HILDEBRAND.

NEW WORK, BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

Preparing for Publication, in 3 vols. 8vo.,

THE OLD TEMPLE:

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

BY

THE AUTHOR OF “HILDEBRAND,”
&c. &c.

“Within the Temple hall we were too loud,
The garden here is more convenient.”

Shakspeare.

LONDON:
JOHN MORTIMER, ADELAIDE STREET,
TRAFALGAR SQUARE.

HILDEBRAND:
OR,
THE DAYS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH.

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

BY
THE AUTHOR OF “THE KING’S SON.”

Frugal and wise, a Walsingham is thine;
A Drake, who made thee mistress of the sea,
And bore thy name in thunder round the world.
Then flamed thy spirit high; but who can speak
The numerous worthies of the maiden reign?
In Raleigh mark their every glory mix’d;
Raleigh, the scourge of Spain!

Thomson.

IN THREE VOLUMES.

VOL. I.

LONDON:
JOHN MORTIMER, ADELAIDE STREET,
TRAFALGAR SQUARE.
MDCCCXLIV.

LONDON: PRINTED BY HENRY RICHARDS,
BRYDGES-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.

CONTENTS

HILDEBRAND;

&c. &c.

CHAPTER I.

The last rays of a July sun were extending themselves over the western sky, and that sweetest period of a summer’s day—the cool evening—had just opened, when a horseman made his appearance on the high-road between Exeter and London, in the midland section of Devonshire. He looked a young man; and his years were not so many even, as one would, at first sight, have inferred from his looks. Care and travel, and probably privation, had given a stamp of experience to his features, and an air of reflection to his face, that savoured more of a man of thirty, than one of four or five and twenty years, which was more likely his age. Yet, to judge from his appearance, he was not one of those who would let the cares of life press upon him heavily, or of a constitution that, from any imperfectness or defect, would suffer greatly under the infliction of privation or hardship. His countenance was almost an oval, and sorted well with his light-brown beard and moustache, which, though they were no way scanty, he wore thin and pointed. His complexion was of that red and white which, in men, is so peculiarly English, and would have been fair to effeminacy, only that it bore evidence of having been exposed, no very long time previous, to a more glowing sun than that of England, which had given it a more manly tone, and rendered its beauty more lively and animated. His blue eyes were not large, but they were finely coloured and penetrating, and harmonized well with his fair forehead, which, though not lofty, was unruffled and expansive. His other features were turned with accuracy, and the tone of each was such as, in most instances, marks a sanguine temperament and a generous disposition. Nevertheless, the ensemble of his face was not without a touch of melancholy, though it was probably more the indication and effect of a pensive turn of mind, nursed by vicissitude, or kept in constant exercise by his daily avocations, than the vestige of any past sorrow or present care. Indeed, in the life and animation of every feature, this small trace of gloom beneath the eyes, though it was ever present, was almost lost; and there was no point in his face but manifested, in a greater or a less degree, the spirit of frankness, buoyancy, and good-nature.

The horseman was of a tall person, which was the more in his favour as, from early exercise, the muscles of his fine broad chest were fully developed, and all his well-turned limbs denoted unity and power. He was attired in grave habits, cut in the fashion of the age, which was that of Elizabeth; yet his erect and soldier-like bearing, more conspicuous from his being mounted, betokened that he had not always worn the garments of peace, but had at some time followed the noble profession of arms. A long basket-hilted sword, of the kind called cut-and-thrust, hung at his left side; and a small valise (seemingly made to hold a change of raiment, and probably the appurtenances of his toilet), which was fastened to the back of his saddle, completed his equipment.

He sat his horse with much grace, and with that union of ease and dignity, joined to flexity of limb, which denoted no less the perfect horseman, than the true and polished gentleman.

A slight breeze had risen with the evening, and as he had probably ridden some distance, and the day had been warm, the horseman rode along at a gentle pace, in order that he might enjoy more fully, and with greater ease, the fresh free air that played around him. As he passed along, his eye glanced wistfully over the country on either side, seeming to take in, every now and then, some well-known and agreeable object, that called a brighter lustre to his eye, and often a smile to his lip. Occasionally the notes of a blackbird, or some other feathered songster, would draw his attention to the bush that bordered the road, and which was now adorned with many a wreath of the wild dog-rose, and the varied greens of the hawthorn and blackberry. Then his feelings, responding to the cheering melody, would manifest a new and more sensible buoyancy, and spread over his manly face a glow of earnest pleasure.

Thus he rode leisurely along, when, as he approached a secluded-looking by-road, his ear was saluted by the report of a pistol, followed by a shrill scream; and this incident induced him to bring his horse to a stand. But after a moment’s hesitation he pushed forward again, and, clapping spurs to his horse, passed at a smart pace down the contiguous by-road, whence the sounds that had alarmed him seemed to have emanated.

The road was, like all the cross-roads of the period, narrow and rugged, and in many parts overgrown with grass, or traversed by deep ruts, that rendered any kind of progress a matter of labour and difficulty. It was bounded on either side by the fence of the neighbouring fields—the common quickset, or field-hedge, which now had attained its full growth, and displayed all the luxuriance of maturity. Behind the hedge ran a row of elms, in irregular rank, and at no certain or fixed intervals, the boughs of which overhung the road, and frequently met about its centre. Indeed, the road was not unlike the avenue to a gentleman’s house, only that its extreme ruggedness, joined to the fence of quickset aforementioned, and its occasional patches of vegetation, somewhat impaired the similarity, and were features that such a locality could not be expected to exhibit.

At length our horseman came to an angle in the road, about a quarter of a mile from the highway, which, turning sharply round, opened to view a scene that inspired him with the deepest interest.

A few yards in his front stood one of the heavy carriages of the period, with its broad side-doors forced open, and its four horses brought to an abrupt halt. On the ground, at the side of the road, bleeding profusely from a cut on the forehead, lay a groaning postilion, who appeared to be on the eve of a longer journey than he had probably looked for. The corpse of another man-servant was stretched on the opposite side of the road, and his unsheathed rapier showed that, like the postilion, he had fallen unresisting. Startling as these particulars were, they hardly obtained from our horseman, after he had quite turned the angle, the ordinary notice of a glance. A group of five persons on the left of the arrested carriage immediately engaged his whole attention. Two of these were, to judge from their appearance, cavaliers of the road, or, in other words, highwaymen, and had probably just dismounted from two stout steeds hard by, which were quietly cropping the grass, or waste land, at the side of the road. A third was an elderly personage—perhaps (for his appearance bespoke him a man of rank) the proprietor of the adjacent carriage—who was combating the taller of these ruffians with his rapier. In this contest he was assisted by another person, apparently one of his domestics; but they were but indifferent swordsmen, and were hardly able to defend themselves, much less act offensively, against the experienced arm of the robber. This seemed to be clear to the accomplice of the latter; for, instead of affording him any succour, he was entirely engaged with the fifth, and, in the eyes of our horseman, most interesting person of the party—a young and beautiful female. His superior strength had already rendered her almost powerless, when he thrust his hand under the collar of her bodice, in search of some trinket, or, perhaps—for it was out of sight—some more precious valuable, which was suspended by a chain of gold from her neck. This outrage, exceeding any that she had hitherto sustained, drew from the unhappy lady a cry of utter terror, and nerved her for one last effort to break from his hold. She was still struggling, when the sound of a horse’s feet broke on her ear, and, casting a despairing glance around, her eye fell on our young horseman, who, having turned the angle, had just come fully into view. Her strength was by this time exhausted: she saw that deliverance, which had appeared hopeless, was close at hand; and she sank senseless in her assailant’s arms.

The ruffian had not a moment to lose; for the horseman, he perceived at a glance, was no ordinary wayfarer, and he was approaching at a full gallop. Throwing down the insensible form of the lady, he seemed to deliberate, under the first effects of the surprise, how he should meet him. His hesitation, however, was but momentary; for, as the horseman drew nearer, he snatched a pistol from his girdle, and discharged it at his breast. But the ball struck the horseman in the fleshy part of his left arm, and did not, according to his expectations, bring him to a halt. Seeing him still advance, the robber sought to meet his assault with his raised rapier; but whether it was that he had expected it would be less vigorous, and so was unprepared, or that he was an inexpert swordsman, his precaution was of no avail. The horseman beat down his guard directly; and with a terrific lounge, for which his long cut-and-thrust sword was excellently adapted, ran him through the body, pinning him to the pannel of the carriage at his back.

It will readily be imagined that this new incident did not transpire without attracting the attention of those other characters in the passing scene whom it so eminently affected. The report of the pistol was the first intimation they had of the horseman’s advent; and it was then that the senior cavalier, turning from the contest he was engaged in, perceived the melancholy situation of the young lady. This seemed to throw him off his guard; for, regardless of his position, he broke away from the conflict with the robber, and sprang to the lady’s assistance. His servant was very unequal to the conflict single-handed; and the robber, seeing the fate of his comrade, and probably conceiving that no effort he could make would alter the fortune of the day, availed himself of this circumstance to retreat towards his steed, keeping the servant at bay, meanwhile, though seemingly with a desire to do him no hurt.

At last he reached his horse, and with a dexterous lounge, he knocked his rapier out of the servant’s hand, and sprang unmolested to his saddle. As he gained his seat, he clapped spurs to his horse, and galloped off.

