“For my part, I say nought,” observed Naylis, “but life may be preserved, and life may be thrown away; and one against a hundred is fearful odds. Fathers will weep when children die; it matters not whether by the naked sword or the poisoned cup.” “I will return with thee!” said Reginald.
“Of a surety,” said Robin, “there is a venture both ways. If we advance, life is perilled; and if we retreat, the lady is lost.” “I know not whether to go or to return?” said Reginald.
“I will return to my master,” said the messenger; “peradventure he will send to thee that shall remove thine apprehensions. Hasten not on the way. Marry! it is well that the Lady Elfrida should wait the leisure of Reginald d’Arennes;” and, turning his horse’s head, he was preparing to depart, when Naylis seized his reins, ex[Pg 104]claiming: “Not so, Sir Discourteous! By our Lady thou departest not so lightly. Sir Reginald wendeth to Kennet Hold, and if a hair of his head be injured thou diest, an thou wert Leofwyn’s first-born!”
“Norman hound!” cried the messenger, with an exclamation of surprise, “hast thou divined—— but no! thy thoughts were no parties to thy lips, and I war not for a random word. I will go with ye—rather than your master should lose his bride. By the soul of Hengist, it were pity!” As he spoke he removed his hand, which he had laid upon the hilt of his dagger, and bent upon Reginald a look in which there was much and deep signification, although the standers-by were unable to read its import. Naylis led his young lord apart, and spoke a few words in an earnest whisper. Reginald still seemed irresolute; he began to reply hastily in a tone between soliloquy and expostulation.
“Thou sayest right well, Roger, and with discretion; yet, by my spurs, a younger head had given warmer counsel! How think you, my masters, were it not a pleasant tale to tell that Reginald d’Arennes fled from the bright eyes of his bride? Yet, as thou sayest, Roger, there is danger in this adventure! Not that I heed shaft or spear, bill or battle-axe, in the hand of a Saxon; thou knowest I am no craven, Roger! But then, as thou sayest, Roger—my father, I do believe my death-wound would be his! I will return to him—yet would he be shamed by my return! I will go on—or rather, I will not; thou shalt hasten back to him, Roger, and tell him—hum! I doubt!”
How long the contest might have lasted it is impossible to determine; the remaining attendants were beginning to hazard surmises respecting the eligibility of a night lodging sub dio, when Robin the Wily sprung with a kind of harlequin step before his patron, and, throwing himself into the attitude of a despairing maiden, sang, in a ludicrously plaintive voice, some stanzas of a popular air, which may be thus modernized:—
Oh! I am drest in my bridal vest,
The feast is on the board!
And whither fleeth my father’s guest?
Whither Elfrida’s lord?[Pg 105]
I look to the east, and I look to the west,
The evening moon is toward;
But I see not yet my father’s guest,
I see not Elfrida’s lord!
Why am I dight in my kirtle of white,
My silken snood withal?
For not to-night that craven knight
Will cross my father’s hall.
She hath torn outright her kirtle of white,
Her silken snood withal;
And not to-night that craven knight
Will cross her father’s hall!