Having reached the entrance to the church, the soldiers formed a double line up to the great door, each man leaning upon his lance, in grief that required no acting. The lady descended from her litter. With her head veiled, and her person enveloped in black drapery, she leaned upon the arm of Lieutenant Oglethorpe, and followed the body with tottering steps and streaming eyes into the holy fane. The church was soon filled by the Norham soldiery, ranked up thickly around it, the blaze of the torches pierced into the darkest nook of its Gothic interior, and the solemn ceremony proceeded.
The lady had wound up her resolution to the utmost, that she might undergo the trying scene without flinching. She [[474]]stood wonderfully composed, with her eyes cast upon the ground, endeavouring to fix her thoughts on the service for the dead, which the priests were chanting; when, chancing to look up, her attention was suddenly caught by the figure of a Franciscan monk, who, elevated on the steps of the altar, stood leaning earnestly forward from behind a Gothic pillar that half concealed him, his keen eyes fixed upon her with a marked intensity of gaze. Her heart was frozen within her by his very look, and, uttering a faint scream, she swooned away, and would have fallen on the pavement but for the timely aid of Oglethorpe and those who were present. Dismay and confusion followed. The ceremonial was interrupted; and the bystanders believing that her feelings had been too deeply affected by the so sad and solemn spectacle, hastened to remove her from the scene, so that she was quickly conveyed to her litter, and escorted to the Castle.
The funeral rites were hurried over, and the body was committed to the silent vault, with no other witnesses than the officiating priests, the populace, and such of the officers and soldiers as had been bound to the deceased by some strong individual feeling of affection, and who now pressed around the coffin, to have the melancholy satisfaction of assisting in its descent.
While the remains of Sir Walter de Selby were conveying from Otterbourne Castle, the Scottish Nobles and Knights who had accompanied the body of the Douglas were engaged in assisting at the obsequies of that heroic Earl at Melrose. All that military or religious pomp could devise or execute was done to honour his remains, and many a mass for the peace of his soul was sung by the pious monks of its abbey. The brave Scottish Knights surrounded his tomb in silence and sorrow, all forgetting that they had gained a victory, and each feeling that he had lost a private friend in him whose body they had consigned to the grave.
It was only that morning that Sir Patrick Hepborne had heard accidentally from his esquire the particulars of his unexpected meeting with Katherine Spears; and this information, added to those circumstances which had so strangely occurred to himself, determined him to proceed to Norham the very next day, where he hoped to unravel the mystery that had been gradually thickening around him. The truce that had been already proclaimed ensured his safety, so that he entered the court-yard of the Norham Tower Hostel with perfect confidence. Although Hepborne and his esquire came after it was dark, the [[475]]quick eye of Mrs. Kyle immediately recognized them; and, conscious of the share she had had in the treachery so lately attempted against them, she took refuge in the innermost recesses of the kitchen part of the building. But Sang was determined not to spare her, and, after searching everywhere, he at last detected her in her concealment, from which he led her forth in considerable confusion.
“So, beautiful Mrs. Kyle,” said he, “so thou wert minded to have done our two noble knights and their humbler esquires a handsome favour, truly, the last time they did honour thy house? By St. Andrew, we should have made a pretty knot dangling from the ramparts of Norham.”
“Nay, talk not so, Sir Squire,” replied the hostess in a whining tone; “it was the wicked Sir Miers de Willoughby who did bribe me to put ye all in his power. And then he did never talk of aught else but the ransom for thy liberty; and in truth, love did so blind me that I thought no more of the matter. But I trow I am well enow punished for my folly; for here he came, and by his blazons and blandishments, he did so overmatch me that he hath ta’en from me, by way of borrow (a borrow, I wis, that will never come laughing home again), many a handful of the bonny broad pieces my poor husband Sylvester, that is gone, did leave me. Yet natheless have I enow left to make any man rich; and when Ralpho Proudfoot doth return frae the wars——”
“Poor Ralpho Proudfoot will never return,” said Sang, interrupting her, in a melancholy tone; “these hands did help to lay him in the earth.”
“Poor Ralpho,” cried Mrs. Kyle, lifting her apron to a dry eye, “poor Proudfoot! He was indeed a proper pretty man. But verily,” added she, with a deep sigh, whilst at the same time she threw a half-reproachful, half-loving glance at Sang, “verily, ’twere better, perhaps, for a poor weak woman to think no more of man, seeing all are deceivers alike. Wilt thou step this gate, Sir Squire, and taste my Malvoisie? Or wilt thou—”
“What tramp of many feet is that I hear in the village?” demanded Sang, interrupting her.