Our young horseman was at this moment withdrawing his sword from the body of the fugitive’s comrade. Hearing the clatter of the retreating horse, he turned round; but though the robber had only a slight start of him, and was no better armed than himself, he showed no disposition to give him chase. Seemingly satisfied with having driven him off, he proceeded to tender his assistance, in another character, to the still helpless lady.

The lady was reclining in the arms of the elderly individual before noticed. She was, as has been remarked, still insensible; but if her position was calculated to obscure and veil over the attributes of her mind, it was well adapted to display the exquisite graces of her person. Though she could hardly have arrived at her eighteenth summer, she had evidently attained her full height, and was progressing towards that development of contour, or general outline, which is the most glorious indication of female maturity. But it was more in promise—more in those shadowy lines which were yet hardly revealed, but which were still replete with grace and excellence—that the beauty of her person chiefly consisted. The hundred dazzling charms that marked the mould and perfectness of her limbs, though distinctly visible, were not of that character which can be defined; and they existed more as a whole than individually, and with a seeming hold and dependence on each other. There was, however, little of buoyancy in her most engaging countenance. Whether it was the effect of her swoon, or of some deeper cause, rooted in the past, her features wore a stamp of gravity beyond her years, but which might arise from a habit of reflection, as much as from any spring of disappointment or sorrow. Her complexion was dark, yet so beautifully shaded, that it seemed to comprehend a variety of tints, blended into one inseparable and harmonious whole; and this gave it a force of expression, and a sweetness of tone, truly charming. Her raven-black hair, disarranged by her recent struggle, had burst the restraints imposed upon it by her toilet, and fell loosely over her fair cheeks and neck, as if it sought, by this close and striking proximity, to be compared with the whiteness of her heaving bosom.

The personage who supported her was, as was heretofore observed, considerably her senior. He was tall in stature, and, notwithstanding a slight stoop in his shoulders—probably the bend of age—dignified in his bearing. His countenance had once been handsome, and was still noble; and though there was an air of sternness, approaching to austerity, about his forehead, the general expression of his features was gentle and kindly. As he gazed in the lady’s face, he betrayed the deepest emotion, and appeared, on a cursory glance, to have no sense of what was passing around, but to be engrossed solely by his fears for the unconscious being whom he supported. He was yet bending over her, anxiously watching for the first return of sensibility, when the cavalier by whom they had been so effectually succoured, having dismounted from his horse, and given it over to the care of the servant, came up with him.

“Hath the lady sustained any hurt, Sir?” he inquired.

At this moment the young lady, as if aroused by his voice, opened her eyes, and looked up.

“Is it thou, father?” she said, addressing the personage who supported her. “Thou art not hurt, then?”

“Not in the least, my dear child,” replied her father.

“And are we free?” said the young lady, eagerly looking round.

“Quite, quite,” answered the old man; “and, under Heaven, we owe our deliverance to this gentleman.”

“We owe him a great debt, then,” said the lady, raising herself up. “I hope, Sir,” she added, speaking to the cavalier alluded to, “we may live long enough to show, by our future actions, that we shall ever remember it.”

As she gained an erect position, she drew off her glove, and offered the cavalier her small hand. He seized it eagerly, and with a gentle inclination of his head, suitable to the occasion, raised it to his lips.

“’Twere but a poor compliment, Sir,” observed the elderly cavalier, following up what had been said by his daughter, “to say thou hast my hearty thanks. Thou hast given me more than life; and what is there in its gift, much less in an old man’s voice, that can balance such service as this?”

“I’faith, fair Sir, thou ratest my help too high,” replied the person addressed. “’Twas no more than any other honest stranger would have lent thee.”

“’Tis very few would risk life and limb for absolute strangers, brave Sir,” rejoined the previous speaker. “But we may be less strangers, if it so please thee, in time to come.”

“If that be thy mind, fair Sir,” said the other, “it will be a right welcome thing to me, though my stay in this land will not be for long.”

“Thou art not a foreigner?” said the elderly cavalier, in a tone of half inquiry, half doubt. “But I should tell thee who I am. My name is Sir Edgar de Neville; and this fair lady, to whom thou hast given more than her life, is my only child.”

If Sir Edgar furnished this information with the view of ascertaining the name and rank of his deliverer, preparatory to entering more fully on those friendly relations which he had just opened, and had invited him to extend, the result must have disappointed him; for the cavalier, whatever was his motive, did not disclose these particulars, but rather answered him evasively.

“Mine is a happy fortune,” he said, “that hath won two such friends. But this fair lady hath need of repose, Sir Edgar. I have some small matters to settle at the village of Lantwell; and will be your escort, if you will give me leave, as far as your lodge, which I can make to fall in my way.”

“Thou knowest Neville Grange, then, Sir?” inquired Sir Edgar.

“’Tis many years since I was in this part afore,” said the cavalier, slightly colouring; “but I once knew it right well.”

“We will not claim thine escort only, then,” returned Sir Edgar; “but, while thine affairs hold thee at Lantwell, thy fair company also, an’ thou wilt give us leave.”

As the cavalier was about to reply, he caught a glance from the dark eyes of Miss de Neville, seeming, by the warmth and kindliness of its expression, to second the invitation of her father; and, repressing the answer which he had been about to make, and which was probably of a negative character, he replied with a bow of acquiescence.

Preparations were therefore made for entering once more on their journey. The wounded postilion, who, it was now discovered, was but slightly hurt, had his forehead bound up, and was then able to mount his horse, and resume the duties of his post. The dead servant, with the corpse of the robber, was drawn to one side of the road, and there left till, on Sir Edgar’s arrival home, a suitable means of removing them could be procured. Sir Edgar and his fair daughter took their places in the carriage; and their deliverer, and the old servant, who was entirely unhurt, mounted their horses, and rode slowly along on either side of that vehicle.

While the party thus pursued their way, each individual was too busily occupied by his thoughts to seek to open a conversation. Indeed, the young cavalier, however his thoughts might have been engaged, was more seriously unfitted for the amenities of discourse. In the excitement of the rescue, the pistol-wound he had received in his arm, at his first appearance on the scene of action, had not been heeded; but now that he had ceased to be physically employed, and was, to a certain extent, left to himself, its violent throbs became most painfully sensible. The hœmorrhage appeared to be slight; for his murrey-coloured jerkin, except round the hole where the ball had entered, was hardly soiled; yet he could feel the ball burning in the middle of his arm. He tied his scarf tightly over it, thinking that, by its pressure on the part affected, this would mitigate the dreadful throes by which it was every moment convulsed. But the angry wound throbbed as before, and the blood in his arm, from his shoulder downward, seemed to rage and boil, and, as it gurgled round the wound, to burn like liquid fire.

In this manner he rode along for about two miles, continually hoping, at every successive wind in the apparently interminable lane, to come up with some farm-house, or peasant’s cottage, where he could procure a drink of water. But no prospect of relief presented itself, and he was about to avow his utter inability to proceed, when, looking round, he perceived that the road was approaching a gate, with a porter’s lodge just visible over the fence, which he recalled to mind as the entrance to Neville Grange. The carriage came to a halt the next moment; and the mounted servant, who had been riding on the inner side of the carriage, nearest to the gate, spurred forward a few paces, and rang the lodge-bell. The young cavalier felt a dizziness come over him at this juncture; and drawing his horse up, within a pace or two of the carriage, he staggered in his saddle, and fell back against the carriage-door.

CHAPTER II.

The estate called Neville Grange, the residence of Sir Edgar de Neville, embraced an extensive park, and a roomy and commodious mansion. This latter was evidently a recent erection, and had probably succeeded, since the accession of the present proprietor, to one of some antiquity. It was an unpretending structure, but was rendered important by its size, which, with its situation, marked it as the residence of a person of consequence. Its date was as clearly indicated by its material—the red brick then in use—as by its style, which was of that substantial yet stately caste called Elizabethan. It stood on the summit of a gentle acclivity, with its rear and sides, the least finished parts of the building, enclosed by umbrageous trees, and the front commanding a view of the whole extent of the park.

Sir Edgar de Neville, the present proprietor, had become possessed of the Grange on the death of his father, towards the latter end of the reign of Mary. He had previously, while attending on the king-consort, Philip, in Spain, married a Spanish lady, who brought him little dower but her beauty, and, what he prized as highly, her affections. Even these possessions he was not destined to enjoy long; for shortly after his accession to the family estate, his lady died, leaving behind her an infant daughter, a sad memento, in the promise furnished by her scarcely dawning charms, of her own excellence and beauty.

About this time Queen Elizabeth ascended the throne; and Sir Edgar, being a Roman Catholic, and opposed to the new order of things, which disqualified Roman Catholics for any state office or employment, was obliged to relinquish his public pursuits, and retire into the contracted circle of private life. But this change of fortune did not shake his allegiance, or induce him to lend any countenance, however limited, to those treasonable conspiracies which the oppressive enactments of the new legislature occasionally excited among the Roman Catholics. So unexceptionable was his conduct, that none of the host of spies which the jealousy of Burleigh, the Lord-Treasurer, and chief minister of Elizabeth, maintained in every part of the country, had ever been able to discover therein the slightest cause for mistrust or suspicion. In his excessive caution, he even denied himself the full exercise of his religion; and many a year passed by, subsequent to the accession of Elizabeth to the throne, without seeing his threshold once marked with the forbidden step of a priest.

