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. III.

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

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

CONTENTS

HILDEBRAND.

CHAPTER I.

It was on the same evening that closed the preceding chapter of this history, and while the dusk was hardly yet apparent, that the maiden Abigail passed up the principal staircase of the mansion of Master Shedlock, known as New Bethlehem, to a chamber on the upper floor.

Whatever might be her reason, she affected to step forward with excessive gentleness; but her shoes, being of the very strongest material, and hobnailed withal, were not the best adapted to give her purpose effect, and, in her way upward, her foot made a heavy stamp at every step. But, judging from the expression of her face, she appeared to be insensible of this, and to consider that her progress was unattended by any intimation of her tread.

On reaching the summit of the stairs, she hastened along the passage beyond, on which the stairs opened, to a neighbouring door, leading to an inner chamber. She opened the door with great caution; and after a moment’s pause, as if for the purpose of listening, made a step forward, and passed into the chamber.

It was a bed-room, and, from various appearances around, was evidently occupied by an invalid. Indeed, such a person was, on a close survey, observed to be in possession of the bed; and her peculiar head-gear announced her to be a woman. It was Dame Shedlock.

That poor lady’s ardent powers of endurance had been overwhelmed, at last. And what powers, of mere earthly constitution, could bear up unshaken against one uninterrupted tide of oppression and persecution? Since she last appeared on the stage of our history, her trials had, in point of bitterness and violence, even increased, and she was now subject to even more galling mortifications. The temper and habits of the hypocritical Shedlock had become more tyrannical than ever, and, as his passive and uncomplaining victim, she was the only object on which his spleen could fall.

We are told, that “the wicked shall flourish,” not only in a great degree, but with such marked and decided vigour, that their progress shall be compared to the rapid growth and prosperity of “a green bay-tree.” We see this remarkable declaration so effectively and exactly fulfilled, on looking out on the open stage of the world, that, if borne well in mind, it must lend the troubled heart the most soothing assurance. If the wicked are so to flourish here, how inconceivably happier must be the portion of the good man, relying on perfect equity, and love beyond the apprehension of human sense, in the world to come! The future reward is promised as surely, as decidedly, and as distinctly, as the present advantage; and we have, even in a temporal respect, a more attractive incitement to virtue, than all the glory and riches of the world can insure to vice.

But, in our progress onward, we often see the man of crime, after a long course of prosperity and success, suddenly checked in his career, and overwhelmned with disaster even in the present life. His subtlety, his craft, his cunning, and his shrewd calculations, on which he had relied with such advantage hitherto, all at once fail of their end; one after the other, his schemes and pursuits bring him only disappointment; and events which fall with lightness on others, and the general effect of which is scarcely noticeable, act with surprising accuracy to work his utter ruin.

Shedlock’s course of uninterrupted prosperity had seemed to meet a sudden and sensible check. From the moment that, in the manner described heretofore, he had sought to effect the destruction of Sir Edgar de Neville, his fortunes had taken a new turn, and had brought him nothing but crosses. Instead of advancing in favour of the minister, which he conceived that his show of zeal would certainly prefer him to, and which, indeed, was the expectation that led to his interference, the part he had taken in the affair of Sir Edgar appeared to have given offence; and he had, moreover, the mortification to see the prosecution quashed, and Sir Edgar cleared from all imputation. His vexation at this result was increased, if possible, by other incidents. Sir Edgar had hardly returned to the Grange, when one of the new functionaries called concealers, appointed to investigate suspected tenures, challenged him to show by what right and authority he held possession of Clifford Place. Although, after considerable trouble, he appeared to satisfy the official of the integrity and validity of his possession, the fact of his tenure being even questioned, when no claimant to it seemed to have come forward, showed him to be a marked and doubted holder. Some serious losses in his commercial pursuits, from which he had expected to reap an enormous profit, happened about the same time; and, altogether, his affairs assumed a very gloomy and unpromising aspect.

Shedlock’s temper was not of the kind that would be subdued by these reverses. The adverse influence that they involved, instead of arousing in him the voice of remorse, only rendered him more stubbornly vile; and he became more morose, violent, and tyrannical at each visitation. His bitter temper was a torment to all who were any way connected with him; at home, it plagued his household; abroad, it haunted his tenants; but more than all, sleeping or waking, day or night, it dealt its fullest violence on his loving and patient wife.

Dame Shedlock sank under it fast. Long suffering, through years of unmitigated tribulation, had already introduced disease into her delicate frame; and increased persecution gave it strength and root. As it continued to press upon her, she gradually grew feebler and more feeble; and ultimately, yet without drawing from her one complaint, or any way impairing that abject love and submission which she invariably rendered its heartless minister, it reduced her to the melancholy and cheerless helplessness of a sick-bed.

At the moment that it has been deemed necessary to recall her to the stage of our history, she was lying awake, yet perfectly still, with her eyes turned towards heaven. Her general complexion was deadly pale; but on either cheek, crowning the surrounding whiteness, there was a bright spot of red, looking more like fever than genuine bloom. Her eyes, too, though wearing a serene expression, sparkled like fire, and, on a close inspection, seemed to ache with their own light.

She retained the rapt look described for a full minute, when, hearing a step approach, she turned her glance towards the door, and discerned Abigail. That eccentric domestic, having continued her progress, had by this time made good way, and come close to the bed. She caught the glance of her mistress on the instant; and in a manly voice, and with her accustomed brevity, but more kindness than her face promised, proceeded to explain what had brought her to her presence.

“The man’s come,” she said.

“What man?” asked Dame Shedlock, anxiously. “Ah! I remember me! Thou meanest Bernard Gray?”

Abigail nodded her head, affirmatively. “And where is he?” faltered the dame.

“A-reading the Word,” answered Abigail.

“The Lord lend him light!” ejaculated the dame, in faint accents. “Be thou watchful, Abigail; and bring the man hither!”

