“Nay, stay to hear me, lovely Beatrice,” cried the Earl, endeavouring to detain her. [[516]]
“Unhand me, my Lord,” cried she boldly, and at the same time tearing herself from him.
“Hear me, only hear me,” cried the Earl, springing to the door, so as to cut off her retreat.
This action still more alarmed her. She screamed aloud for help, and flying to the casement, threw it open; but the Earl dragged her from it by gentle force, and having shut it, he was vainly endeavouring to compose her, when the chamber door was burst open by a furious kick, and Sir Patrick Hepborne appeared, with his drawn sword in his hand.
“King Richard!” cried the knight, starting back with astonishment: “Doth England’s King so far forget the duty of the high office he doth hold, as to become the destroyer instead of the protector of innocence? Yet, by St. Andrew, wert thou fifty times a king, thou shouldst answer to me for thine insult to that lady. Defend thyself.”
The cool presence of mind exhibited by Richard whilst yet a stripling, on the memorable occasion of Wat Tyler being struck down by Walworth the Lord Mayor, showed that he was not constitutionally deficient in courage; but in this, as in everything else, he was wavering and uncertain, and no one was more liable than he to yield to sudden panic. Seeing Hepborne about to spring on him, he darted into an inner room, the door of which stood ajar.
“Sir Patrick Hepborne!” cried the Lady Beatrice, her lovely face flushing with the mingled emotions of surprise, joy, gratitude, and love.
“Yes,” cried the knight, throwing himself on one knee before her, “yes, Lady Beatrice, he who may now dare to call himself thine own faithful and true knight—he who hath now had his eyes cleared from the errors which blinded him—he who, whilst deeply smitten by those matchless charms, believed that in his adoration of them he was worshipping the Lady Eleanore de Selby—he who thus believing himself to be deceived and rejected, did yet continue to nourish the pure and enduring flame in his bosom after all hope had fled, and who now feels it glow with tenfold warmth, sith that hope’s gentle gales have again sprung up to fan it—he who will——But whither is my passion leading me?” cried he, starting up, and taking Beatrice’s hand; “this is no time for indulging myself in such a theme, dear as it may be to me. Lady, thou art betrayed. This is no fit place of sojournance for spotless virtue such as thine. The false Lady de Vere is one who doth foully minister to the King’s pleasures. Lose not a moment, I beseech you. I have seen [[517]]Adam of Gordon, who waits for us without. Fly then,” cried he, leading her towards the door, “fly with me; I will be thy protector. Let us haste from the impure den of this wicked woman, who would have——”
Sir Patrick threw open the door as he pronounced these words, and in an instant he was prostrated on the floor by the blow of a halbert.
“Seize him and drag him to a dungeon,” cried the Lady de Vere, with eyes flashing like those of an enraged tigress; “I accuse him of a treasonable attack on the sacred person of the King of England. He shall die the death of traitor.” The guards obeyed her, and lifting up the inanimate body of the knight, bore him away.