Thus he lived secluded for a considerable period; but ultimately, after a lapse of some years, he was joined in his retirement by a Spanish gentleman, named Don Felix di Corva, to whom he was related, through his deceased wife, in the degree of cousin. With this gentleman and his daughter, the fair Evaline, he was residing at the epoch which opens this history.

These particulars were yet unknown to the cavalier who, at great risk to himself, had just rendered Sir Edgar such signal service, and whom the conclusion of our last chapter represented to have fallen in a swoon. On recovering his senses, he found himself disposed in a comfortable bed, in an upper chamber of Sir Edgar’s mansion. A skilful chirurgeon, whose residence was hard by, and whom a mounted servant had brought express to the mansion, stood by his bedside, and Sir Edgar himself was watching anxiously for his recovery. Directly this took place, the chirurgeon, with the promptitude of an alert practitioner, examined the wound in his arm, and, with little difficulty, succeeded in drawing forth the bullet. That effected, he carefully dressed the wound, and the cavalier, at his suggestion, was then left to repose.

The pain of the wound, yielding to the soothing influence of the dressing, which met the heated blood with a refreshing coolness, had materially abated, but still the cavalier could not dispose himself to sleep. Relieved from bodily pain, his mind, which physical suffering had hitherto kept in subjection, began to bestir itself, and led him into such a conflict of thought, as amounted, in the end, almost to distraction. Hour succeeded hour, and yet his eyes, in spite of his utmost efforts to obtain rest, remained unsealed, and his senses alive to the finest perception. Thoughts arose unbidden, and almost against his will, from the deepest recesses of his heart, with recollections of the past, and fears of the future, in which he had to play a most perilous part, all mingled together. Yet this state of mind, if bodily suffering was not its actual source, did spring partly from his wound, and the peculiar excitement attending its infliction, though it was mainly caused by an untimely contemplation of his personal prospects. The same object continued to engage his attention, in every variety of shape, and under every possible aspect, till he was overtaken by exhaustion, and then—and not till then—did he fall asleep.

It was yet early in the morning when he awoke. He was surprised to find, on becoming completely awake, that his wound now gave him no pain; and he was able to rise without inconvenience. A small handbell, which stood on a chair beside his bed, brought an aged domestic to his chamber, and, with the assistance of this individual, he entered on his toilet, and was soon fully attired.

Learning that neither Sir Edgar nor his daughter had yet risen, he left word with the servant, for their information, that he should take a stroll in the park, and return to meet them at the breakfast-table. With this intimation, he descended to the hall, and thence, finding the hall-door open, passed into the park.

As he gazed inquisitively round, his eye fell on a walk that, from its being hedged in by tall shrubs, wore a more secluded look than the others; and, whether for this reason, or because it was the nearest, he bent his steps thitherwards.

He did not pass into the walk without being observed. He had taken but a few paces, when a man’s head, shrouded in a slouched hat, was cautiously raised from the adjacent shrubs, and fixed so as to view him without discovering itself. Whether he was or was not alive to the objects around, this escaped his observation; and probably in an excess of self-confidence, not caring to be observed, or fearing to be molested, he passed along without contracting any suspicion that he was watched and followed.

Thus he proceeded till the walk was crossed, at some little distance from the mansion, by a public footpath, which opened to him on either side a view through the trees. But though the scene here presented had many points of attraction, only one object seemed, by its seizure of his attention, to inspire him with interest. This was the spire of a village church, which was just visible over a wood-crowned hill, or eminence, about a mile distant.

It was a pleasing feature in the landscape, and was calculated, by its upland situation, to attract the attention of any spectator; but the cavalier appeared to regard it with some emotion. As he continued to gaze upon it, his face assumed a graver aspect, and the thoughts which were passing through his mind, evidently with pain, partly found utterance.

“Why not go there now?” he said. “’Tis but a short walk, and I shall be back, if I make no delay, before they come down to breakfast. I will even go.”

With these words, he passed off the park-walk, and struck into the path that, with occasional curvatures, led across the park towards the point he had been viewing. He walked at a smart pace, and shortly arrived at the base of the hill, which presented a less steep ascent, and a more level road, every step. The road, taken from this point, wound through a small wood, now teeming with verdure, and apparently alive with the notes that, as the traveller passed along, broke through the foliage from a hundred birds. Towards the summit the wood broke abruptly off, leaving the country, which was spread around like a garden, open on one side, and revealing a prospect of great extent and variety. Of this, however, we have to deal with only one feature—the church, which stood on an area immediately in front of the wood, on the right-hand side of the road. It was surrounded, according to the immemorial custom, with a burial-ground, enclosed by a sunken wall, which escaped observation till one had almost approached its brink. An old culvert, mantled with moss, opened from the road to the churchyard gate, from which a path led past the church porch to a gate at the further end. Over this the cavalier bent his way, and, with an increased sadness of aspect, passed over the graves to the back of the church, and there came to a stand.

He turned his eyes hastily over the graves around, but only one of the several before him fixed his attention. This was, like the others, covered with green turf; but, unlike the others, it was also marked by two white posts, one at the head, and the other at the foot, which were surmounted by a board, bearing this inscription:—

Hyldibrande Clyffurd,
Martyrre.

The eyes of the cavalier filled with tears as they fell on this expressive memorial, yet there was mingled with his grief, in the contraction of his arched brow, more than a shade of anger. But it speedily subsided, and with a quick step, he passed by the two or three graves that intervened, and, advancing to the one indicated, he threw himself on the turf before the grave-post, and buried his face in his hands.

Several minutes transpired before he looked up; and his face, though still impressed with an air of dejection, was then more composed, and his eyes less clouded. Casting a glance around, he perceived that, though his impression had been otherwise, he was not the only inmate of the churchyard, as a man stood on the path before him who shared in the possession. He was of the middle degree of stature, stoutly built, and apparently, to judge from his already grizzled hair, about forty years of age. His countenance might in early life have been prepossessing; but either from care or dissipation, or perhaps from both, it was now haggard and stern, and calculated more to excite suspicion, than to command respect. There was, too, an unnatural brilliancy in his eye, which, taken in connection with his shaggy brows, and long and neglected locks, that peeped out from the brim of his slouched hat, imparted to his looks an excessive wildness, very far from being becoming. The impressions created by these causes were confirmed, to a certain extent, by his attire, which was slovenly and mean, and betokened no less an acquaintance with poverty, than a habit of neglecting and contemning the most essential duties of the toilet.

Directly this person, on his turning round from the grave, incurred his notice, our young cavalier sprang to his feet, and, with some degree of chagrin, prepared to retire from the churchyard. Before he could carry his design into effect, however, or had even taken a single step towards its execution, the intruder interposed, and, by a few brief words, made him pause.

“What ho! Master Hildebrand, is it thou I have been dogging so close?” he said.

The cavalier, though evidently taken somewhat aback, turned a glance of earnest inquiry on the speaker, and, after a moment’s pause, replied—“Thou knowest me?”

“’Tis more than ten years since I last saw thee,” answered the other, “and thou hadst then, if I mind me truly, scarcely seen thy fourteenth summer, and yet I remember thee right well.”

“By my troth, thy face strikes me familiarly,” resumed the cavalier; “but I need hardly go back so far, methinks, to call it to my remembrance. Thou mayst thank thy horse that he showed me good heels last night, or thou wouldst now, mayhap, have been less at thine ease than thou seemest to be.”

The robber—for he was one of the two robbers who had attacked Sir Edgar de Neville on the previous evening—faintly smiled as he replied,—“And does thy memory bear thee no further back, Master Hildebrand? What the good year! can such a brief time as this, which has barely made thee a man, efface the memories of a whole boyhood? Then, in good sooth, Master Hildebrand, I am not the man to claim thy acquaintance.”

“Hold!” exclaimed the cavalier, springing forward, and seizing the robber by the arm; “thou seemest to know me, and, by my conscience, now I behold thee nearer, thy face doth strike me like an old friend’s; who art thou?”

“When thy poor old father,” answered the robber, with some emotion, “had been burned for heresy, in the reign of scarlet Mary, it was my hands laid his ashes in yonder grave. When your mother was houseless, with shame on her brow, and the pang of sorrow in her heart, it was I gave her a refuge, and held her safe from the hellish Papists. When her saintly heart beat its last, it was my hands laid her there, by the side of your father. Nay, hear me out! I cherished thee, their offspring: such lore as I had knowledge of I taught thee, and would, in time, have had thee better taught; but—”

“You lost me, good Bernard,” said the cavalier, seizing him by the hand.

“Nay, I’ll not clasp thy hand,” said the robber, though at the same time suffering the cavalier to take his hand up. “Thy hand has met the clasp of Papists; and by my sweet Saviour, whom they once made me deny, mine never shall.”

“Nay, good Bernard Gray, this is hardly honest,” said the cavalier, in a tone of remonstrance. “By my faith, I did not seek the Nevilles; I was seeking thee, not them, when they fell unhappily in my way. I did but help the weaker side.”

“Was it any concern of thine?” demanded the man called Bernard Gray, his eyes lighting up with the fiercest enthusiasm. “Am I to be thwarted in my revenges by thee?”

