“Ha! saidst thou so?” cried the Ancient, with a sudden start. “The blue fire, saidst thou? Signs meet then; prodigies combine to overwhelm thee.”
“They do, indeed, most terribly,” said the knight, shuddering with alarm.
“Their portent is direful,” said the Ancient, groaning deeply.
“In mercy tell me by what means they may be averted,” anxiously inquired Sir Walter.
“Nay,” said the Ancient, with a desponding air, “’tis thyself who art bringing them on thine own head.” Then, after a long pause—“Thou art about to marry thy daughter to the brother of the Piersie?”
“By what miracle knowest thou this?” demanded Sir Walter, in amazement.
“Ask me not by what miracle I know this,” replied the Ancient, “after what thou hast thyself witnessed. Have I not been in the world below? Do I not know all things? Do I not know that Sir Rafe Piersie hath sought the hand of the Lady Eleanore?—that he hath been scorned by her?—that even the Lord Bishop of Durham’s influence hath been employed by him to incline thee to the match; and that, overcome by his counsels, thou art about to compel thy daughter to accept of his hand? Yea, all this do I know, to the veriest item of the [[66]]conversation held between thee; and now, canst thou doubt whence I have had this knowledge?”
Sir Walter replied not, but groaned deeply.
“Sit down by me,” said the Ancient, “and listen to me. ’Tis registered in the dread Book of Fate,” continued he solemnly, “that if this marriage be concluded, consequences the most direful will result from it. First, thy daughter shall produce a son, of countenance so inhuman, that it shall be liker that of a wild boar than a man; and the monstrous birth will produce the death of the mother. Then the child shall grow up, and wax exceeding strong, so that his might shall overmatch that of the most powerful men. But though his mind shall not ripen in proportion, yet shall his passions terribly expand themselves; and, after murdering thee, from whom he shall have sprung, he shall gather unto himself a host of demons of his own stamp, and lay waste the fair face of England, cruelly slaying and oppressing its innocent people for the space of ten years, when he shall be at last overthrown by a Scottish army, which being brought against him, shall subdue and enslave our nation.”
The white hairs of the aged Sir Walter bristled on his head as he listened to this dreadful prophecy. The scourge with which his country was menaced was worse, in his eyes, than even his own unhappy fate.