Abigail, merely nodding her head in reply, hereupon turned away, and stepped slowly from the chamber. In a few minutes she returned, and, in the same cautious manner, ushered into the room the already announced visiter.

Bernard Gray—for it was no other—did not wear his usual aspect. There was, indeed, still a degree of sadness on his brow; but his air of profound melancholy, which formerly he presented at all times, and which was far from becoming, had quite disappeared. Moreover, his eyes, if regarded closely, revealed a softer expression, and, in their more natural and subdued light, looked kindlier and more gentle. An improvement was also visible in his attire. Though his habits, if examined attentively, were still very unpretending, they were arranged with more taste, and had evidently been put on with some regard to appearance. For all this, he still looked mournful; and as he entered fairly into the room, and observed the position of Dame Shedlock, the expression of his face became heavier, and seemed even more sad and gloomy.

He waved Abigail to retire after he had glanced at the bed; and that ancient maiden, though somewhat sulkily, accordingly passed out, and left him alone with her mistress.

Having carefully closed the door, Bernard turned round, and advanced silently to the bed.

Dame Shedlock, though still lying down (for, as there was no drapery to the bed, the view was uninterrupted), had kept her eyes upon him from the first moment of his entry, and, to all appearance, without being the least disturbed. As he drew nigh, however, her serenity gave way, and she became visibly agitated.

“No! no!” she said, in faltering accents: “not now! I cannot tell thee now!”

“Well, well, mistress, be it anon, then,” answered Bernard, mildly. “Whatever it affect, give thyself no care, I prithee. How is it with thee?”

“Grievous! grievous!” rejoined Dame Shedlock. “I am dying!”

“Alack!” exclaimed Bernard.

“’Tis even so,” resumed the dame. “The Lord calls me; and must not I, his servant, give his voice good heed? So be it; for as grass we are green in the morning, and at night are cut down, and withered.”

Bernard’s eyes brightened. “Set thy lamp in order, then,” he said, “that, when the bridegroom comes, thou be not like the foolish virgins, but have thine oil ready.”

“’Twas for that I bid thee hither,” replied the dame, faintly. “And, verily, I must despatch, while life yet serves me, or I shall be as the condemned of the parable.”

She paused here; and the short, strained breaths which she exhaled, with her increased paleness, showed that she had exerted herself beyond her powers. After a brief interval, however, during which Bernard regarded her anxiously, but made no oral observation, she appeared to recover herself, and resumed.

“The boy—the man, now,” she said—“Hildebrand Clifford; ’twas of him I would speak.”

“He is well,” answered Bernard, “and, as I am advised, in England—in Lantwell.”

Though she had hitherto seemed quite helpless, his auditor, on hearing this unexpected intelligence, abruptly raised herself in the bed, and gazed doubtingly in his face.

“In Lantwell?” she said.

“Even so,” returned Bernard.

“Then, can I not ease my poor conscience,” observed the dame, feebly wringing her hands. “No! no! ’twere a greater sin to wrong him, old and lonely as I shall leave him.”

“Yet wrong not thyself, or thy precious soul,” suggested Bernard, with his wonted sternness.

The dame shuddered.

“Take comfort!” said Bernard, more kindly.

“I have it!” resumed the dame, eagerly, yet in subdued accents. “An’ I give thee that will establish young Clifford’s rights, wilt thou suffer him, who is now old, and near his time, to hold them till he depart?”

“By my soul, will I!” exclaimed Bernard. “But what canst thou give me will do this?”

“I will tell thee,” answered the dame; “yet first swear the offence shall be held secret!”

“I swear it, by the Lord!” said Bernard, devoutly.

“Old Master Clifford, as thou knowest, held his dame in lawful wedlock,” replied the dame, “but there is no record thereof in the parish book. The page that did record it was torn out.”

“Ah!” cried Bernard.

“Forbear a while,” pursued the dame. “’Twas torn from the book by—by him. The Enemy urged him to ’t; and in an evil hour, when the Lord had forsaken him, he sought to destroy it.”

“Is it lost?” cried Bernard vehemently.

“’Twas in the blue chamber,” continued the dame, in a less distinct and more tremulous voice; “and as he raised it to the lamp, the man Zedekiah, on some errand, called him to the door. The Lord put it into his heart to lay the folded paper on the table; and while he conferred with Zedekiah at the door, I caught it up, and placed in its stead one of no import. The change passed, and he burned the false paper.”

Bernard breathed more freely. “The Lord reward thee!” he said.

The dame, breathless and exhausted, paused a space, when, with a convulsive effort, but in a very low and agitated tone, she resumed.

“I hold the right one still,” she said.

And, as she spoke, she raised her hand, and pointed tremulously over her shoulder. With this last effort, all her strength, if such it might be called, was exhausted, and she fell gasping to her pillow.

Bernard, who had been watching her intently, and was now greatly alarmed, sprang forward a pace, and sought to raise her head in his arms. But before he could accomplish his purpose, the chamber-door, which was right opposite to where he stood, was suddenly thrown open, and Abigail rushed in.

“The master’s coming!” she said to Bernard.

“He comes at an ill time,” answered Bernard. “I fear me, the mistress hath swooned.”

“An’ he see thee, he will kill her,” cried Abigail, hastily stepping up to him.

Thus speaking, she glanced anxiously round the room; and her eye, after running over several objects, rested on the door of a closet, or wardrobe, behind the bed-head. Her sulky and ill-natured-looking features, which had just before appeared so anxious, contracted a broad grin as she discerned this covert; and she pointed it out to Bernard.

“Get thee in there,” she said. “I will look to her.”

Albeit, as the approaching step of Shedlock was now audible, there was no time to be lost, Bernard still paused to glance anxiously at the face of Dame Shedlock; and it was not till Abigail again warned him of his peril, and the greater peril in which he involved the dame, that he turned to his retreat. Scarcely had he entered the wardrobe, and closed the door in his front, when Shedlock made his appearance.