“’Twas not the Nevilles, Bernard, Papists though they be, that burned my father,” said the cavalier.

“Be they not of the devil’s flock?” returned Bernard. “But though it hath cost me my comrade’s life, let it pass now; and tell me, if thou canst, what ill deed of mine led thee to run away from me.”

“Alas! Bernard, I never ran from thee,” answered the cavalier; “I was forced away, and carried off, against my will, to the new plantations. Thence I finally escaped, and, getting on shipboard, became a mariner. I have prospered on the seas, and am now, I thank Heaven, well to do in the world.”

“Forced away, saidst thou?” rejoined Bernard. “This must be honest Master Shedlock’s work.”

“He was secure of my patrimony,” observed the cavalier, “yet would he have made me a slave.”

“And a bastard,” muttered Bernard.

“Even so,” answered the cavalier.

“But he may be foiled yet,” resumed Bernard. “Where art thou staying?”

“With the Nevilles,” replied the cavalier, with some hesitation; “but ’tis only for a day or two. In a week, at furthest, I must be gone.”

“I would rather thou didst not eat the salt of Papists,” said Bernard; “but for a day or two let it be so. I shall be on the watch, and will see thee again, by some means or other, before long. Meanwhile, fare thee well!”

“Farewell, Bernard!” answered the cavalier, extending his hand.

They shook hands, and parted. Bernard took his way towards the neighbouring wood; and the cavalier, without once looking behind, turned to the high-road, and walked leisurely homewards.

Though his recent conversation with Bernard had shown him to be cordially attached to that person, it must not be supposed that this reconciled him, in the least degree, to the unlawfulness and violence of Bernard’s pursuits. What was the precise nature of those pursuits he did not know; but a sufficiency had been revealed to him, in the affair of the previous evening, to bespeak them unlawful, and even to stain them with the crying guilt of blood. This was a melancholy recollection, and, only that past obligations had taught him to look upon Bernard as his best friend, it would have been impossible for him, with the principles he entertained, to have maintained any correspondence with that individual, whatever prospect of ultimate good or advantage it might have held out to himself. But though his dependence on Bernard was almost unalienable, it was for the great debt which he already owed him, and which was bound up with the deepest feelings of his heart, that he continued to regard him as his truest friend. He knew, too, that Bernard had embarked in the enterprise against Sir Edgar Neville more from motives of revenge, which, however mistaken, had sprung originally from a cruel and overwhelming provocation, than from a desire of spoil; and this considerably lessened his detestation, if we may use such a strong term, of his recent outrage.

On his arrival at Neville Grange, Hildebrand Clifford—for so the cavalier was named—found that Sir Edgar and his daughter had now descended to the breakfast-room. By them he was introduced to the third member of the family, Don Felix di Corva, who, as has before been set forth, was a Spaniard by birth, and related to Sir Edgar’s deceased wife in the degree of cousin.

Don Felix was a youthful-looking man, of a slight figure, and about the middle height. His complexion was dark, yet not of that sparkling darkness which we associate with the young faces of his country, but rather of a sallow tint, such as, in many instances, arises from long confinement, or from an uncertain and delicate state of health. His dark eyes, too, though brilliant, were rather subtle than deep, and more indicative of cunning, than denotive of penetration. On a first meeting, however, and to an individual who did not found impressions on the illusive and equivocal testimony of personal appearance, these unfavourable points in his ensemble might have escaped notice; but Don Felix, by an unlucky fate, inherited a large share of the pride and coldness of several generations of ancestors, and these imparted to his manners a reserve and formality, that invited attention to his every defect.

But though his disposition did not generally incline him to form new acquaintances, he received Hildebrand, on this occasion, with every mark of courtesy and respect. After the first interchange of compliments had been despatched, he inquired anxiously concerning the state of his wound, and expressed himself gratified, in common with his two relations, that it promised so fairly to be shortly healed. As the conversation passed to ordinary topics, he seemed, it is true, to shrink more into himself; but his reserve was less noticeable in the general animation, and thus escaped remark.

The meal over, Sir Edgar announced his intention of visiting a neighbouring magistrate, named Shedlock (to whom this history has before had occasion to allude), for the purpose of acquainting him with the particulars of the affair of the preceding evening. Don Felix accompanied him; and Hildebrand and the fair Evaline, who had already become fast friends, were left to entertain each other till their return.

To two persons of their turn of mind this was an easy and most agreeable employment. Hildebrand could tell, not only of strange lands, but of a strange world—of the new hemisphere, which, by the perseverance of a few daring adventurers, had just been opened to the enterprise of Europe, and added to the limits of the earth. Evaline could listen, question, and smile her gratification: the relation of “the dangers he had passed,” both by flood and field, and under every variety of fortune, unfolded to her view a new picture of life and an enlarged idea of human character. On the other hand, Hildebrand, without being vain, or making himself the hero of his own tale, found pleasure in relating and describing those dangers, because, from the interest manifested in her countenance, he saw that “she did pity them.” And thus, with the liveliest sympathies of each engaged, the morning passed quickly by, and they were only admonished of its flight by the return of Sir Edgar and Don Felix.

They now learned that the magistrate whom Sir Edgar had been to visit was not at home when he called. This, however, most unfortunately, was considered of little consequence; and as Sir Edgar and he were not on neighbourly terms, it was determined to send him a report of the late outrage in writing, and there, for the present, to let the matter drop. A report of this kind was accordingly drawn up, and transmitted, with a letter from Sir Edgar, without further delay.

The day wore on without interrupting, by any single incident, the harmonious relations that had begun to subsist between Hildebrand and Evaline. The novelty of first acquaintance subsided, but not its fresh and generous feelings; and they continually presented to each other, by some stray sentiment or expression, the trace of some new quality, or appeared personally to new advantage. Yet their mutual esteem grew upon them unconsciously, and they could not tell, with any accuracy, whence arose those pleasurable sensations with which they almost unwittingly regarded each other.

The day passed lightly off, as did the next, and several succeeding days, and nothing happened to disturb the general harmony. But a few days served to show Hildebrand, on close observation, that at least one of the inmates of the mansion began to regard him with displeasure. The Spaniard, Don Felix, from whatever cause, evidently looked upon him with jealousy and dislike. In vain did Hildebrand, by a marked courtesy, endeavour to overcome this bad feeling; the Spaniard seemed desirous to avoid him, or, when he could not do this, to approach him with suspicion and reluctance.

Several days had elapsed, when one evening, shortly after sunset, Hildebrand found a letter on the table of his bed-chamber, with the superscription of “Captain Hildebrand,” which drew his attention to other matters. The letter requested him to repair that evening to the bottom of the park-walk, where the public footpath, noticed in the early part of this chapter, struck across the park to the village of Lantwell. There, the letter set forth, he would find a friend, who was desirous to commune with him, pursuant to their previous understanding, on a matter of pressing moment.

Though there was little to guide him to such a conclusion, Hildebrand rightly conjectured, from the tenor and spirit of the letter, that his anonymous friend was no other than Bernard Gray; and, therefore, he determined, directly he had run the letter over, to set out for the spot appointed straightway.

The evening was just opening as he entered the walk which led to the public footway. But he was so impatient to join his friend, in accordance with the request of the anonymous letter, that he walked at a smart pace, never thinking that he might arrive at the appointed spot before he would be expected. As he approached the scene of the appointment, one of Sir Edgar’s servants—the same that had assisted him to repel the attack of the robbers—met and passed him; but Hildebrand was so bound up in the enterprise he had in hand, and the thoughts and expectations connected with it, and to which he probably attached more importance than was their due, that he rendered no acknowledgment of the servant’s salute. Some half-dozen paces more brought him to the footway, and he turned out of the walk, and took a few steps into the open area adjoining.

A cluster of shrubs grew by the side of the footway, whence they swept back, with diminished volume, to the park-walk, where they were arrested by the tall trees with which the walk was bounded. They were well adapted to afford any person who sought to avoid observation a secure hiding-place, but they might, nevertheless, have failed to incur the particular attention of Hildebrand, only that a sound just now broke from them, like the tread of a man’s foot on dead leaves, that led him to believe they were not untenanted. Regarding them more attentively, he distinguished the figure of a man, wrapped in a capacious cloak, crawling along between the shrubs; and the next moment Bernard Gray—for he it was—confronted him.

“How farest thou, Master Bernard?” said Hildebrand, extending his hand.

“Indifferently well,” replied Bernard, accepting his proffered hand and clasping it cordially; “and how dost thou?”

“I’faith, well enough in body, Bernard,” answered Hildebrand, “but somewhat ill in mind. Thy note came duly to hand, and, to speak sooth, was but timely; for I must leave these parts to-morrow.”

“Thou know’st my retreat,” said Bernard, “in case thou hadst not heard from me. ’Tis still at the Angel.”

“I should have sought thee there,” replied Hildebrand.

“Dost leave here i’ the morning?” asked Bernard. “I would thou couldst wait, if it be possible, till thou seest me again.”

“I will wait till the even,” answered Hildebrand; “but what is thy purpose?”

“I will tell thee, first, to be of a wary habit, and have a care that thou comest not in the way of Master Shedlock,” returned Bernard. “I have it on good warranty that he knows thou art here.”

