“Blessed angel,” said Sir Patrick, clasping his hands feebly together, and looking upwards with a heavy languid eye, that received a faint ray of gladness from what it looked upon; “blessed angel, is it a fair vision that deceives me, or is it a reality I behold? I have dreamed much and fearfully of thee and of others; tell me, do I dream still, or art thou in truth Beatrice, the lady of my heart?”
“Hush, Sir Knight,” replied the lady, a smile of pleasure delicately blending on her countenance, with a rich blush of modesty; “I am indeed Beatrice. It joyeth me much to hear thee talk so calmly, seeing that it doth argue thy returning health; but quiet and repose are needful for thee, therefore must I leave thee.”
“Nay, if thou wouldst have me repose in peace, repeat again that thou art Beatrice, that thou art mine own Beatrice,” cried Sir Patrick feelingly. “Say that thy beauteous form shall never more flit from my sight; and that we shall never, never part.”
“Do but rest thee quietly, Sir Patrick,” said Beatrice. “Trust me, thine own faithful Maurice de Grey shall be thy page still, and shall never quit the side of thy couch until health shall have again revisited those wan and wasted cheeks.”
“’Tis enough,” exclaimed Sir Patrick, rapturously snatching her hand and devouring it with kisses; “thou hast already made me well. Methinks I do almost feel strong enow to quit this couch; and yet I could be ill for ever to be blessed with such attendance.”
“Nay, thou must by no means think of rashly quitting thy sick-bed,” said the Lady Beatrice, withdrawing her hand, and looking somewhat timorous at his impetuosity, as she dropped the curtain.
A stirring was then heard in the apartment, then a whispering, and immediately Assueton and Sang appeared, with anxious looks, at his bedside. [[617]]
“My dearest friend, and my faithful esquire,” said Hepborne, with a face of joy, and with so collected and rational an expression, that they could hardly doubt the perfect return of his senses; though they soon began to believe themselves deceived, for his features suddenly became agitated; “but what eye is that which doth glare from between you? Ha! the face of mine arch enemy—of that demon, the enemy of the Lady Beatrice. Doth he come to snatch her from me again? Seize him, my beloved Assueton—seize him, my faithful esquire—let him not escape, I entreat thee, if thou wouldst have me live.”
“We have been in terror, my dearest Hepborne,” said Assueton, calmly, after having ascertained that it was the Franciscan, who had been looking over his shoulder, that had excited Hepborne’s apparent fit of frenzy; “this Franciscan, this friar, John de Vaux, hath now no evil thought or wish against thee or the Lady Beatrice. He was worked upon by false impressions, which were not removed until that Providential discovery, the which did put a stop to thine unfortunate duel with Sir John Halyburton. But sith that all is now cleared up, the holy Franciscan hath made good reparation for all the evil his misjudgment did occasion thee; for sith that thou wert laid here, he hath never ceased day or night to watch by thy bedside, save when called to that of another; and to him, under God, do we now owe the blessed hope of thy speedy recovery.”
“Strange,” cried Hepborne; “but didst thou not say unfortunate duel? I beseech thee speak—Hath my beloved friend, Halyburton, against whom fate did so cruelly compel me to contend—oh, say not, I beseech thee, that aught hath befallen him! What, thou dost hesitate! Oh, tell me not that he hath died by my hand, or happiness shall ne’er again revisit this bosom.”