"Ah, my good Annette," said the matron, "you left me by much too soon yester-evening; but it matters not now. You must busy yourself in getting breakfast for us—meanwhile, good Sir Knight, this way. The tower is a wild ruin, but all its apartments are not equally ruinous."
They ascended, by a stair hollowed in the thickness of the wall, to an upper story. There was but one apartment on each floor; so that the entire building consisted but of four, and the two closet-like recesses in the turrets. The apartment they now entered was lined with dark oak; a massy table of the same material occupied the centre; and a row of ponderous stools, like those which Cowper describes in his "Task," ran along the wall. An immense chimney, supported by two rude pillars of stone, and piled with half-charred billets of wood, projected over the floor; the lintel, an oblong tablet about three feet in height, was roughened by uncouth heraldic sculptures of merwomen playing on harps, and two knights in complete armour fronting each other as in the tilt-yard. The windows were small and dark, and barred with iron; and through one of these that opened to the east, the morning sun, now risen half a spear's length over the forest, found entrance, in a square slanting rule of yellow light, which fell on the floor under a square recess in the opposite wall. The little girl entered immediately after the ladies and Clelland, bearing fire and fuel; a cheerful blaze soon roared in the chimney; and, as the morning felt keen and chill after the recent storm, they seated themselves before it. An hour passed in courtly and animated dialogue, and then breakfast was served up.
The younger lady would fain have prolonged the conversation—for it had turned on the struggles of the Scots, and the wonderful exploits of Wallace—had not her mother reminded her that they stood much in need of rest to strengthen them for their approaching journey. They both, therefore, retired to their sleeping apartments in the turrets; while the knight, providing himself with a bow and a few arrows, sallied out into the forest. The practice in woodcraft, which he had acquired under his kinsman, who, in his reverses, could levy on only the woods and moors, stood him in so good stead, that, when dinner-time came round, a noble haunch of venison and two plump pheasants smoked on the board. But Bertha alone made her appearance. Her mother, she said, still felt fatigued, and slightly indisposed; but she trusted to be able to join them in the course of the evening.
There was nothing Clelland had so anxiously wished for, when spending the earlier part of the day in the wood, as some such opportunity of passing a few hours with Bertha. And yet, now that the opportunity had occurred, he scarce knew how to employ it. The radiant smile of the maiden—her light, elegant form, and lovely features—had haunted him all the morning; and he wisely enough thought there could be but little harm in frankly telling her so. But, now that the fair occasion had offered, he found that all his usual frankness had left him, and that he could scarce say anything, even on matters more indifferent. And, what seemed not a little strange, too, the maiden was scarcely more at her ease than himself, and could find not a great deal more to say. Dinner passed almost in silence; and Bertha, rising to the square recess in the wall, drew from it a flagon filled with wine, which she placed before her guest and a vellum volume, bound in velvet and gold.
"This," she said, "is a wonderful romaunt, written by a countryman of yours, of whom I have heard the strangest stories. Can you tell me aught regarding him?"
"Ah!" said the knight, taking up the volume, "the book of Tristram. I am not too young, lady, to have seen the writer—the good Thomas of Erceldoune."
"Seen Thomas of Erceldoune! Thomas the Rhymer!" exclaimed the lady. "And is it sooth that his prophecies never fail, and that he now lives in Elf-land?"
"Nay, lady, the good Thomas sleeps in Lauderdale, with his fathers. But we trust much to his prophecies. They have given us heart and hope amid our darkest reverses. He predicted the years of oppression and suffering which, through the death of our good Alexander, have wasted our country; but he prophesied, also, our deliverance through my kinsman, Sir William of Elderslie. We have already seen much of the evil he foresaw, and much, also, of the good. Scotland, though still threatened by the power of Edward, is at this moment free."
"I have long wished," said Bertha, "to see those warriors of Scotland whose fame is filling all Europe. And now that wish is gratified—nay, more than gratified."
"You see but one of her minor warriors," said Clelland; "but at Paris you shall meet with the Governor himself. Your father, Bertha, should he succeed in clearing his fair fame—and I know he will—sets out with us for Scotland. Will not you and the lady your mother also accompany us?"