Abigail, no longer apprehensive of a surprise, had just placed one of her arms under the dame’s neck, and was gently raising her head, when Shedlock entered. The dame, it now appeared, was not in a swoon, and, as Abigail raised her head, and thus facilitated her respiration, she looked up. There was, however, no sense in her gaze, or thought in her aspect.

“Art better?” asked Abigail.

“I have it safe!” cried the dame, hysterically. “I have it safe! He burned it not!”

Shedlock, who had paused at the chamber-door, here sprang forward, and rushed to the side of the bed.

“What says she?” he demanded. “Verily, her name is Legion, and she hath a devil.”

He sought to push Abigail aside as he spoke, but that individual, to his great surprise, turned round on him, and maintained her position unmoved.

“What wouldst thou?” she inquired.

“Back, woman!” cried Shedlock; “and tempt me not!”

“Back thou, man!” answered Abigail. “Seest thou not she be distract?”

“Verily, an’ thou move not aside, the Lord shall make thee as chaff in my hands, and as beaten stubble,” said Shedlock, threateningly.

“Go to!” cried Abigail. “Thou art as the Levite in the parable, which left the wounded man on the way-side.”

“I will have thee burned for a witch,” cried Shedlock, furiously, and, at the same time, pushing violently against her.

Abigail, throwing all her strength into her hold, caught him by both his arms, and, apparently with but little effort, thrust him bodily back.

“An’ thou be not gone, I will noise thy doings abroad,” she said. “She will be dead anon; and, verily, her ghost shall haunt thee, like thine own shadow, all the days of thy life.”

Shedlock’s pale visage quivered at these words. Though he was an atheist, and believed neither in God nor hereafter, but conceived that the beautiful world, and all its perfect and universal animation, with the thousands of occult worlds above, were the work and offspring of chance, his soul was bound in the grossest superstition. He fairly shuddered at the horrible image with which Abigail had threatened him; and though his rage, in the main, was no way abated, it was not equal to his base fear, and he shrank back appalled.

“Take off the curse, and I will be gone,” he said.

“Begone, then!” exclaimed Abigail; “and repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand!”

The hypocrite, with his heart burning with malice, yet afraid to speak a word, turned slowly away, and passed in silence from the chamber.

Meantime, his helpless and suffering wife, left to herself, had remained in the same state of delirium, and continued to give utterance to her incoherent ravings. When he had passed out of sight, Abigail turned to her; but quickly discerned, from her haggard and unconscious aspect, and the burning fever of her eyes, that she could afford her no relief. She then turned to the neighbouring wardrobe, and, drawing open the door, called forth Bernard.

“Get thee hence, now,” she said; “and be wary, on thy way out, that he sees thee not. I must tarry here with her.”

“I would I could speak a word more with her,” answered Bernard. “I covet some paper she told me of, of great import, that she hath hidden away.”

“Hear’st thou not how she raves?” returned Abigail. “Get thee gone!”

Bernard, whether because he saw that his staying would be of no avail, or feared to offend Abigail, said no more; but, though with evident reluctance, turned silently away. Softly crossing the chamber, he passed into the passage without; and thence, after a cautious reconnoissance, proceeded to the staircase, and descended to the porch without being observed.

Abigail remained in the chamber with Dame Shedlock. After a time, the dame, though she seemed to be still insensible, ceased to rave; and Abigail ventured to leave her for a while, and descend to the kitchen for a light. When she returned, she found the dame lying in the same position; but, to her mind, looking less unconscious, and more at ease. Seemingly much pleased at this, the eccentric servant, as a precaution against accidents, set the light down on the hearth, and then threw herself into a contiguous chair. She had sat thus but a short time, when she fell into a profound sleep.

CHAPTER II.

It was broad day when Abigail awoke. On arousing herself, she found that the dame, whom she had left so disordered, looked now less feverish, and was locked in repose. Apparently much gratified by a glance at her aspect, she rose to her feet; and proceeded, with the stealthy step which she had all along maintained, but which was not so noiseless as she supposed, to make her egress from the chamber.

On reaching the passage without, she softly closed the door of the chamber, and descended straight to the kitchen. There, preparatory to other household arrangements, she shortly kindled a fire, and set everything in order for an early breakfast.

Various and arduous were the duties that she had to discharge. To scrub here, and sweep there—to rub this, and wash that, employed her continually; and a not very encouraging feature in her performance, on a close examination, was, that it appeared to have little effect, and that, after undergoing a very extensive process of cleansing, everything appeared to be quite as dirty as at first.

But she was clearly not aware that her industry was so unprofitable. A much more important idea, indeed—and even a more singular one—engaged her attention. She felt convinced that she was bewitched!

Several things, it must be owned, had gone wrong during the morning. In the first place, she had had some difficulty, beyond what she could reasonably have looked for, in kindling a fire; secondly, she had afterwards cut her hand; and thirdly, in washing the earthenware, she had nearly broken a drinking-mug. Now, philosophers have discovered, among other great and mysterious truths, that there can be no effect without a cause; and though Abigail was not well read in philosophy, or in anything else (being unable to read at all), her shrewd mind acquired this information instinctively. She thus became sensible, on consideration, that her unlucky mishaps were not spontaneous, but were the effect and issue of some unseen cause.

What could it be? Some people would have thought, on a superficial review of the subject, that her difficulty in kindling the fire arose from the fact of its being carelessly laid; that she had cut her hand through having misguided the knife; and that she had nearly broken the drinking-mug, which was her crowning mishap, because she had had but a slight hold of it. But Abigail was not so simple. She knew, from experience, a teacher not to be slighted, that the prevailing influence was of a higher origin; and she hastened to search around for some trace of its presence.