“I fear him not,” rejoined Hildebrand. “But what wouldst thou have me stay for?”

“This hoary villain,” said Bernard, “who keeps thee from thy birthright of Clifford Place, which he calls New Bethlehem, hath a wife, who, albeit she holds him in an idolatrous love, hath yet a spice of goodness in her temper; and I would have leave from her to bring thee and her to a parley.”

“Wherefore wouldst thou this?” asked Hildebrand.

“She hath often told me,” resumed Bernard, “when I have mourned thee dead, that she was assured thou wast yet living, and wouldst one day return. She hath told me, too, that thy mother did her a kindness years ago; and if so be that she lived to see thee, she would bear it well in mind. Nay, it is she that bade me warn thee now, in her name, to be upon thy guard.”

“Well, I will be ruled in the matter by thee, Bernard,” observed Hildebrand; “but I cannot stay, mind, longer than to-morrow even.”

“I will remember me so,” answered Bernard.

“There is one thing more I would ask of thee,” pursued Hildebrand. “Hast thou aught to prove that I was born in wedlock?”

“Nothing—not a scrap,” replied Bernard. “There is no record of thy mother’s marriage in the parish-book, though I could have been sworn, at one time, that ’twas duly writ there. The old vicar, Father Day, who wedded her, can only tell of it in heaven; for he and thy father were buried together. There is no living witness but myself.”

“Then I am but a natural,” said Hildebrand, bitterly.

“Despair not! despair not!” cried Bernard, seizing him by the hand. “Who shall quarrel with the ways of Heaven? Hath He not said, by the mouth of His holy prophet, that His ways are not our ways, or His thoughts as our thoughts.”

The passion apparent in the voice of the enthusiast, which was raised above its wonted tone, pervaded his whole frame, and his hand clasped Hildebrand’s with the tightness of a vice.

“May His will be done!” said Hildebrand. “I will see thee again to-morrow, Bernard.”

“At noon, on this spot,” replied Bernard; “and meanwhile be thou on thy guard against Shedlock,—and fare thee well!”

“Farewell, and do thou be guarded also!” said Hildebrand.

The robber made no reply, but, silently waving his hand, turned sharply round, and bent his steps over the footpath towards Lantwell. Hildebrand watched him till he reached the boundary of the park, when he also turned away, intending, though in no mood for society, to return straight to the mansion.

But, looking up, he perceived that the outlet of the footway, where it opened into the park-walk, was occupied by two persons, who, from the animosity which was manifested in their looks, appeared to be disposed to dispute his passage. One of these was the servant whom he had encountered when on his way to meet Bernard; and the other, who appeared to be the more hostile, was his host’s cousin, Don Felix di Corva. He immediately remembered that the servant had been in attendance on Sir Edgar at the time that the Knight had been attacked on the road, and he reflected, on a second thought, that he might now have seen him in correspondence with his friend Bernard, and have recognised the latter as one of the two individuals by whom the attack had been made. This accounted, at the very first view, for the apparent hostility of Don Felix, whom the servant, no doubt, in a moment of rage, had brought to witness the duplicity of the family’s new acquaintance.

Though taken by surprise, Hildebrand was not confounded by this occurrence; and after a brief pause, he advanced towards the two unfriendly observers with perfect confidence.

“A good even to thee, Senhor!” he said, addressing Don Felix.

“Such deeds as thine,” answered Don Felix, sneeringly, “give a savour of vileness to the sweetest even. Hast thou no shame, Sir, that thou canst thus meet mine eye unmoved?”

“I’faith, thou hast a foul tongue, Sir Spaniard,” returned Hildebrand; “and only that thou art kinsman to good Sir Edgar, I would straight clean it with my rapier.”

“Let not this spoil a good disposition,” said Don Felix. “Draw forth thy wondrous rapier; for I denounce thee, in the presence of this menial, as a traitor and a spy!”

A flash of anger mounted to Hildebrand’s cheeks at these words, and his rapier, on which his grasp had already been fastened, leaped from its scabbard on the instant.

“Such terms would provoke an angel!” he said. “Stand on thy guard!”

But the Spaniard, expecting what was to follow, had already done this, and, consequently, he met Hildebrand’s assault with perfect composure. Indeed, as Hildebrand had not expected to find him a skilful swordsman, and assailed him with some impetuosity, he at first had the advantage in the struggle. Directly Hildebrand perceived this, however, he became more collected, and a few moments served to show that, at the least, he was fully equal, if not superior, to his adversary. At length, the latter made a lounge at his side, and Hildebrand, by an adroit stroke, beat his sword out of his hand, and held him quite at his mercy.

“Take up thy weapon, Sir!” said Hildebrand.

With this he turned away, and, thrusting his sword into his scabbard, passed down the walk towards the lower section of the park, which was, from its greater seclusion, more in keeping with the mood that he was disposed to indulge in. The Spaniard did not follow him, and, left to himself, he had leisure to dwell and ponder on the thoughts which his situation was so eminently calculated to inspire.

Reflect how he might, he could not allow that he had done anything wrong. He was disgraced, but undeservedly so; his conduct was free from dishonour, but, whatever he might say, he could not make this apparent. He had been seen in friendly communication with a most questionable character, and he could not explain, with any degree of safety, how his intercourse with him was justifiable. Indeed, if circumstances had even allowed him to render such an explanation, he could not give it any appearance of probability; and his character, instead of being cleared, would only be further degraded by the attempt to retrieve it.

Such were the mortifying reflections that pressed upon the young cavalier, as he hurriedly paced the park-walk. The night drew nigh, and ultimately set in; but, insensible of the influences around, he still indulged his reverie, and continued to pace the same walk, maintaining the same smart step, without once halting.

But the night came on cold, and ultimately, falling into a slower pace, the chill air aroused him. He then turned away from his late walk, and passed leisurely towards the mansion.

It was a dark night, and the trees overhanging the walk made his way still more obscure. He passed freely on, however; and had just come within sight of the lights that now marked the mansion, near the end of the walk, when a blow from a bludgeon, inflicted by some person in his rear, knocked him down, and stretched him senseless on the ground.

CHAPTER III.

The following morning found Evaline de Neville, according to her usual custom, astir at an early hour. Early as it was, however, she was sensible that the other members of the household had been up for some time previous, and that a bustle prevailed in the mansion, which, to say the least of it, was not customary, and might indicate an event of some importance. She longed for the arrival of her waiting-woman, in order that she might draw from her, before she left her chamber, what it was that had so disturbed the general tranquillity of the Grange. But the gentle Martha Follet, as her attendant was named, was not at hand, and Evaline was obliged to restrain her impatience, and so to hurry her toilet, with her own unaided hands, that she might descend at once to the breakfast-room, and acquire the desired information from a more direct source.

She had scarcely entered on her toilet, however, when the fair Martha made her appearance. She was a pretty and modest-looking girl, and, whether from nature, or merely from the habits of her office, of a bearing and presence superior to her station, and to which one might, without risk of contradiction, apply the explicit phrase of “genteel.” She had, to all appearance, scarcely seen sixteen summers, yet her countenance was sad and mournful, and wore a look of anxiety that, if it had been permanent, would have sat ill on a much older person. But although she was now dejected, there was in her large blue eyes, under a dash of tears, a flow of radiance and animation that bespoke anything but melancholy, and, under a propitious influence, it could no doubt be expanded, with more charming effect, into that attractive expression denominated “archness.”

A smile rose to the maiden’s lips as she approached her mistress, but it was a mournful one, and could not conceal the uneasiness, not to say anxiety, that was manifested by her other features. Evaline, surveying her earnestly, observed her dejection at a glance.

“Why, Martha, what is amiss?” she inquired, somewhat anxiously.

“I hope, nothing of moment, dear lady,” replied Martha. “Master Shedlock, the sheriff, is here, and some other strangers; but they can do no hurt to Sir Edgar, I should ween.”

As she spoke, a tear rose to her eyes, and, breaking over the long, silken lashes, trickled down her pale cheeks.

“Master Shedlock here?” cried Evaline, in a tone of mingled surprise and alarm. “What dost thou mean, Martha?”

“Oh, my lady,” answered Martha, fairly bursting into tears, “they have accused Sir Edgar of murder, and he is now a prisoner, in the dining-hall.”

“This almost passes belief,” said Evaline, turning very pale. “Art thou sure they have done this?”

“I heard Master Shedlock affirm it to Sir Edgar himself,” answered Martha. “The crowner’s quest, that sat on the body of the dead robber, have averred that he was murderously slain; and Master Shedlock hath seized Sir Edgar as the murderer.”

“The malignant upstart!” exclaimed Evaline. “But his project, whatever it be, can be easily frustrated, and made to recoil upon himself. Quick, Martha! I must not be absent from my father when he is thus abused.”

Martha, who only waited her mistress’s directions to begin, readily entered on her duties, and Evaline was soon engaged in the various details of the toilet. These arranged, she sprang to her feet, and, bidding Martha attend her, quitted the chamber, and repaired to the dining-hall.

She found the whole household collected in this apartment. These, however, were not the only inmates, nor was it on them that she bestowed her notice. At the head of the long dining-table, which passed down the centre of the room, stood a group of persons who first attracted her eye, and immediately engaged her undivided attention.

