Sir Andrew Stewart was unremitting in his attention to the lady, and all his speeches and actions were so cunningly tempered with delicacy, that she neither had the power nor the will to conceal her satisfaction at his treatment of her. He inwardly congratulated himself on the advance he supposed he was making in her good opinion, and with some consummate art began to pave the way for a declaration of the violent passion he had secretly cherished for her, and gradually drawing nearer and nearer to her bridle rein as they rode, whispered the warm language of love in her ear in sentences that grew more and more tender at every step they advanced. Being occupied with her own thoughts, she had the appearance without the reality of listening to all he said, and the enamoured knight, interpreting her silence into a tacit approval, seized the first favourable opportunity of addressing her in plainer language.
“Most angelic lady,” said he to her, as he sat beside her alone under an oak, where they had halted for rest and refreshment, “why shouldst thou undertake this tedious journey? Why shouldst thou leave Scotland, where thou mightst be made happy? To permit beauty so divine, and excellence so rare, to quit the Caledonian soil, would be a foul disgrace to the gallantry of its chivalry. Deign, I beseech thee, to listen to my ardent vows; let me be thy faithful knight. The love thou hast kindled in this bosom is unquenchable. Oh, let me——”
“Talk not thus besottedly, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, interrupting him hastily and rather sternly; “I may not honestly listen to any such. Gallantry may peraunter come with good grace enow from thy lips, but permit not thyself license with me, whose heart doth already belong to another, and who can allow these words of thine no harbour. I shall ever be grateful to thee for this thy courteous convoy, but I can never return thy love. Stir not then the idle theme again.”
“Nay, loveliest of thy sex,” said the silky Sir Andrew Stewart with strange ardour, “to keep thy heart for one who hath so vilely entreated thee, and that after thou didst sacrifice all to yield thee to his service, were neither just to thyself nor to me. Let me occupy that place in thy heart, so unworthily filled by one whose very bearing towards thee (rather that of a [[381]]master than of a lover) did sufficiently betray how much those matchless charms had ceased to please his palled appetite. Let me then——”
“Sir Andrew Stewart,” replied the lady with astonishment, mingled with a dignified expression of resentment, “I know not what falsehood may have conspired to conjure up so much unseemly boldness in thee; for I cannot believe that thou, a knight of good report, couldst thus have ventured to insult me, unless on some false credence. What though my love hath been misplaced? My heart can never change. Urge not, then, again a theme that must ever rouse my indignation.”
A cloud passed across the smooth brow of Sir Andrew Stewart as he received this resolute rejection of his passion, but it speedily disappeared.
“Forgive me, beauteous lady,” said he, after a pause, “mine unhappy passion hath indeed mastered my better reason. Kill me not with thy frowns, but lay my fault to the account of these thy stirring charms. Sith that I dare not hope for more advancement, I shall still be the humblest of thy slaves, for to cease to love thee were impossible.”
After this decided repulse, Sir Andrew Stewart confined his attentions to those of mere courtesy. Towards evening, they began to descend into a narrow glen, watered by a clear river. The hills arose on both sides lumpish and vast, and the dense fir forest that covered them rendered the scene as gloomy as imagination could fancy. As they picked their way down the steep paths of the forest, they caught occasional glimpses of the lone tower of a little stronghold that stood on a small green mound, washed by the river on one side, and divided from the abrupt base of the mountain by a natural ravine, that bore the appearance of having been rendered more defensible by art.
“Behold the termination of our journey of this day,” said Sir Andrew Stewart to his lady. “Thine accommodation, beauteous damsel, will be but poor; yet, even such as thou mayest find it, it may be welcome after the fatigue thou hast endured.”
They reached the bottom, and, crossing the ravine by a frail wooden bridge, climbed a short ascent that led them to the entrance of the little fortalice, that wore the appearance of having been lately demolished in some feudal broil; for the massive iron gate of the court-yard lay upon its side, half buried among the weeds. Many of the outhouses, too, were roofless, and bore recent marks of having been partly consumed by fire.