A brief investigation distinctly elicited its malignant source. It lay on the shelf of a neighbouring cupboard, in one corner; and presented to her doubting eyes, on their very first glance, the fragment of an onion!

Who has not heard what a tide of misfortune the retention of this esculent, in a broken state, will bring on a household? Abigail knew its evil effects but too well. But how to counteract them, without some way injuring herself (which she feared that her personal interposition would do), was a matter which she was not so promptly or easily resolved on.

At last, she determined to seek Zedekiah; and endeavour, by a little excusable cajolery, and the exercise of those arts which are the chief attribute of her sex, and of which Zedekiah was an impassioned admirer, to prevail on him to remove the infectious vegetable. Although he had not yet appeared in the kitchen, she doubted not that he was up; and the stable, over which he slept, seemed to her to be the place where she was most likely to find him.

Zedekiah had, indeed, been up for some time, and, as she supposed, was really engaged in the stable. But far other thoughts than his horses engrossed his attention—more melancholy functions than a groom’s, or even a clerk’s, claimed his administration.

The great aim of his ambition had at length been attained, and, in a few days more, he was to officiate at a funeral, not as an humble follower, but in the honourable capacity of chief mourner. How to qualify himself for this distinguished post was a matter which had pressed on his consideration the whole of the previous night. On rising in the morning, his first thought, in pursuing the melancholy theme, prompted him to enact the contemplated obsequies at home, and thus prepare himself for his part by a rehearsal. Accordingly, he caught up a spade, and proceeded, with much jocularity of aspect, to dig a hole in the stable-yard, in the form of a grave. This preliminary measure achieved, his next step was to provide a coffin and pall; and an old broom, with a tattered horse-cloth, which lay in one corner of the stable, furnished him with both those auxiliaries. But here he was brought to a stand: he had provided the funeral furniture; his arrangements for interment, as far as referred to personal particulars, were complete; but there was no mournful bearer to carry the broom to its grave!

While Zedekiah was meditating on the deficiency, the grave but impassioned Abigail, marked with the grime of her avocations, made her appearance in the stable. Here was a bearer for him every way suitable. Zedekiah, transported with joy, greeted her eagerly, and at once explained to her how he was situated. But it required all his rhetoric, supported by his entreaties, to remove her objection to undertake the office he proposed to her; and it was not till he consented, in requital, to aid her in the matter of the onion, which she considered far more weighty and important, that he was able to win her to his purpose.

Her compliance once gained, the broom and horse-cloth, arranged in due form, were raised to her shoulder, and she set out for the grave. Zedekiah followed, “with solemn step and slow,” and with a dirty napkin, as a substitute for a handkerchief, raised to his lugubrious visage.

A funereal pace being maintained, the mournful procession progressed but slowly; but as the grave, though on the extreme confines of the yard, was no great distance from the stable, it shortly arrived thither. As it drew up at the brink of the grave, Zedekiah’s grief became excessive; and several minutes more elapsed, to the manifest irritation of Abigail, before he could finally resolve himself to consign the poor broom to its last home. Then, having stripped it of the horse-cloth, he lifted it carefully from Abigail’s shoulder, and lowered it into the grave.

The solemn moment of final separation had now arrived; and Zedekiah, to all appearance, felt it severely. But after one passionate outburst, his composure gradually returned; and he proceeded, in a whining tone, and with a stern expression of countenance, to utter his last farewell, in these words:—

“Ashes to ashes,
And dust to dust!
If death don’t keep thee,
The devil must!”

The funeral thus despatched, the afflicted chief mourner, pursuant to the arrangement already set forth, was obliged to tear himself away from the grave, and enter on the design enforced on him by Abigail. Resolved to carry that design into execution, he forthwith accompanied Abigail, who was heartily weary of mourning, and glad to escape, to the kitchen, and prepared to order himself as she should direct.

But both he and Abigail were unexpectedly interrupted in their project. As the latter was deliberating, according to her custom on such occasions, how they could best proceed, they were confounded by the entrance of Shedlock.

His face was as pale as death; his eyes were almost starting from their sockets; and he appeared, at first sight, to be hardly able to stand. His two domestics gazed on him with a feeling of awe; and the communication that he was about to make to them, and which we shall have to record hereafter, was not calculated to compose them.

CHAPTER III.

Providence always watches over its votaries. Asleep or awake, the heart that strives against evil, whether in its own erring nature, or the world around, may lean safely on its presence, and depend on its protection. And, if we view the matter truly, we shall find, on reflection, that we all continually recline on this influence, even when we seem to act under our own prompture. Pause on the unfathomable mystery of our nature! The muscular frame, glowing with health—the wonderful mechanism of the senses—the sight, that reflects on the hidden fabric of the mind, which knows not its own seat, the form and pressure of outward images—the hearing, that conveys to the same untraceable centre the slightest sound—the memory, that records and recalls the past—the active, profound, and undying thought—all may be paralysed in a moment. At what time, then, and in what enterprise, can we rely confidently on our own resources? If never, we are as secure from harm in our sleep, when its approach cannot be seen, as in the wariest period of healthful action.

Don Rafaele, as we have seen, had found Evaline asleep, and, with a trembling but seemingly resolute hand, had raised his dagger against her life. But though asleep, Evaline was more secure under the shadow of that Power to which she had commended herself, on retiring to rest, than if she had been able to see his design, and to wrest the dagger from his hand.

And could Don Rafaele strike her? Oh, no! However headlong might be the passion that boiled in his heart, it could not hurry him, at this last pass, over the bound between his thought and the act. It had carried him to the verge of crime; but there, on the very point of its consummation, the tenderness of his nature came to the rescue, and he drew back appalled.

Withdrawing his dagger, he reeled to the door, and passed on to the outer landing. As he gained that place, a faintness came over him; and he was obliged, when he had acquired a firm footing, to come to a pause, and lean back against the wall for support. But the weakness was only momentary, though it evidently required an effort—and one of no common or limited vigour—to overcome it. On recovering himself, he caught up the light, which, previous to entering the chamber, he had left on the landing, and darted up the stairs to his own dormitory.