The group consisted of her father, her cousin, Don Felix di Corva, and three strangers. Of these last, the principal was one who, even while the spectator was ignorant of his name and worth, inspired respect by his mere presence. His height was full six feet, and thus, by its marked pre-eminence, distinguished him from those around at the very first glance. His manly and vigorous limbs, which his erect posture exhibited to advantage, corresponded with his stature, and were all fitted with exact proportion, and turned with the most perfect grace. But what most prepossessed the spectator in his favour was his countenance, which seemed to claim for him, through the medium of its various features, not only the respect which should be paid to the best qualities of the heart, but the veneration which is due to loftiness of intellect. He was attired in costly habits, fitted to his person with great care, and indicating, by the harmony of their colours, and the simple elegance of their design, the nicest and most refined taste.

By his side stood a person who appeared to greater disadvantage, perhaps, from his proximity to so much excellence. He was a short, spare man; but, for his years—which were somewhat beyond fifty—looked hale and healthy. If the countenance of his companion, the cavalier just described, was his greatest recommendation, that of this individual embraced his most prominent defects. His forehead was low; and, from his wearing his scanty locks closely cropped, looked much lower than it really was: his eyes were small and piercing, and, when they were raised from the table (which was not often), were continually twisting about, like a ferret’s; his nose was long, and sharp, and turned up at the end; and his mouth, especially when compressed, seemed to stretch right across his face, and to form a sort of pitfall, if one may so speak, beneath his high cheek-bones. Unlike his companion, he was attired in grave garments, which were cut with great formality; but, whether from haste, or from habit, had been put on in the most careless manner, and evidently by a hand, whatever actuated it, that deemed any labour of the toilet irksome and unprofitable.

The third stranger was almost equal in stature to the one first described. In all other respects, however, he was decidedly singular, and bore no resemblance to any one person present. His figure was so lean, and, at the same time, so tall, that he looked like a shadow, and scarcely appeared to possess sufficient strength to maintain his own balance. His face was small, and emaciated, and was by no means improved, if it were not greatly disfigured, by the manner in which he wore his long red hair, which was combed down over his forehead, and made his face look little larger than a good-sized boy’s. Like the cavalier before named, he was clad in grave habits, of a close and formal cut, and a fashion long defunct; but, to judge from their scanty dimensions, they were not his own, and he seemed to have been driven into them by main force.

Evaline, after a first glance at his face, recognised this individual as the sheriff’s clerk, and the short, puritanical person at his side, whom we have described at some length before, as Master Shedlock, the sheriff. Who the third person was, or whether he was associated with Shedlock, or was a friend of her father, she could not conceive. But she had not time to form many conjectures on this point; for, just as she gained the head of the table, a few words from Shedlock, addressed to the cavalier in question, made her understand his exact position.

“I am right glad, Sir Walter,” observed Shedlock, in a whining tone, “that thou didst happen to be present when this paper was brought to me. See here!” and he unrolled a scrap of paper which he had in his hand: “the poor murdered Samaritan, whom the sons of Belial call a robber, was held trustworthy by my Lord Treasurer, the light and horn of Israel. This paper was found in his pouch, and is a warranty, beyond all question, of his perfect honesty. Read it, sirrah!” and he handed the paper to his clerk.

The clerk, with a humble reverence, caught up the paper, and, in the same whining tone as his master, read from it these words:—

“The bearer is in my employ.

“W. Burleigh.”

As Evaline heard this announcement, she turned her eyes on her father, and observed that, though strongly marked with indignation, his face betrayed considerable anxiety. She felt her own heart quake, but, in her concern for her parent, she suppressed her personal fears, and affected to appear composed. She then stepped forward to the side of Sir Edgar, and, laying her hand on his arm, made him aware of her presence and vicinity.

“Be under no fear, my child,” said Sir Edgar, perceiving her. “Our innocence, I thank Heaven, can be clearly established, and these worthy gentlemen will then depart satisfied.”

“I hope it may so turn out, Sir,” observed the cavalier called Sir Walter. “But where is the person who, according to thy report, did this man to death?”

“Hast thou sought him, Adam?” demanded Sir Edgar of a servant who stood behind him.

The servant, with some savour of embarrassment, glanced anxiously at Don Felix di Corva, and made no reply. Don Felix, however, came to his rescue.

“He has not been seen since last even,” he said.

“’Tis strange,” remarked Sir Walter, “that he should thus absent himself, at a time when his evidence was sure to be called for, without communicating with his host. But who is he?”

“Thou wilt hardly believe, Sir, that I cannot tell thee,” answered Sir Edgar, with an appearance of confusion; “but I do not even know his name.”

The person called Sir Walter, who had hitherto seemed to regard the investigation with scarcely any concern, looked graver on receiving this answer, and apparently began to think the matter somewhat important. There was a brief pause before he spoke again.

“I fear me,” he then said, addressing Sir Edgar, “we must issue our warrant for thine arrest.”

“Surely, this cannot be!” exclaimed Sir Edgar, indignantly. “The law, be it ever so cruel, durst not sanction such violence as this.”

“Forbear! forbear, malignant!” cried Shedlock. “Art thou not a murderer?”

“Peace, Sir Sheriff!” said Sir Walter. “’Tis not for us to decide on the gentleman’s guilt. He must to prison; but ’tis on mere suspicion.”

“To prison, Sir?” cried Sir Edgar. “This must be jest. An English justice, methinks, durst not commit such a stretch of authority.”

“God forbid I should exceed the law,” answered Sir Walter; “but it bears on thee, as a Papist, with terrible severity. I speak not to offend; but the last bull of the Bishop of Rome, wherein our gracious Queen is termed a usurper, and her Popish subjects, to whom she hath been so gentle a mistress, urged to assail her sacred life, makes us view all Papists with notable jealousy. An emissary of my Lord Treasurer is found dead on the road, and, thou sayest, was slain in attacking thy litter; but even if thy tale be true, he may have attacked thee, not from a desire of spoil (which is anent to all reason and likelihood), but to seize thee in some act of treason. The very person who slew him, for aught we know, may have been a seminary priest, and so already condemned to the gibbet.”

“This is monstrous!” cried Sir Edgar, passionately.

“Peace, malignant!” exclaimed Shedlock.

“Peace thou, Sir Sheriff!” answered Sir Edgar; “and remember, though power may abet thee now, a day of reckoning will come, when thou shalt be called to account.”

“Aha! dost thou threaten me?” replied Shedlock. “Thou thinkest to see the day, then, when the Papist faction shall hold the powers of the state? But surely the Lord will protect his people! O! my trust is in the Lord, and he is mighty to deliver his saints!”

“Enough, Master Shedlock,” observed Sir Walter, impatiently. “’Tis our duty, from what we have heard, to send this gentleman to prison; but we have no warrant to give him any offence.”

Evaline, who had listened anxiously to the whole of the preceding dialogue, heard these last words with a mingled sense of dejection and hope—dejection that her father should be dragged so ignominiously from his home; and hope, abetted by what had passed, that Sir Walter might still be their friend, and leave him at large. Though of a timorous temper, this hope emboldened her, in the pressure and excitement of the crisis, to step somewhat forward, and by a timely intercession, seek to secure Sir Walter’s good offices.

“Is there no resource, Sir,” she said, in a tone of deep anguish, “but my father must go to prison? He is innocent—indeed, indeed, he is!”

Sir Walter looked on her so intently, that he seemed, for the first moment or two, to be reading her very heart; but the fair girl, whom such a gaze would have confounded at another time, was affected too deeply by her sorrow to be moved by his survey. Her dark eyes, which were wont to beam with tranquil joy, were still turned imploringly on his, and her face remained deadly pale, as if the mournful expression that hung over it braced and locked up every feature.

“I do believe thee, lady,” answered Sir Walter, in a kind tone; “but there is, unhappily, no resource. Thy father must to prison, but, if it please thee, thou mayst bear him company to Exeter, and there, at thy convenience, have free access to his presence.”

There was little mitigation of the first sentence in this; but the assurance that she might bear her father company, and, whenever she felt inclined, share the discomforts of his prison, was not without a soothing influence. She thanked Sir Walter for his urbanity; and, Sir Edgar, seeing that he was not actuated by a spirit of persecution, but solely by a sense of duty, which the extraordinary circumstances of the times pressed with particular severity on Roman Catholics, also tendered him his acknowledgments. It was then arranged, that Sir Edgar should immediately repair, under an escort of two constables, to the county gaol, at Exeter; and that instructions should be forwarded to the gaoler, on the responsibility of Sir Walter, to allow him to be freely visited by his daughter and cousin, and to treat him with the utmost respect. This arrangement, so much more lenient than the accused party had been disposed to expect, was not effected with the concurrence of Shedlock; but Sir Walter overruled his opposition, and induced him, by a few peremptory words, to yield acquiescence. Matters having been thus settled, Sir Walter dropped a courteous bow to Sir Edgar and his family, and, breaking through the group around him, passed out of the mansion, followed reluctantly by Shedlock.

Sir Walter did not address a word to his companion till they had mounted their horses, which, on emerging from the mansion, they found waiting them at the door. On setting forward, however, in their way down the avenue to the road, he broke the silence.

