Chapter the Thirtieth.
In some breasts passion lies conceal'd and silent,
Like war's swart powder in a castle vault,
Until occasion, like the linstock, lights it:
Then comes at once the lightning—and the thunder,
And distant echoes tell that all is rent asunder.
OLD PLAY.
Roland Graeme, availing himself of a breach in the holly screen, and of the assistance of the full moon, which was now arisen, had a perfect opportunity, himself unobserved, to reconnoitre the persons and the motions of those by whom his rest had been thus unexpectedly disturbed; and his observations confirmed his jealous apprehensions. They stood together in close and earnest conversation within four yards of the place of his retreat, and he could easily recognize the tall form and deep voice of Douglas, and the no less remarkable dress and tone of the page at the hostelry of Saint Michael's.
“I have been at the door of the page's apartment,” said Douglas, “but he is not there, or he will not answer. It is fast bolted on the inside, as is the custom, and we cannot pass through it—and what his silence may bode I know not.”
“You have trusted him too far,” said the other; “a feather-headed cox-comb, upon whose changeable mind and hot brain there is no making an abiding impression.”
“It was not I who was willing to trust him,” said Douglas, “but I was assured he would prove friendly when called upon—for——” Here he spoke so low that Roland lost the tenor of his words, which was the more provoking, as he was fully aware that he was himself the subject of their conversation.
“Nay,” replied the stranger, more aloud, “I have on my side put him off with fair words, which make fools vain—but now, if you distrust him at the push, deal with him with your dagger, and so make open passage.”
