“Canst thou tell me whose be those apartments that do look so cheerily over the Tweed into Scotland?” demanded he.
“Ay,” said the old man, “’tis, as thou sayest, a cheering prospect; ’tis the country of my birth, and the country of my heart; I love it as lover never loved mistress.”
“But whose apartments be those?” demanded Hepborne, bringing him back to the question.
“Those are the apartments of the Lady Eleanore de Selby,” replied the minstrel.
“Is it thy custom to play thy minstrelsy under the moonlight on the rampart, as thou didst yestere’en?” demanded Hepborne.
“Yea, I have pleasure in it,” said Adam, with a shrewd look.
“And art thou always so attended?” demanded Hepborne; “is thy music always wont to call that angel to thy side whom I last night beheld there?”
“So thou dost think her an angel, Sir Knight?” cried Adam, with pleasure glancing in his eyes.
“I do,” said Sir Patrick. “Already hath my heart been wounded by the mere momentary glances to which chance hath subjected me, and eagerly do I look for a cure from those eyes whence my hurt doth come. She is beautiful.”
“Yea,” said old Adam, “and she is an angel in soul as well as in form. But St. Andrew keep thee, Sir Knight, I must be gone;” and he hurried away without giving Hepborne time to reply.