Oh! who can tell the agony of Lorraine during that moment? Was it for this he had toiled; was it for this he had struggled; was it for this he had breasted the fierce assault? It was the last drop in his cup of bitterness. His heart was wrung with unutterable woe. He spoke no word, he breathed no sigh; but he gazed a moment sadly on the spectacle, and then noiselessly entered the apartment behind. When the lovers looked around he was gone.
That night a solitary traveller might be seen on the high road to London. He had just parted with another, who had pursued him hotly for several miles, and finally overtaken him. The two were Lorraine and De Courtenay. The latter, learning every thing from Isabel for the first time, had set out and overtaken his preserver, with the generous design to relinquish his mistress to the young knight. But Lorraine would not listen to him.
“No, no, you tempt me over much,” sadly said Lorraine, “for can you give me the love of Isabel? God bless you both. As for me, glory henceforth is my only mistress. Farewell!” and pressing his friend’s hand, he plunged his rowels into the flanks of his steed, and dashed on.
De Courtenay had followed Lorraine to England unexpectedly within twenty-four hours of the young knight’s departure, and, having hastily transacted his business in London, had hurried down to Deraine hall, and met Lorraine as we have described.
None of his house ever saw Lorraine again. He appeared in a few days in the camp, but within a week fell in an assault, the only man who had succeeded in mounting the breach. There he fought unsupported for several minutes, but finally sank pierced with a hundred wounds.
And long did Isabel and De Courtenay weep for the ill-fated page. And when the war was over, and they were married, often would they sit on that old terrace, and feel a melancholy pleasure in talking of Lorraine. Need we wonder that their eldest boy bore the name of Isabel’s unfortunate cousin? * * *
THE BRILLIANT NOR-WEST.
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BY J. K. MITCHELL.