“This matter is somewhat serious,” he remarked; “for, besides that Sir Edgar de Neville, by his own acknowledgment, is a Papist, I perceive that he hath some family connections with Spain. These will be greatly to his detriment, I fear me, in the mind of the Queen’s Highness.”

“Ay, verily, her Highness is wise,” answered Shedlock, “and righteous to judge the earth—even as Deborah, with whom was the sword of the Lord, and who was as a scourge to the Philistines.”

“Even so,” rejoined Sir Walter; “and her Highness hath good reason, since the beheading of the Queen of Scots, to regard all Papists with unsleeping jealousy. Nevertheless, I would wager a round sum, an’ I had it idle, that this Sir Edgar will approve himself innocent.”

“Fie on thee now, Sir Walter Raleigh!” exclaimed Shedlock. “Wouldst thou abet Amalek, and lend a buckler to the disturbers of Israel?”

Sir Walter Raleigh—for it was indeed that great man—smiled as he replied: “I’faith, thou art over-zealous, Sir Sheriff. But ’tis a good fault! ’tis a good fault!”

“Over-zealous!” cried the Puritan, raising his small, piercing eyes till only the white was visible; “who can be over-zealous for the Lord? Shall the sword of Gideon, which hath scared the Antichrist in his den, be cast aside, and the ungodly sons of Belial yet muster for the battle?”

“No, no, not so,” answered Sir Walter. “But let us speak of it no more. Thou knowest, Master Shedlock, I sought thee this morning on other business. The matter of the Popish knight was forced on me by thee.”

“And thou hast therein thwarted me,” remarked Shedlock, “to thy very utmost. The Lord forgive thee, Sir Walter Raleigh!”

“I did but put a drag on thy hot zeal,” answered Sir Walter; “and who could do a less thing, Sir Sheriff, for so fair a lady? But I see thy skeleton clerk is coming up with us,” he continued, as, casting a glance in his rear, he discovered the individual specified, mounted on a lean and Rosinante-looking steed, riding after them. “Let us put forward a space, and I will then tell thee, with my customed brevity, what is the project I would engage thee in.”

Shedlock silently complied with this request, and, without further words, he and Sir Walter clapped spurs to their steeds, and rode smartly on. They had now gained the high-road, and, as they passed along, Sir Walter unfolded to his companion, with his promised brevity, the project to which he had alluded, and in which he sought to engage his pecuniary support.

The project referred to was to send out two ships, which were now lying in Topsham harbour, to Sir Walter’s plantations in Carolina, with some labourers and necessaries for the colonists, and a few bales of merchandise, of various descriptions, to traffic with the Indians. On their homeward voyage, the two vessels were to endeavour, by a slight deviation from the direct track, to fall in with the homeward-bound Mexican galleons of Spain, and, in virtue of the letters of marque which they would carry, attack such of them as they could detach from the fleet, and strive to effect their capture. As one of these vessels would be an inestimable prize, Sir Walter had made great exertions to raise means to fit out the expedition, but a considerable sum was still wanting, after all his resources were exhausted, to render the outfit complete. In this dilemma, he proposed to Shedlock, who had advanced money on several of his past adventures, that he should have one half of the profits of the expedition, conditionally that he paid one fifth of the expense; and this was to be secured to him, whatever the profits might be, free of all charge or deduction.

Shedlock did not hesitate long over this proposal.

“An’ I were assured that thy cruizers would capture a galleon, thine offer were not amiss,” he said; “but how know I, if they were to come to quarters, that these ungodly Popish Spaniards will not baffle thee?”

“Have they baffled me aforetime?” demanded Sir Walter.

“No,” replied the Puritan; “but thy cruizers, now left to a deputy, were then led by thyself; and, like David, thy hast been a man of war from thy youth up. Howbeit, an’ thou wilt secure me on thy two ships, by making them mine in case of failure, I will advance thee the money.”

“I will secure thee on one ship,” returned Sir Walter; “and the worth of that is more, in its bare outfit, than the whole sum I require.”

After some bickering, Shedlock, with affected reluctance, but really with much inward satisfaction—for the proposal was more advantageous than he had expected—accepted the offer. He suggested that the conditions of their agreement, with the security agreed on, should at once be transferred to paper, and signed and sealed by each of them, in the presence of an attorney; and he promised, on this being done, that the sum Sir Walter wanted should be immediately forthcoming.

By the time these particulars were arranged, the two horsemen had arrived at Bethlehem Hall, the Puritan sheriff’s residence. On their drawing nigh the mansion, a short, squat woman, who had been aroused by the sound of the horses’ feet, and had come forth from mere curiosity, made her appearance at the abutting porch, for the purpose of ascertaining, by a survey of their persons, who and what they were. Having satisfied her curiosity, she was about to turn into the house again, but Shedlock, happening to glance that way, discerned her retreating figure, and shouted to her to stop.

“Ho, Abigail!” he cried.

“Who calls Abigail?” demanded the woman, turning sharply round.

“Hither, hussey, and see!” returned Shedlock, drawing up before the porch. “Verily thou art a stubborn stock, and stiff-necked, as was Israel of old. Thou must be bent to obedience, woman, by a strong hand, and an outstretched arm. Surely, the spirit shall make me strong to prove thee.”

The woman to whom his rebuke was addressed, and whom the last moment had brought close up with them, was about fifty years of age, and had the appearance of an inferior domestic, or, to use a modern phrase, servant-of-all-work. She was, as has been remarked, a short, squat figure, which time appeared to have strengthened and braced up, rather than impaired. Her features were harsh and rigid, and marked, just below the mouth, on the ball of the chin, with distinct traces of a beard, partly sandy-colour, and partly grey. Her appearance was rendered doubly unprepossessing, on a closer survey, by her mean and slovenly attire; which, not only from its cut, but in its materials, was unsightly in the extreme, and was no way improved by its sundry varied patches of grease and grime.

She did not make any reply to the reproof of Shedlock, but, raising her small brown eyes, she looked him full in the face, and thus waited whatever he might say further.

“Now I see in thee the iniquity of Jeroboam, which caused Israel to sin,” cried Shedlock. “Wilt thou take these beasts, or not?”

The woman sulkily stepped forward, and, with some show of impatience, caught up the bridles of the two horses, and twisted them round her brawny arm. Sir Walter and Shedlock, without taking any notice of her demeanour, then alighted, and passed through the porch into the house.

Crossing the hall within, Shedlock led Sir Walter to another apartment, less capacious in its dimensions, at its further end. Here he invited him to be seated; and Sir Walter, who did not need a second invitation, threw himself into the only chair in the chamber, and prepared to make himself at home.

“Hast thou ever a draught of water in thy reach, Master Shedlock?” he inquired, on thus disposing himself. “By my lady’s hand, I could now look pleasantly on a flowing spring.”

“’Tis well said, Sir Walter,” observed Shedlock. “Water is a good drink; and Jehonidab, the son of Rechab, who drank no wine, shall not want a man before the Lord for ever. I will straight send thee some water, and, if thou wilt wait my return here, I will ride off for Master Hardscrew, the attorney, and have him despatch our business at once.”

“Be it so,” answered Sir Walter. “But I brought a small leather box here this morning, hoping to bear away with me, an’ we came to a settlement, the money thou art to furnish me withal. I would I had it here now.”

“’Tis there,” replied Shedlock, pointing to a leather case, that lay in one corner of the chamber.

Having thus pointed it out, he passed into the hall, and Sir Walter, left to himself, proceeded to possess himself of the leather case. Raising it from the floor, he drew a small key from his vest, and, with a steady hand, applied it to a padlock, which, with the aid of a bolt and small staple, fastened the cover to the body of the case, and unlocked it. The fastenings removed, he opened the case, and drew forth a small pipe, made of cherry-stick, with a bowl at the end, or, rather, at one end, made of burned clay. A little bag, that had been lying under the pipe, in the bottom of the case, furnished him with some tobacco, which he first loosened well with his fingers, and then placed in the bowl of his pipe. This done, he drew a small tinder-box from the case, and, with the aid of its accompanying flint and steel, quickly procured a light. Having ignited his pipe, he shut up the leather case, and returned to his seat.

Meantime, his puritanical host, wholly bent on business, passed quickly across the hall, intending to set off straightway for lawyer Hardscrew. As he drew near the porch, he encountered his clerk, who, having ridden at the utmost speed of his horse, had, at last, after several stumbles, got safe home again.

“Zedekiah,” said Shedlock, looking at him steadfastly, “hie to Abigail for a flagon, and take a draught of water to Sir Walter Raleigh, in the blue room yonder. Shall we not give the stranger a cup of water, that he may gladden his heart withal?”

Zedekiah Truman—for such was the name of the sheriff’s clerk—heard this order with some degree of dismay, but he did not venture to render his hesitation manifest. He looked upon Sir Walter Raleigh, of whose great learning and wondrous ingenuity such wild stories were everywhere current, to be little better than a magician, who, by some unlawful and prohibited means, maintained an intercourse with the spirits of darkness; and as Zedekiah regarded the devil, if not all his works, with an unconquerable aversion, he naturally felt no way inclined to venture alone into his presence. Necessity, however, left him no alternative, and he reluctantly proceeded on the errand intrusted to him.