The powerful excitement under which he had been labouring, and which had nigh hurried him into such monstrous guilt, seemed rather to abate when he arrived in his chamber; but the abatement arose more from physical exhaustion, than moral alleviation. His passion, however, though not a whit less bitter, was not quite so overpowering. After a little time, indeed, it appeared to be somewhat subdued; and, as reason regained its empire, he burst into tears.

He wept long and bitterly; but though his tears, in the end, made his head ache again, they materially relieved his overcharged heart, and did more to assuage his passion than his most soothing reflections. But whatever might be its nature, that passion was too deeply rooted, and, withal, too intimately associated with his heart’s most cherished aspirations, to be quite overcome; and, though it breathed a less fervid and desperate spirit, it was still resistless, and occasionally shot promptures through his ardent nerves that made him shudder.

Daylight found him still sitting by his toilet-table, brooding over his fortunes. He never thought of seeking repose; he was more wakeful, more animated, more truly and vitally active, except in the single respect of bodily motion, than he had ever been before.

As he observed the morning to grow later, he suddenly resolved to descend to the family sitting-room. Accordingly, he started up, and, turning round to the table, first despatched his ablutions, and achieved a brief toilet. He then turned slowly from the chamber, and descended to the lower floor.

On his arrival at the family sitting-room, the first object that met his view, on pushing open the door, was Evaline. She had clearly heard his step; and whether she had recognised it as his, or supposed it to be that of Hildebrand, a flush of pleasure had mounted to her face, and her eyes glistened with eagerness. But her agitation became less buoyant when her eye encountered his. Perhaps, she remembered, with the native delicacy of her character, that he had seen her accept the love and first caress of Hildebrand, or she might be moved by his wan and afflictive aspect; but, whatever might be the cause, her beaming cheeks were suffused with a deep blush, and the soft swell of her bosom increased to a heave. Don Rafaele, on first discerning her, was not unmoved himself. He even started as he entered the chamber; but when, on a second glance, he perceived the agitation of Evaline, he seemed to recover himself, and passed in with a firm step.

Evaline rose as he approached, and, though still deeply moved, extended him her hand.

“I need not to ask of thy health, Senhor,” she said; “for I see, by thy sad and heavy aspect, ’t is no way mended.”

“But slightly,” replied Don Rafaele, taking her hand, and attempting to smile. “Yet it was not me, I am right sure, that thou wast looking for but now.”

Evaline blushed even deeper than before.

“In sooth, now, ’t was not,” pursued Don Rafaele. “And wherefore should it be, when, if I be not deluded, thou art so bound to him?”

“I looked not for Captain Clifford just now,” faltered Evaline. “He hath gone into the park for a while.”

“Thou lovest him well!” returned Don Rafaele. “Yet hadst thou seen him, as I have, in the heat of action, daring peril, displaying his prowess, and overcoming his foes, thou wouldst love him even yet more.”

“Oh, no! I could not love him more!” cried Evaline, with overpowering eagerness.

Don Rafaele made no reply for a moment.

“I have heard of maids,” he then said, “whose love did so entirely sway them, that it hath led them into adventures surpassing belief. So exceeding hath been their devotion, that I have oft doubted, on pondering thereon, if it were indeed love, and thought it might be madness.”

While he thus spoke, his tone grew so sad and mournful, as if in sympathy for the infatuated beings he referred to, that Evaline was moved to the soul.

“These maids loved indeed,” she said, with a deep sigh.

“Some of them followed their lovers unknown,” pursued Don Rafaele; “and, for their sakes, did bear with great troubles, with fatigues, watchings, dangers, and divers singular hardships. An’ it be true that I have heard, there are no such maids now.”

Evaline sighed.

“But, to speak simple sooth, methinks I heard but fables,” continued Don Rafaele; “and such maids have never been.”

“Oh, say not that, Senhor!” answered Evaline, earnestly. “Be assured, though these maids certainly sustained marvellous trials, the love of woman, which urged them thereto, was well able to bear them up, and requite them for their misadventures.”

“To give up country, kindred, and fortune,” said Don Rafaele; “and, in strange lands, encounter notable perils:—i’faith, ’tis exceeding singular! Couldst thou do as much for him?”

Evaline made no reply.

“Thou couldst! thou couldst!” resumed Don Rafaele. “’Tis visible on thy face! But, an’ I be not misled, I hear his step coming; and I will leave you alone.”

“Nay, stay! stay, I beseech thee!” said Evaline, blushing, and, at the same time, laying her hand gently on his arm.

Don Rafaele acquiesced, and, with a half-suppressed sigh, turned to a contiguous chair, and sat down. The step which he had heard approaching was really Hildebrand’s; and that cavalier, though he had paused at the chamber-door, made his appearance the next moment, and entered the chamber.

His first greeting was addressed to Evaline; but when that was despatched, he saluted Don Rafaele also, and inquired anxiously after his health. Though the young Spaniard, in his reply, assured him that he ailed nothing, his looks lent no confirmation to his words, and Hildebrand could not but regard him with the liveliest solicitude. Before he could give expression to his concern, however, they were joined by Sir Edgar; and, after a few words more, the whole party sat down to breakfast.

Their meal was still in progress, when Adam Green, who was waiting in attendance without, entered the chamber with a letter, which he forthwith delivered to Hildebrand.

“A serving-man brought it hither, Sir,” he said, “and is now waiting below.”

“Prithee, bid him tarry a while,” answered Hildebrand, accepting the letter.

