“There is no chance of such a result,” said the earl. “We must bide our time. In a few days we shall take the field.”
Tenderly embracing her, he then quitted the room.
None of the household were astir as Lord Derwentwater went forth. He gave one look at the mansion, heaved a deep sigh, and proceeded towards the wood.
The morning was grey and misty, the trees in the park could scarcely be distinguished, and the brook at the bottom of the glen was hidden by vapour.
Gloomy thoughts likewise possessed him, and as he tracked the sombre alley, he thought he beheld a female figure, arrayed in white, advancing towards him.
Not doubting it was the Maiden, he instantly stopped.
In another moment the phantom stood before him. Its looks were sad and compassionate, but it spoke not, and terror kept him dumb.
After remaining thus transfixed for a few moments, he broke the spell and moved forwards, but the phantom waved him back, and he again halted.
With another warning gesture, accompanied by a look of indescribable pity, the figure vanished.
Not for some minutes after issuing from the alley, did the earl recover from the shock he had received, and he was still leaning for support against a tree, when he was roused by the approach of the woodcutter and his dog.