“’Tis a fancy of her father’s, Sir Knight,” replied the Squire Usher, smiling; “and, if it may not offend thee, ’tis because he willeth not that the lady may marry her with a Scottish chevalier, [[47]]that he ever doth forbid her entrance when any of thy nation are feasted in his hall.”
“It irketh me to think that we should have caused her banishment,” said Hepborne. “What, is she always wont to keep her chamber on like occasions?”
“Yea,” replied the Squire Usher, “ever save when the evening air is so bland as to suffer her to breathe it upon the rampart. She is often wont to listen to the minstrel’s notes there. But there are your chambers, Sirs Knights. The squires of your own bodies will be with you in the morning. Sir Walter hath issued orders for the admission of your retinue into the Castle. And he hopes you will sojourn with him as long as your affairs may give you sufferance. Good night, and may St. Andrew be with you.”
The two friends separated, and quickly laid themselves down to repose. The hardy and heart-whole Assueton slept soundly under the protection of his national saint, to whom he failed not to recommend himself, as a security against the incantations of the wizard. Nor did Sir Patrick Hepborne neglect to do the same; for these were times when the strongest minds were subject to such superstitions. But his thoughts soon wandered to a more agreeable subject. He recalled the lovely face he had seen, and he sighed to think that he had not been blessed with a somewhat less transitory glance of features which he would have wished to imprint for ever upon his mind.
“Why should her father thus banish her from the eyes of all Scotchmen? By the Rood, but it can and must be only from the paltry fear of his wealth going to fatten our northern soil. But I can tell him that there be Scots who would cheerfully take her for her individual merit alone, and leave her dross to those sordid minds who covet it.”
Such was Sir Patrick’s soliloquy, and, imperfect as his view of the lady had been, it was sufficient to conjure up a vision that hovered over his pillow, and disturbed his rest, in defiance of the good St. Andrew. Having lain some time awake, he heard the laborious ascent of the Ancient Fenwick to his dwelling in the clouds; but fatigue at length vanquished his restlessness, and he had been, for some hours, in a deep sleep, ere another and a much lighter footstep passed up in the same direction.
CHAPTER V.
Night at the Castle—The Friar’s Visit to the Ancient.
The Ancient Fenwick was sitting drawn together into a farther [[48]]corner of his den. His everlasting lamp was raised on a pile of manuscript volumes near him, that it might throw more light on a large parchment roll that lay unfolded on the floor before him. His right elbow rested on the ground, and the enormous fingers of his hand embraced and supported his head; while his eyes, burning without meaning, like two small red fragments of ignited charcoal, could have been supposed to be occupied with the characters before them, only from the position of his face, which was so much turned down that the tangled hair, usually drooping from behind, was thrown forwards over his ears. He was so absorbed that he heard not the soft barefooted tread of the step on the stair, or as it approached his den along the vaulted roof of the keep.