“She is not at Norham, Sir Knight,” said Sir Walter, calmly; “she is not in my keeping, I most solemnly protest unto thee.”
“Where is she then, in the name of St. Giles?” cried Assueton. “Tell me instantly, that I may fly to her rescue. Trifle no more with me, old man; thou dost wear out the precious minutes. Depardieux, my patience is none of the strongest e’en now; it won’t hold out much longer, I tell thee, [[119]]for I am mad, stark mad; so tell me at once where she is, or my rage may overcome my better feelings.”
“Nay, Sir John Assueton,” said Sir Walter de Selby, with a forbearance and temper that, old as he was, he could never have exercised had it not been for the feeling of what he owed to Sir Patrick Hepborne and the consciousness that present appearances warranted the suspicion of his having been accessory to the outrage committed against the Lady Isabelle; “I beseech thee, Sir John Assueton, command thyself so far as to listen to me for but a very few minutes; hadst thou done so earlier, thou hadst ere this known everything. Interrupt me not, then, I implore thee, and thou shalt be the sooner satisfied. This is now the third morning since—unfortunate father that I am—I discovered the sad malure which hath befallen me, and that I was bereft of my daughter, the Lady Eleanore, who had been mysteriously carried off during the night. Certain circumstances———”
“Nay, but, Sir Knight,” said Assueton, interrupting him, “what is thy daughter to me? What is she to the Lady Isabelle Hepborne? Ay, indeed, wretch that I am, what is she in any way to the point?”
Sir Walter de Selby went on without noticing this fresh interruption.
“Certain circumstances led some of the people about me to believe that thy friend, Sir Patrick, had had some hand in the rapt, and that he, or some of his people, had returned at night, and, by some unexampled tapinage, found means unaccountable to withdraw my daughter from the Castle. In the frenzy I was thrown into by mine affliction, I was easily induced to believe anything that was suggested to me; and, getting together my people in a haste, I———”
“So,” cried Assueton, “I see how it is; a vile thrust of vengeance led thee to make captive of the Lady Isabelle. Oh, base and unworthy knight!”
“Nay, indeed, not so,” said Sir Walter, eager to exculpate himself; “I have already vowed I had no hand in anything so base. ’Tis true, I set out with the mad intent of besieging Hailes Castle, and demanding the restoration of my daughter. To this I was much encouraged by Sir Miers de Willoughby, who happened to be at Norham at the time, and who offered to accompany me. I got no farther than this place that night; and having had time to reflect by the way on the nature of the enterprise I was boune on, as well as on the great improbability of so foul suspicion being verified against a knight of thy friend [[120]]Sir Patrick’s breeding and courtesy, I resolved to proceed with the utmost caution, lest I should even give cause of offence where no offence had been rendered. As the most prudent measure I could adopt, and as that least likely to excite alarm, I resolved to pitch my little camp in this retired spot, and to send forward Sir Miers de Willoughby, who readily volunteered the duty, towards Hailes Castle, to make such inquiry of the peasants as might satisfy me of the truth or falsehood of my suspicions; and this, thou must grant me, Sir John Assueton, was as much delicacy as could be observed by me, in the anguished and bleeding state of my heart for the loss of my only child, and the impatience which I did naturally feel to gain tidings of her.” Here the old man’s voice was for some moments choked by his tears; and Sir John Assueton was so much moved by them that he spake not a word. Sir Walter proceeded—
“De Willoughby returned here last night about sunset. He came to my tent alone, and he did tell me that, from all he could learn, he believed that my daughter had not been carried thither, either by Sir Patrick or any other person. ‘But,’ added he, ‘be Sir Patrick Hepborne guilty or innocent of this outrage against thee, I have made a capture that will be either paying off an old score, or scoring the first item of a new account against these Scots, for I have carried off the Lady Isabelle Hepborne.’ Struck with horror, and burning with rage to hear him tell this, I insisted on her being instantly brought to my tent, that I might forthwith calm her mind, and take immediate steps to return her in safety, with honourable escort, to her father. ‘Give thyself no trouble about her,’ said the libertine, treating all I said with contempt, ‘for ere this she bounes her over the Border, on a palfrey led by my people.’ I was thunderstruck,” continued the old man; “and ere I had time to recover myself so far as to be able to speak or act, de Willoughby sprang to the door of the tent, and I heard the clatter of his horse’s heels as he galloped off. I was infuriated; I felt that he had basely made me the scape-goat to his own caitiff plans, which I now began to suspect were not of recent hatching. I despatched parties in every direction after him, but all of them returned, one by one, without having gained even the least intelligence of him. And all this is true, on the word of an old knight. God wot how well I do know to feel for the father of the damosel, sith I do suffer the same affliction myself.”
The old knight was overpowered by his emotions; and [[121]]Assueton, who had been at length prevailed on to hear his tale to an end, gave way at the conclusion of it to a paroxysm of rage and grief, which might have well warranted the bystanders in believing he was really bereft of reason. He threw himself from his horse to the ground, in despair. Roger Riddel, his esquire, a quiet, temperate, and, generally, a very silent man, did all he could to soothe his master; and even old Sir Walter de Selby, sorrowful as he himself was, seemed to forget his wretchedness in endeavouring to assuage that which so unmanned the Scottish knight.