“Yes, my Lord Count,” answered Quentin firmly, “and what is more, I must see her alone.”
“That shall never be,” said the Count de Crevecoeur.—“Lord Crawford, I make you judge. This young lady, the daughter of my old friend and companion in arms, the richest heiress in Burgundy, has confessed a sort of a—what was I going to say?—in short, she is a fool, and your man at arms here a presumptuous coxcomb.—In a word, they shall not meet alone.”
“Then will I not speak a single word to the Countess in your presence,” said Quentin, much delighted. “You have told me much that I did not dare, presumptuous as I may be, even to hope.”
“Ay, truly said, my friend,” said Crawford. “You have been imprudent in your communications; and, since you refer to me, and there is a good stout grating across the parlour, I would advise you to trust to it, and let them do the worst with their tongues. What, man! the life of a King, and many thousands besides, is not to be weighed with the chance of two young things whilly whawing in ilk other's ears for a minute.”
So saying, he dragged off Crevecoeur, who followed very reluctantly, and cast many angry glances at the young Archer as he left the room.
In a moment after, the Countess Isabelle entered on the other side of the grate, and no sooner saw Quentin alone in the parlour, than she stopped short, and cast her eyes on the ground for the space of half a minute. “Yet why should I be ungrateful,” she said, “because others are unjustly suspicious?—My friend—my preserver, I may almost say, so much have I been beset by treachery, my only faithful and constant friend!”
As she spoke thus, she extended her hand to him through the grate, nay, suffered him to retain it until he had covered it with kisses, not unmingled with tears. She only said, “Durward, were we ever to meet again, I would not permit this folly.”
If it be considered that Quentin had guided her through so many perils—that he had been, in truth, her only faithful and zealous protector, perhaps my fair readers, even if countesses and heiresses should be of the number, will pardon the derogation.
But the Countess extricated her hand at length, and stepping a pace back from the grate, asked Durward, in a very embarrassed tone, what boon he had to ask of her?—“For that you have a request to make, I have learned from the old Scottish Lord, who came here but now with my cousin of Crevecoeur. Let it be but reasonable,” she said, “but such as poor Isabelle can grant with duty and honour uninfringed, and you cannot tax my slender powers too highly. But, oh! do not speak hastily—do not say,” she added, looking around with timidity, “aught that might, if overheard, do prejudice to us both!”
“Fear not, noble lady,” said Quentin sorrowfully; “it is not here that I can forget the distance which fate has placed between us, or expose you to the censures of your proud kindred, as the object of the most devoted love to one, poorer and less powerful—not perhaps less noble—than themselves. Let that pass like a dream of the night to all but one bosom, where, dream as it is, it will fill up the room of all existing realities.”