“He is gone,” returned Edith, “to the neighbouring monastery, to say a mass for the honoured dead,” and she devoutly crossed herself, turning her tearful eye on Wolfstone, who, with the most respectful tone, added—
“Go, faithful maiden! say to your lady that Conrad Wolfstone guards her chamber till her pleasure is known.”
“Now lead in our prisoner there;” but a dozen of voices exclaimed against further duty that night.
“He sleeps sound in his dungeon,” said De Mowbray’s squire; “and tomorrow you may make him sleep sounder, if you will. A cup of wine would be more to the purpose, methinks, after our long and toilsome march.”
A hundred voices joined in the request. The wine was brought, and the tyrant soon forgot his projects of vengeance in a prolonged debauch. He slept too—that unnatural monster slept—and dreamt of his victims, and the sweet revenge that was awaiting him. It was owing to the presence of mind of Ralph that the flight of Douglas was not discovered. He had the address to persuade the half-inebriated soldiers that the prisoner was actually securely fettered in the dungeon which he had all along occupied. No sooner did he see them engaged in the new carousal than he hastened to join Edith in the secret chamber, where they united with Father Anselm in his devotions, and prayed for blessings on the head of their noble lord and lady.
Meanwhile the fugitives had reached Scotland, and were now leisurely pursuing their way, thinking themselves far beyond the reach of pursuit. On their first crossing the border, a shepherd’s hut afforded the agitated Lady Emma an hour’s repose and a draught of milk. The morning air revived her spirits, and once more she smiled sweetly as her husband bade her welcome to his native soil. From the fear of pursuit, they durst not take the most direct road to Drumlanrig, but continued to follow the narrow tracks among the hills, known only to huntsmen and shepherds.
It was now evening; the sun was sinking among a lofty range of mountains, tinging their heathy summits with a purple hue, as his broad disc seemed to touch their tops. The travellers were entering a narrow defile, at the end of which a small but beautiful mountain lake or loch burst upon their sight; its waters lay delightfully still and placid, reflecting aslant a few alder bushes which grew on its banks, while the canna, or wild cotton grass, reared its white head here and there among the bushes of wild thyme which sent their perfume far on the air. The wild and melancholy note of the curlew, as she was roused from her nest by the travellers, or the occasional bleat of a lamb, was all that broke the universal stillness.
“Ah, my love,” said Lady Emma, riding up close to her husband, “what a scene of peace and tranquillity! Why could we not live here, far from courts and camps, from battle and bloodshed? But,” she continued, looking fondly and fixedly at her husband, “this displeases you,—think of it only as a fond dream, and pardon me.”
“True, my Emma,” returned Douglas, “these are but fond dreams; the state of our poor country commands every man to do his duty, and how could the followers of the Bloody Heart sheath their swords, and live like bondsmen? Never—never! But let us ride on now; the smoke from yonder cabin on the brow of the hill promises shelter for the night, and, ere to-morrow’s sun go down, you shall be welcomed as the daughter of one of the noblest dames of Scotland. Ride on—the night wears apace.”
Scarcely had the words passed his lips, when the quick tramp of a steed behind caused him to turn round. It was Mowbray, his eyes glaring with fury, and his frame trembling with rage and excitement.