Having procured the water, he retraced his steps, full of grave reflections on the iniquity of magic, and the danger of holding any intercourse, of whatever nature, with the great source of evil. He was confirmed in this opinion on reaching the hall when a strong smell of burning, emitted by Sir Walter’s pipe, assailed his nostrils. Still he pursued his way, and, though not without hesitation, passed on to Sir Walter’s chamber, and threw open the door.

He cast one glance at the centre of the room, and there, to his utter amazement, he beheld Sir Walter seated quietly in an easy-chair, emitting from his mouth volumes of flame and smoke. Not doubting that this was some devilish enchantment, the terrified Puritan, with a trembling grasp, raised up the large flagon which he had in his hands, and threw the whole of its contents right into Sir Walter’s face. Then, with a cry of despair, he turned hastily about, and made off.

CHAPTER IV.

Besides Zedekiah Truman and the maiden Abigail (for Abigail had never been married), the establishment at Bethlehem Hall, of which we have been recently treating, embraced another individual, who, being Master Shedlock’s wife, might with propriety be considered its mistress. But if Dame Shedlock was such in name, or, to take a higher ground, by right, a very limited acquaintance with the economy of the Hall, on occasions of a general nature, would show that she was not so in fact. So far, indeed, from governing others, she was scarcely mistress of herself, but was held responsible by her lord for whatever she did, and was continually being subjected, according to the turn of his capricious temper, to all those mortifications and trials, which too often form the portion of the uncomplaining wife.

Few women could have borne this treatment with the meekness and patience that were manifested by Dame Shedlock. Her equanimity was, to all appearance, above the reach of those circumstances which influence most tempers, and was founded on qualities too sterling to be corrupted, and too solid to be undermined. She met insult, however gratuitous, with the most calm endurance; she submitted to degradation, without a murmur; and, what was stranger still, as opposed to the strongest principles of our nature, she repaid the tyranny of her husband with the deepest and most absolute love.

It is a difficult thing to tear the affections from one who, in times past, has been their stay and centre; and it may be doubted whether the heart can ever wholly alienate a once-cherished object; but that love, which comprehends the softest feelings of our nature, bound together by the most tender memories, should be proof to a continuous succession of outrageous assaults, and survive all fellowship and reciprocity, seems almost impossible. Yet Dame Shedlock, in her attachment to her husband, realised this seeming anomaly. After a life of ill-usage, she still clung to him as fondly, as devotedly, and even as passionately, as on the day that, glowing with maidenly confusion, she first surrendered to him her hand and heart. He might be a bad man; she might know that, in his dealings with the world, he often committed very unscrupulous acts; but yet her bosom found him an excuse, or awarded him a justification. Such a deed might appear evil in her eye, but it had, no doubt, a sanction in the practice of the world, or was called for and justified by the circumstances of the times. She would not acknowledge that the absolute possessor of her most precious sympathies, on whom she reposed her happiness here, and her wishes of hereafter, was stained and defiled with the hideous colours of guilt: even if he were so, it was not by her, the wife and partner of his bosom, that his actions were to be questioned, or his conduct condemned. In short, despite his ill-usage, and the groveling selfishness of his nature, which he seemed to pride himself in making apparent, she loved him; and this explains, in one word, every trait in her conduct that appears singular or unnatural.

If Dame Shedlock had been a mother, her love for her husband might, from the division of her affections, have been less stable, and more alive to those slights and provocations, which fall on the heart with a depressing influence. Less possessed by her love, she would have viewed his character more closely: she would have deemed his affectation of sanctity, which she now considered pure and genuine, sheer hypocrisy, and his violations of right, oppressive and sinful. His selfishness, dissimulation, and avarice, however disguised, would have deprived him of her respect; and his tyrannical disposition would probably have provoked her contempt. But, secluded from all society, having no channel but him for the sweetest effusions of her amiable and gentle nature, her love was without restraint, and she could see in his heart no shade of evil, or trace of blemish.

It is not always that an individual’s temper, as far as regards its principal characteristics, may be seen in the face; but in Dame Shedlock’s, it was written distinctly. Her complexion was dark, and, though she might be in her fiftieth year, her hair, where it was visible, was still dark also, yet not unmingled with grey. Her eyes were of a deep brown, and amply answered, by their quiet and subdued light, for the evenness of her disposition, and the docility of her nature. The impression they created was confirmed, on a closer survey, by her other features, which, though not of a classic mould, were regular and harmonious, and were more charming from their sweet melancholy, chastened by the soft light of resignation and endurance, than they would have been in the full glow of mere youth and beauty.

Such was the person who, a few minutes previous to the period that closed our last chapter, while Shedlock and Sir Walter Raleigh were yet in the avenue, passed into the pleasure-ground that surrounded Bethleham Hall, and proceeded down a secluded side-walk. For some few minutes she walked leisurely along, without sustaining any interruption, or, indeed, encountering or seeing a single individual. But after a while, she came to a spot where, pushed out by a small shrubbery, the path swept close up to the park-fence, in which there was a blind gate, communicating with the lane beyond. Though she was within a pace or two of the gate, she did not observe that it was slightly ajar; and it was not till she came abreast of it, and, thinking she heard a rustling noise in that quarter, turned an inquiring gaze thitherwards, that the fact incurred her notice. Her gaze was still turned on the door, when it was suddenly pushed open, and a man, whom it had served as a place of ambush, presented himself at the aperture.

She gave a slight start as she glanced in the man’s face, and then turned an anxious gaze around her, as if to ascertain, by this hasty survey, whether any other person was within sight. But the view was, from the curve in the walk, very limited, and in neither direction extended more than a dozen yards, when it was lost in the sweep of the adjacent shrubbery. So far as her glance reached, however, there was no person in view, and, satisfied of this, she turned her eye on the man again.

“Bernard Gray, what wouldst thou?” she inquired.

“I knew thou wouldst come this way,” answered the person addressed, and who, it will be inferred, was no other than our friend Bernard, “and I waited here to see thee. Since I was with thee last, I have been in talk with young Clifford, and warned him to be wary.”

“And he has gone?” said Dame Shedlock.

“That has he not,” replied Bernard, “though he is to go, an’ no ill happen him, this even.”

Dame Shedlock turned pale on hearing these words. “An’ he be not gone already,” she said, “he may not go at all. Thou shouldst have urged him to depart incontinently.”

“He gave my warning no heed,” returned Bernard. “He hath no fear of peril.”

“Is he so valiant?” inquired the dame.

“Faith, there be none more so,” answered Bernard. “’Twould do thy heart good, lady, to see what a brave cavalier is he now. I prithee, take pity upon him, and lend him thy countenance.”

“What wouldst thou have me do?” demanded Dame Shedlock.

“Though knowest, lady,” replied Bernard, “that these broad lands, though they be vested in thy husband, be his rightfully; and——”

“’Tis false!” cried Dame Shedlock, with much passion. “But begone! begone! I’ll no more with thee!”

“But one moment!” implored Bernard.

“Hush, for thy life!” said the dame: “some one comes, and the step, methinks, is his.”

“I’ll seek thee again to-morrow, then,” said Bernard, in a low tone.

Thus speaking, he stepped into the lane, closing the door behind him. Almost at the same moment, Shedlock—for the dame was right in her conjecture—made his appearance in the walk, within a few paces of where they had been conversing.

This was a dilemma of which the dame had had no expectation. Already disturbed by her conversation with Bernard, the sudden approach of her husband, who looked on Bernard as an enemy, took her perfectly aback, and her generally-serene face presented the most lively traces of embarrassment and confusion.

Shedlock observed her discomposure instantly, and its inconsistency with her usual demeanour, which was so uniformly placid, invoked in his mind the most singular suspicions.

“Who hath been here?” he demanded, on coming up with her.

Before the dame could reply, he turned to the contiguous gate, and, drawing it open, looked out on the lane. There was no one there, and, stepping back, he pushed the gate close again, and turned to the dame once more.

The latter person had by this time recovered herself; but her present composure, though almost perfect, and quite relieved of every trace of confusion, did not lead him to forget her previous bearing. Indeed, it rather served, from the breadth and prominence of the contrast, to attach to his suspicions some shade of confirmation.

“Woman!” he cried, in a voice husky with rage, “what doth this mean? Who hath been here, I say?”

“Dost think I would wrong thee, then?” answered the dame. “No! no!—not for my life!”

“Who hath been here?” demanded Shedlock, seizing her by the collar of her bodice.

“Nay, never hurt me, husband!” replied the dame, shrinking a little. “Only say thou wilt forgive me—say thou wilt not be angered, and I will tell thee.”

“Woman! I have a mind to dash thee down,” rejoined Shedlock, giving her a slight shake, “and to trample thee under foot, as the angels of darkness trample on Judas. But I will forbear, and the Spirit, through the mercy of the Lord, shall hold me back. Who hath been here?”

His small ferret-like eyes glared fearfully on her face, and there was a red flush on his brow, just beneath the brim of his hat, that made the dame tremble. Still she resolved to tell him the truth, though she knew that, in his present mood, it would draw down upon her head the full fury of his anger.

“Do me no harm, husband!” she said. “’Twas the man Bernard Gray.”

“Ah!” cried Shedlock.

“Indeed, dear, I sought him not,” said the dame, earnestly. “He was standing here, as I came up; and I gave him but a cold welcome.”

“What sought he here?” demanded Shedlock.