A glance at the superscription, which was written in a bold and legible hand, informed him that it was from Sir Walter Raleigh; and, impatient to know its purport, Hildebrand begged leave of his friends, and tore it open. It ran thus:—

“To my right trusty and singular good friend, Hildebrand Clifford, Esquire, at the house of my worshipful friend and neighbour, Sir Edgar de Neville, Knt., Lantwell, Devon, these:—

“Worthy Master Clifford.—Thou art hereby required, in the face of love, and the fickle dame, Fortune, of whom thou art so excellently favoured, to come hither to me with all despatch, and take to thine old courses at sea. And herein thou wilt bear the commission of our most gracious and dread sovereign, the high and mighty princess, Elizabeth, by whom I have it in command, on mine allegiance, to call thee hither straightway.

“I prithee commend me to fair Mistress de Neville, to my worshipful friend Sir Edgar, and, with no less heartiness, to the fair youth, Don Rafaele, whom it doth grievously afflict me to pronounce a Spaniard.

“By the hand of my groom, Robert Wilmay, who hath it in charge to ride posthaste.

“Given under my hand and seal, at my lodging of Durham House, in the Strand, this 16th day of February, in the year of our Lord God 1588.

“Walter Raleigh.”

Hildebrand smiled, though seemingly not with hilarity, as he ceased reading the letter, and appeared to deliberate a moment how he should disclose its contents to his friends. A brief consideration served to resolve him, and, when his resolution was once fixed, he entered on the delicate task without further delay.

Both Sir Edgar and Evaline, having fully reckoned on his company for the remainder of the month, received his communication with great disappointment; and, though it was not remarked by any eye but his, Evaline’s distress was particularly deep. Don Rafaele alone seemed to hear of their departure with pleasure, though he too, out of courtesy to their host, disguised his real feelings, and affected to look forward to it with regret.

Hildebrand’s concern in the matter arose chiefly from an apprehension that, besides injuring his connexion with Evaline, his early departure would prevent his communicating with Bernard Gray. He was resolved, however, though he did not expect that he would succeed, to make another attempt to seek out and confer with that person, and, if he could find him, even inform him of his engagement with Evaline. But, before he could carry his purpose into effect, it was necessary that he should first reply to the letter of Sir Walter. With the view of despatching this at once, he shortly desired leave of his friends; and retired to the library, on the floor above where they were sitting, to set it in progress. He had already determined to depart on the morrow; and therefore, on proceeding to give Sir Walter a reply, he had no question for consideration, but merely to state his purpose. In a short space, he accomplished that object; and, having folded and addressed his letter, hastened to give it to Sir Walter’s messenger. That person, in spite of the urgent entreaties of Adam Green, who had exhausted all his rhetoric in imploring him to dismount and refresh himself, had remained mounted at the door, and was ready to set out on the instant. Accordingly, directly Hildebrand appeared, he took charge of the letter, and posted off.

Hildebrand watched him till he had gone out of sight, when, with a quick step, he turned abruptly round, and passed towards the walk that led to the Lantwell foot-path. Maintaining his quick pace, he soon reached that locality, and thence directed his steps to the lodging of Bernard Gray.

The distance was considerable, but, urged by impatience, he never slackened his pace; and, in about half an hour, the “Angel” alehouse, at which his journey was to end, rose to the view. A slight knock on the door brought out the proprietress, and, to his great satisfaction, he learned from that individual that Bernard was at home.

Without further ado, he passed to Bernard’s chamber. As he opened the chamber-door, Bernard, who was sitting within, caught a glimpse of his figure, and sprang to meet him with unaffected eagerness.

“I was meditating how I should seek thee,” he said, after their first greetings had been despatched. “I have that to say will make thee glad.”

“They be famous good tidings, then, Bernard,” answered Hildebrand. “But before thou discoverest them, I must tell thee wherefore I kept not my promise with thee, in the matter we debated at our last meeting; and, therewithal, thank thee for thy kindness to Mistress de Neville, whom I so commended to thy good favour.”

“Spare the thanks, and deliver the matter,” returned Bernard.

“Were it but to have bid thee farewell, then, I would have seen thee before I departed,” replied Hildebrand; “but the truth is, I was kidnapped again.”

“Ah?” cried Bernard. “But I interrupt thee.”

“After I had left thee in the park,” pursued Hildebrand, “somewhat held me abroad a space longer, and ’twas dark ere I took me homewards. While I walked carelessly on, some one in my rear, who had been dogging me unseen, struck me a blow with a bludgeon, and I fell stunned to the earth.”

“’Twas Shedlock!” cried Bernard, starting up.

“Not himself, but two sturdy ruffians, whom he had hired,” said Hildebrand, in continuation. “They had bound me when I regained my senses; and were, I found, carrying me off. On clearing the park, they made for the highway; and there, after a little time, they came to an old farm-waggon; and in this they incontinently bestowed me. One of them, who seemed the bolder of the two, posted himself by me as a watch; and the other mounted the shaft, and straight drove off.”

“Whither drove he?” inquired Bernard.

“We kept on all night,” answered Hildebrand; “and, while it was yet dark in the morning, we came to Topsham. They drove direct to the gaol; and, on their instigation, the keeper thereof took me in charge. But I lay not long in a dungeon. After two or three days, my right worthy friend and patron, Sir Walter Raleigh, of whom I have heretofore rendered thee fair mention, came to take me for a runaway from his plantation, and straight set me free.”

“This Shedlock is a foul villain,” said Bernard; “yet the Lord is a jealous God, and thou must not avenge.”

“I am right glad thou think’st so,” returned Hildebrand.

“Wilt thou forgive him, then?” cried Bernard. “Nay, more! An’ I give thee that will insure thee thy name, and restore thy sweet mother’s honour, wilt thou suffer him, during the brief while he has to live, to continue the holder of thy heritage, and thou be only his heir?”

Hildebrand bit his lips, and was silent.

“Thou hesitatest!” observed Bernard. “Oh, how holy are the ways of the Lord, who is able, of his own heavenly will, to make the heart know its malice, and sweeten its thoughts with charity! Blessed be the Lord, who hath had mercy on his servant!”

