“Robert Lindsay!” said Sang—“Blessed Virgin!—no—it cannot be—ay—there is indeed that open countenance of truth the which was never moved with human wrath or wickedness. This is indeed a bitter blow to us all; and as for his poor father, as thou sayest, Roger, Heaven indeed knows how the old man may stand it, for poor Robert here was the only hope and comfort of his life. Let me but clip a lock of his hair, and take from his person such little trinkets as may peraunter prove soothing, though sad memorials, to the afflicted Gabriel.”
“Alas, poor Robert Lindsay!—alas for poor Gabriel!” was all that Hepborne’s full heart could utter, as recollections of home, and of his boyish days, crowded upon him until his eyes ran over.
The position in which their bodies were found sufficiently explained that Lindsay and Proudfoot had been fighting side by side in the midst of a cloud of foes. Lindsay had fallen first, and Proudfoot had stood over him, defending his dying friend, until, overpowered by numbers, he had been stretched across him, covered with mortal wounds. Near him lay the body of an English knight, and some of those who knew him declared him to be Sir Miers de Willoughby. [[465]]
Hepborne saw that a grave was dug to contain the bodies of Lindsay and Proudfoot, and he himself assisted the esquires in depositing them in the earth, locked in each other’s embrace.
CHAPTER LXI.
The Field of Otterbourne after the Fight.
After Sir Patrick Hepborne had assisted to perform the last sad duties to the remains of Robert Lindsay and Ralpho Proudfoot, his attention was caught by the appearance of a solitary cluster of lights on the distant part of the field, where the slaughter of the English had been greatest. Curiosity led him to approach, when he perceived that they were borne by a party who followed a bier, that was slowly carried in the direction of Otterbourne Castle. Advancing to a point which they must necessarily pass, he saw, as the procession drew nearer, that the bier was supported by some English spearmen, and that it was followed by a group of women.
Hepborne’s attention was particularly attracted by a lady in the midst of them, who walked with her head veiled in the folds of her mantle, and seemed to be deeply affected by that grief in which the others only sympathised. She took her mantle from her head, and threw her eyes upwards as if in inward ejaculation. Sir Patrick started, for he beheld that very countenance the charms of which, though seen but by glimpses at Norham, had made too deep an impression upon his heart ever to be forgotten; but now they seemed to be more than ever familiar to him, as he was disposed to believe, from their frequent presence to the eye of his imagination. He gazed in silent rapture. The strong resemblance between his page Maurice de Grey and the lady now struck him the more powerfully, that he had a full opportunity of perusing every trait; he was confounded; the mantle dropped over the alabaster forehead, and the countenance was again shrouded from his eyes. The procession moved on, and he followed, almost doubting whether it was not composed of phantoms, until it approached the gate of the Castle of Otterbourne, where the captain of the place, attended by his garrison, appeared to receive it. Still Hepborne had difficulty in convincing himself that the whole was not a waking vision—a belief warranted by the superstition of his country. It slowly entered the gateway. The lady in [[466]]whom he felt so deep an interest was about to disappear. He could bear suspense no longer.
“Lady Eleanore de Selby—Lady de Vere,” cried he, in a frantic voice.