“But I saw, and I listened,” replied Hepborne. “By St. Denis, they carried hints to me that I shall not neglect. I go to take the air on the ramparts, and hope to meet the angelic Eleanore de Selby there.”
“Art thou mad?” said Assueton. “What can old Adam have looked or said that can induce thee to go on such a fool’s errand? Thou hast but fancied; thy blind passion hath deceived thee.”
“I shall at least put his fancied hints to the proof,” said Hepborne, “though I should watch all night.”
“Then I wish thee a pleasant moonlight promenade,” said [[58]]Assueton. “I’ll to my couch. To-morrow, I presume, we shall cross the Tweed, and yede us into Scotland. By St. Andrew, I would gladly meet again with those well-known faces whose smiles once reflected the happiness of my boyhood!”
“Go to-morrow!” exclaimed Hepborne, as if their so speedy departure was far from being agreeable in the contemplation; “surely thou wilt stay, Assueton, if thou seest that thy so doing may further my happiness?”
“Nay,” replied Assueton, “thou needst hardly fear that I will scruple to sacrifice my own wishes to thy happiness, Hepborne; but I confess I would that my happiness depended on some more stirring cause, and one in which we both could join.”
Here the friends parted. Hepborne, wrapped up in a cloak, stole gently down stairs, and slipping unperceived from the keep, bent his steps towards that part of the ramparts where he had formerly seen the lady. To his inexpressible joy, he saw the minstrel already on the spot. There were two ladies in company with the old man. As Sir Patrick passed near the base of the tower under which he and his friend had concealed themselves the night before, a huge figure began to rear itself from under it, throwing a shadow half-way across the court-yard. It looked as if the tower itself were in motion. He stood undaunted to observe it, as it gradually arose storey over storey. It was the Ancient Fenwick. His enormous face looked downwards upon Hepborne, and his red cinder-like eyes glared upon him as he sputtered out some unintelligible sounds from the corners of his mouth, and then moved away like a walking monument.
Whilst Hepborne’s attention was occupied in observing the retreat of the monster, who seemed to have secreted himself there for no good purpose, the minstrel, and the two ladies who were with him, had already walked down the rampart until they were lost within the shade of a projecting building. He began to fear that they were gone, but he soon saw one of them, whom he believed to be the attendant, emerge from the shadow and retire by a short way to the keep, whilst the other returned along the wall with the minstrel. As they stopped to converse, the lady leaned on one of the engines of war. A breeze from the Tweed threw back the hood of her mantle, and Hepborne could no longer doubt it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby he saw. Her long and beautiful hair streamed down, but she hastily arranged it with her fingers, and then came onwards with Adam of Gordon. Sir Patrick flew to the rampart and sprang on the wall. The lady was alarmed at first by his [[59]]sudden appearance, but perceiving immediately that it was Sir Patrick Hepborne, she received him graciously yet modestly.
“The soft and perfumed air of this beauteous night,” said Hepborne, “and yonder lovely moon, lady, tempted me forth awhile; but what bliss is mine that I should thus meet with her who, in softness, sweetness, and beauty, doth excel the Queen of Night herself!”
“Sir Patrick Hepborne, thou art at thy fustian again,” replied the lady seriously. “This high-flown phrase of thine, well suited though it may have been to the pampered ears of Parisian damsels, sorteth but ill with plainness such as mine. Meseems,” continued she somewhat more playfully, “meseems as if the moon were thy favourite theme. Pray Heaven that head may be right furnished, the which hath the unstable planet so often at work within it.”