramparts—The Wolfe’s Raid on the Bishop’s Lands.
The evening’s banquet in the Castle of Lochyndorbe passed away pretty much as the morning’s meal had done in the hunting pavilion, that is to say, without anything very remarkable. The Lady Mariota, still devoting all her attention to the page, left her son, Sir Andrew Stewart, to entertain Sir Patrick Hepborne. Neither of the knights were disposed to quaff those draughts of wine which the Wolfe of Badenoch himself seemed to consider as essential to the comfort of life, and they soon separated. Hepborne sat in his apartment for some time after Mortimer Sang had left him, and then, falling into a train of reflection on the events which had occurred to him since his return from France, and perceiving that his clue of association must be fully unwound ere he could hope to sleep, he walked forth to enjoy the balmy freshness of the evening air, that he might give freer vent to his thoughts.
He got upon the rampart that looked out over the broader part of the lake, and as he entered on one end of it, he was confounded—he could not believe his eyes—but it certainly was the figure of the Lady Eleanore de Selby that he beheld, leaning against one of the balistæ near the farther angle of the wall. The waning moon shed a dim and uncertain light; yet it was sufficient to convince him that the figure he saw before him was the same that had made so powerful an impression on his mind at Norham. She was wrapped in a mantle, with her head bare, and her beautiful tresses flowing down in the same manner he had seen them when blown by the breezes from the Tweed; and she seemed to look listlessly out upon the wavelets that flickered under the thin and scanty moonbeam, as they lifted themselves gently against the bulwark stones under the wall. Apparently buried in thought, she was so perfectly without motion that he began to doubt whether it was not a phantom he beheld; nay, it was impossible she could be there in substance—she whom he had left at Norham affianced as a bride. In those days of superstition it is no wonder, therefore, that he should have believed it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby’s spirit he saw, or, in the peculiar language of his own country, her wraith. His manly blood ran cold, and he hesitated for a moment whether [[225]]he ought to advance. The figure still remained fixed. Again the thought crossed him, that it might possibly be the Lady Eleanore, and love urged him to approach and address her; but then prudence came to caution him not to seem to see her, lest he might be again subdued, and forget what he had discovered at Norham. Thus tossed by doubt, until he could bear suspense no longer, both superstitious awe and prudence yielded to the influence of love, and, unable to restrain himself, he walked along the rampart towards the figure. It seemed not to hear his step—it moved not till he was within three or four paces, when it started at the sound of his steps, and, turning suddenly towards him, displayed the countenance of—the page, Maurice de Grey.
“Ah, Sir Patrick!” said the boy, and instantly applying his taper fingers to his hair, he began twisting it up into a knot over his head, accidentally assuming, as he did so, the very attitude in which Hepborne had seen the lady when similarly employed on the rampart at Norham.
“Maurice de Grey!” exclaimed Hepborne with extreme astonishment, “is it you I see? Verily, thine attitude, boy, did so remind me of that in which I once beheld thy cousin, the Lady Eleanore de Selby, that for a moment I did almost believe it was really she who stood before me. I did never remark before that thou dost wear thy hair so womanishly long.”