As he thus spoke, the eyes of the penitent, no longer gleaming with enthusiasm, brimmed with tears, and turned gratefully towards heaven. Hildebrand was moved.

“I consent, good Bernard,” he said, “and will even try to forgive him. But how will my acquiescence herein prevail in the matter of my succession?”

“I will tell thee,” answered Bernard.

And, without further preface, he proceeded, in a low but distinct tone, to inform him of his recent interview with Dame Shedlock, and of all the particulars which the dame had then disclosed to him. Although, as his narrative progressed, Hildebrand was frequently visibly affected by his words, he interposed no remark, but heard him to an end without interruption. When he had brought his communication to a close, however, he broke into a passionate exclamation.

“I’faith, I owe thee a deep debt of thanks, good Bernard,” he added, “and not in this matter only, but in respect to thy service to Mistress de Neville. From all I have heard, I know it was thee, more than my right worthy friend Sir Walter, that finally set Sir Edgar at liberty. Prithee, how didst thou compass it?”

“I had done some service to my Lord Treasurer,” replied Bernard, “and I revealed to him the whole business. He threatened me at first; but for my service sake, and because he had hushed all inquiry, he let me go free.”

“Yet is he esteemed marvellous strict in matters of law,” observed Hildebrand.

“And so is he,” answered Bernard. “When he had extended me pardon, I told him the sad outlines of thy history; and, I promise thee, he straight set the Concealers, who have been very active of late, to inquire into Shedlock’s title to Clifford Place.”

“How accountedst thou to him for Shedlock’s possession?” inquired Hildebrand.

“With the true narration!” answered Bernard. “I told him that, in the days of Popish Mary, Shedlock was thy father’s steward; and that thy father and his house were of the church of God. Then set I forth how Shedlock, like a second Judas, joined himself with the persecutors; how he bargained with them for thy father’s life; and how his treachery was requited with thy father’s land. Further, I discovered to him, what he knew already, how our sweet sovereign’s revival of the faith had made Shedlock repent, and turned him into a Puritan.”

“Oh, Bernard, how can I ever requite thee?” cried Hildebrand, seizing his hand, and grasping it earnestly. “Should we get the land, ’twill be my first joy to see thee lord of it; and my children, an’ I ever have any, shall hold thee as their father.”

“Wilt thou wed, then?” inquired Bernard, at the same time looking steadfastly in his face.

“I fear to tell thee,” answered Hildebrand.

“No, no!” cried Bernard, shaking his head mournfully, “I will avenge no more! The Lord hath visited his servant; and my heart, which used to burn so, as if the memories of martyrdoms were themselves fires, hath won the refreshing savour of peace. Thou shalt have her!”

“Who?” cried Hildebrand. “Evaline de Neville?”

“Even so,” answered Bernard.

Hildebrand was silent for a brief space. His joy arrested his speech; for in Bernard’s assent to his marriage with Evaline, he conceived that the greatest obstacle to their union, even at an early period, was now removed. Yet, at that very moment, events were in progress, in the hidden course of Providence, which were to render all his hopes a perfect mockery.

When he was sufficiently composed to speak, he failed not to reveal to Bernard, without disguise or reservation, all that was passing in his heart. Bernard entered into his every sympathy; and thus, though they were only speculating on the future, the time passed in the liveliest intercourse, till Hildebrand rose to depart.

So much time had been occupied in replying to Sir Walter Raleigh’s letter, and walking to Lantwell, that it was past noon when he had arrived at Bernard’s lodging, and, the season being winter, it was now quite dark. He still hoped, however, to arrive at the Grange while the night was early; and having taken leave of Bernard, he set out with more than his average speed, and bent his steps straight homewards.

Though he had just heard so much to exhilarate him, he was not, on the whole, free from melancholy. As he began to calculate with more confidence on ultimately winning Evaline, his thoughts would, in spite of himself, turn to other images, and involuntarily remind him of Donna Inez. Had he nothing to reproach himself with in his acquaintance with that lady? On putting the question to his conscience, he sought, though almost without his own perception, to evade it, and to laugh at the compunctious qualms which it excited. What cavalier of the age would treat such a gallantry seriously but himself? Regarded in its very worst light, it was no more than a momentary peccadillo; and Inez, no doubt, had by this time quite forgotten it herself, and him also.

Such was the conclusion he came to as he stepped hastily into Lantwell churchyard. The night was yet early; but all around, as far as the ear could reach, was still as death, and, though it was cold, the frosty air scarcely stirred. The moon, which was in its first quarter, and had been up for some time, was behind a cloud at the moment, but the darkness was not dense; and, as he passed along, he could plainly distinguish the white tops of the several grave-posts, scattered here and there over the area. A few rapid strides brought him abreast of the church vestry, in front of which, in the angle between it and the transept, was the grave of his parents. Full of filial feelings, he was about to turn a glance on that quarter, when a low, broken sound, like a half-suppressed sob, broke on his ear. The sound came from his parental grave, and, though not without some trepidation, he hastily turned his eyes thitherwards.

The figure of a female was standing by the grave-post, with her back towards him, arrayed in deep black. As Hildebrand observed it, a feeling of awe, which the superstitions prevalent among mariners were well calculated to induce, rose in his bosom; and something whispered him, in a tone that thrilled through his soul, that the figure was the spirit of his mother.

Would his mother appear to him in enmity? Would she who had given him birth—who, during her life, had nursed and cherished and sustained him, and who could no longer be influenced by any earthly passion, burst the iron laws of nature to injure her only son? Surely, not! Yet his heart, which had been unmoved by the roar of hostile cannon, and had braved death in a hundred dreadful shapes, ran cold with horror; his hair rose on end; and his lips quivered so excessively that he could hardly bring them to pronounce, in an intelligible and distinct tone, that terrible and resistless name, which both the quick and the dead must obey.

