“Aweel-aweel, my Lord Yearl of Moray, thy wull sall be my wull,” was all that his Lordship could extract from Rory Spears.
After Mortimer Sang had arranged everything about the baggage of his party, and got the men and horses in proper order for the march, he took the opportunity of stealing away from them for a few moments, with the hope of obtaining a sight of Katherine Spears, whom he now discovered to be, even more than he had ever supposed, the ruling magnet of his heart. He found her drowned in tears.
“Fair Katherine,” said he as he approached her with the utmost delicacy and tenderness, “why art thou thus grief-by-woxen? Knowest thou not that thy father tarrieth with thee at Tarnawa? Dost thou not already know that he goeth not with the host?”
“Yea, Sir Squire,” sobbed Katherine, hastily drying her eyes at the sound of his voice, and vainly endeavouring to wipe away all traces of her sorrow; “yea, I did so learn this morning from my lady.”
“For whom grievest thou, then, fair maiden?” demanded Sang. “Surely thou canst not be so oppressed at thoughts of the Earl’s departure?”
“Nay, as to that, no,” replied the artless girl. “It may be I shall partake in the woe of my Lady Countess. But I weep not for him. Nay, I weep not for any one now.”
Mrs. Katherine spoke the truth. She certainly did not weep at that particular moment, but the exertion it cost her to restrain her tears becoming much more than she was equal to, their accumulation was too powerful to be withstood, and, overwhelming every dam and barrier that maidenly prudence and propriety had raised to confine them, they burst forth more violently than ever, and poor Katherine sobbed aloud as if her heart would have broken. If there were still any remains of resolution about that of the squire, it melted at once like the snow-wreath that lies in the direct course of some wide and resistless deluge of [[340]]waters, which, as it is dissolved, mingles itself with and swells the very flood that creates its dissolution. He blubbered like an infant.
“Lovely Katherine,” said he, sitting down beside her, and taking her hand with the utmost respect and tenderness—“most beauteous Mrs. Spears—my loveliest of all damsels, be composed, be comforted, I beseech thee; my dearest Katherine, my love, my only love, be composed and tell me—ah, tell, I entreat thee, whether I have any share in these precious drops? Tell me thou weepest for my departure, and those liquid diamonds that fall on my hand will be more prized by me than the purest gems that ever came from the East. Tell me but that I shall carry thy heart with me when I go, and I will leave thee mine in exchange for it, and swear on the honour and faith of a trusty esquire, to be thine, and thine only, for ever. What is glory, what is renown, what is the exalted rank of knighthood itself, without the possession of her we love? Say but thou wilt love me, sweet Katherine, and, when the war is at an end, I will return to claim thy hand, were it from the uttermost part of the earth. Say, do my hopes deceive me, or am I in very truth happy in being beloved by thee?”
Katherine’s paroxysm of grief had been partially arrested, almost from the moment that Squire Mortimer had taken her hand so kindly, and begun to speak. She quickly became more composed as he went on; her cheeks became suffused with blushes, and showed beneath her tears like roses after a shower; smiles soon afterwards came to play over them like the sunbeams over the fresh and fragrant flowers; and, by the time that Mr. Sang had finished, the maiden’s confusion, rather than her indistinct murmurs, gave the esquire all the satisfaction he could have wished. They swore eternal fidelity to each other, and, after a short and sweet conversation, and an exchange of some little love-tokens had taken place between them, they separated, to attend to their respective avocations.
By this time all was in order for the march. Already had several of the nobles and knights departed independently from the Castle; and those who remained, being of the Earl’s kinsmen or connexions, were to guide their motions by his. He resolved to begin his journey immediately, being anxious to accomplish several miles of way ere the sun was yet risen to the height of his fury. The trumpets sounded; the clangour stirred up the hearts of both men and steeds, and they expressed their joy by stunning shouts and repeated neighings. But their shrill brazen voices were a death-knell to the departing joy of many [[341]]a soft bosom that sighed within the Castle, and to none more than to that of Katherine Spears. Her nerves were subjected to no fresh trial of resolution, for the esquire’s absence from his party, at the moment of starting, would have been inadmissible.