"Madeline said it would be a desperate attempt," replied he, thoughtfully—"and it would, indeed, be desperate—it is impossible."
"Out on thy knighthood, man!" rejoined the countess. "Is this the far-famed chivalry of Sir William Montague? Why, it is the proposition of your own fair ladye, whom, verily, ye cannot believe chivalrous to a fault. But is it to Joan Plantagenet that ye talk of impossibilities? I will stake thee my dowery against fair Madeline's, I find a hundred men in this poor garrison ready to dare and do what you declare impossible."
"You find not two, fair sister," said Sir William, proudly.
"Oh, say not one—not one!" whispered Madeline, earnestly.
Upon every man in the castle did the countess urge the dangerous mission—she entreated, she threatened, she offered the most liberal, the most tempting rewards; but the boldest rejected them with dismay.
The Scottish army lay encompassing them around—their sentinels were upon the watch almost at every step, and to venture beyond the gate of the castle seemed but to meet death and to seek it.
"At midnight have my fleetest horse in readiness," said Sir William, addressing his attendant—"what no man dare, I will!"
"My brother!—thanks!—thanks!" exclaimed the countess, in a tone of joy.
Madeline clasped her hands together—her cheeks became pale—her voice faltered—she burst into tears.
"Weep not, loved one," said Sir William; "the heavens favour the enterprise which my Madeline conceived. Should the storm increase, there is hope—it is possible—it will be accomplished." And, while he yet spoke, the lightning glared along the walls of the castle, and the loud thunder pealed over the battlements. Yet Madeline wept, and repented that she had spoken of the possibility of deliverance.