As the Lord of Dirleton was leaving the Castle, with the intention of finding his way to the house of the canon, whither his lady and the Lady Jane de Vaux had gone before him, he [[352]]was suddenly addressed by some one from behind, who, in a distinct but hollow tone, whispered in his ear—
“Wouldst thou know aught of the fate of thy first-born daughter?”
“Ha! what canst thou tell me?” cried De Vaux, turning round with inconceivable eagerness, and addressing a Franciscan monk who stood behind him shrouded up in his cowl; “speak, I beseech thee, holy man, what hast thou to tell of my first-born daughter?”
“Dismiss thine attendants,” replied the Franciscan calmly, “and follow me to the church of Greyfriars; there shalt thou learn all that I have to tell.”
“Get thee to thy lodgings,” cried the Lord of Dirleton to his people, “and leave me with this holy monk. I would have converse with him alone.”
“My Lord,” replied his esquire, “it were safer methinks to have thy people about thee; treachery hath many disguises—there may be danger.”
“Talk not to me of danger,” cried De Vaux; “leave me, as I do command thee.”
The esquire bowed, and retired with the valets and lacqueys who had waited. The monk, who had stood aloof abiding his determination, now moved away, and the Lord of Dirleton followed him. The streets were deserted and silent, and the Franciscan staid not to speak, but glided so quickly along as to defy all attempts at conversation on the part of the knight who followed him. After threading through some narrow lanes and uncouth passages, the Lord of Dirleton was led by his guide to the door of the church of the Greyfriars, to which the monk applied a large key that hung at his girdle, and after letting himself and the knight in, he again locked it carefully behind him. The interior of the holy place was dimly illuminated by the few lamps that were burning here and there before some of the shrines, but the gloomy light was not even sufficient to dissipate the shadows that hung beneath the arch of the groined roof.
“Speak, quickly speak, father—in charity speak, and satisfy my anxiety,” cried the old Lord of Dirleton, panting with the eagerness of expectation, combined with the breathlessness of exertion. “What knowest thou of the fate of my child?—Is she alive?—In mercy speak!”
The Franciscan shot a glance at De Vaux from under his cowl, and then strode slowly up the nave of the Church until he came opposite to a shrine dedicated to an image of the Virgin. [[353]]There he halted, and leaning against its iron screen with his back to the lamps, dropped his head on his bosom, and seemed lost in thought for some moments.