“Why, I don’t know, Maxwell,” replied the Lord of Hermitage, musingly. “It would make a stir in the country, and set the fools a-talking. I’d rather it were quietly done, if at all possible. I have told Foster,” he added, after a pause of some minutes, “that I would pay him a visit one of these days.”
“Then, my lord, excuse me, you were wrong,” said Maxwell, interrupting him—“you were wrong. He’ll bundle the girl out of the way directly; and, if he does, we may look long enough ere we find her again.”
“Faith! I dare say, thou’rt right, Maxwell,” replied the Lord of Hermitage; “although I scarcely think the scoundrel would dare to do that either. I should have a right to consider such a proceeding as a personal insult, and feel myself warranted in resenting it accordingly.”
“No doubt, no doubt, my lord,” said Maxwell; “but, in the meantime, observe you, the girl may be gone—a loss, this, for which the satisfaction of running her father through the body, would be but an indifferent compensation.”
“Right again, Maxwell, right again,” replied his master; “why, then, suppose after all, we do the thing boldly and at once.” A proposition, this, which ended in an arrangement that the Lord of Hermitage, accompanied by Maxwell, and other three or four trusty knaves, well armed with concealed weapons, should, on the following day, set out for Foster’s residence, and, seizing a fit opportunity, carry off his daughter.
On the day following, accordingly, a party of five horsemen were seen, towards evening, riding up the avenue, at the head of which Foster’s house was situated; when the latter, having observed them approaching, and recognising the Lord of Hermitage amongst them, hastened out to receive them. On their coming up—
“I promised you a visit, Foster,” said the leader of the party, at the same time flinging himself from his horse; “and I am now come to redeem my promise.”
Foster made no reply, but bowed and requested his visitor to walk in, an invitation with which he immediately complied; but when a similar one was extended to his followers, they, one and all, declined, saying that their master intended staying so short a time, that it was not worth their while dismounting—an apology with which Foster was, at the time, satisfied, although some circumstances soon afterwards occurred that made him doubt its sincerity. One of them was, his observing two of the horsemen who had dismounted, notwithstanding what they had said just a moment before, skulking about the door of the apartment in which he and his guest were.
After the latter had sat for some time, and had partaken of some refreshment that had been introduced, he inquired of his entertainer, with affected carelessness, what had become of his “fair daughter.” Foster replied that she was unwell, and confined to her own apartment; which was, indeed, true.
“Unwell!” exclaimed his guest, starting to his feet; “you do not say so! Ha! unwell!—I must see her, then. Perhaps I may be able to restore her to health. I have some skill in the healing art. Come, Foster,” he added, with a sudden ferocity and determination of manner, which contrasted strongly with the benevolent purpose he affected, “conduct me to her this instant—this instant, I say, Foster.” And he drew a sword from beneath the cloak in which he was enveloped.