A cold perspiration broke through his skin, as he observed that his exclamation, though indistinctly uttered, had been heard by the mysterious figure, and caused her to turn round. At the same moment, the moon, bursting from the cloud which had obscured it, poured forth its full light, and disclosed to him, in the pale face of the woman, not the scarcely-remembered features of his mother—but those of Donna Inez!

A dimness came over his eyes at this discovery; and the chill of horror that crted over his brain, like a rush of cold blood, fairly made him reel. But, by a desperate effort, he got the mastery of his weakness; and his eyes, again effective, turned on the grave once more. The figure had disappeared!

Was it an illusion? Had he, for all the testimony of his senses, been the sport of a mere imagination, and really seen nothing? With a beating heart, he turned his head hastily on either side, and glanced over his shoulders. No! The phantom—if such it were—had disappeared, and there was no trace of it to be seen.

A load was raised from his heart as he acquired this assurance. Nevertheless, it was with a heaving bosom, and an unsteady and hasty step, far different from his usual bearing, that he set forward, and once more bent his way homeward.

He paused when he had passed out of the churchyard, and, with unabated awe, again turned a glance around. Nothing but the white grave-posts was visible; and he resumed his progress.

A flood of bitterness opened on his heart as he pursued his way. He felt that, though it had appeared so substantially and distinctly to his eye, what he had seen was no more than imaginary; and was the natural effect of that previous meditation on Inez, which, notwithstanding that he could have no expectation of ever seeing her again, he had been so simple as to indulge in. He felt angry with himself, too, that he should allow so slight a matter to root itself in his memory—that his feelings should be so childishly tender, and his conscience so egregiously scrupulous, in the full vigour and thoughtless era of youth, as to make him writhe under the remembrance of a brief gallantry. Inez, no doubt, had by this time forgotten it herself. To dwell seriously on what he fancied he had seen would be absurd; and would, if it should ever be known, expose him to the constant ridicule and contempt of all his acquaintance.

And did these conclusions really compose him? Was he, in his heart, satisfied with the crafty and specious sophistry in which he had taken refuge? Oh, no! He roused himself into a temporary stubbornness of spirit; he lashed himself into a constrained levity; but every now and then, when his self-upbraidings seemed to be sinking into silence, the sting of conscience still pushed itself in, and made his heart start again.

But, for all this, when he arrived at the Grange, his excitement had driven from his aspect all trace of melancholy, and, far from looking depressed, he appeared to be in good spirits. Evaline and Sir Edgar received him joyfully. Don Rafaele, who would doubtless have viewed his return with equal pleasure, was not in the sitting-room when he entered, and nearly an hour elapsed before he did make his appearance. Then, however, though he looked somewhat flurried, he seemed to be in good spirits, and joined in the pending conversation with unwonted promptitude.

But though that conversation was animated, and never once flagged, it was easy, on observing them closely, to see that two, at least, of the party were far from being at their ease. Though they affected to be the gayest of the gay, both Evaline and Hildebrand, in reality, were stirred more by excitement, than a healthy animation; and, in their eager participation of the passing discourse, they were not seeking to amuse others, but to run away from themselves. Neither Sir Edgar nor Don Rafaele, however, as far as could be seen, noticed their uneasiness; and the evening passed off tranquilly.

The next morning found them all early at the breakfast-table. The horses, which were to convey Hildebrand and Don Rafaele to London, with a hired groom, whom Hildebrand had brought with him, were ready at the hall-door; and it remained only to despatch breakfast, and to part.

They ate their meal almost in silence. Even Don Rafaele, as the moment of departure drew nigh, quite lost his flow of spirits, and looked sad and dejected. Sir Edgar said hardly a word; and Evaline, who had passed the night in mourning, and in apprehending all manner of unhappiness, was almost heart-broken.

The moment of departure arrived, at last. Don Rafaele, with a mournful brow, shook hands with Sir Edgar and Evaline, and turned to the door. Hildebrand could linger no longer; and accordingly, with a forced smile, he caught up Sir Edgar’s hand, and bade him farewell. The smile was still on his lips when he turned to Evaline. She, too, was smiling, though her eyes were filled with tears.

“God ever have thee in ward!” said Hildebrand, in a low voice, at the same time gently pressing her small hand.

Dropping her hand, he turned to the door, and passed into the passage beyond. Sir Edgar, determined to see the last of him, sprang after him, and followed him to the hall.

Evaline was alone. Her tears, which she had restrained hitherto, but which had already mounted to her eyes, would be checked no longer, and, as her father left her to herself, they burst forth in a torrent.

Her heart’s hope was gone; and it was as if her heart itself, by which she lived and moved, had also gone. She felt all that anguish which, in the overflow of an ardent temperament, has been so pathetically described by Bishop Heber:—

“How bitter, bitter is the smart
Of them that bid ’farewell!’”

Nevertheless, as she heard Sir Edgar returning, she endeavoured, and not in vain, to assume an appearance of composure. But though she was able to conceal her emotion, she was still, in her heart, far from being composed. Sir Edgar, on his entry, even noticed that she was greatly dejected, but he had no suspicion that her grief was so rooted; but rather thought, from the character of his own feelings, that it was but the temporary depression which the parting from an esteemed friend would naturally occasion, and which a few short hours would wear away.

But time only served to confirm the sadness of Evaline. Her accustomed fortitude, which had borne her up under visitations more trying, failed her now, and left her to struggle with her thoughts unaided. It might be the effect of a restless night, or it might be solely the impression of her parting from Hildebrand, but, whencesoever it arose, a thrilling but undefined fear, like a presentiment of some coming ill, had fixed and rooted itself in her mind. As the night drew on, she became even more depressed; and Sir Edgar, who had latterly regarded her more closely, began to view her melancholy with seriousness. Before he could take any measures to soothe her, however, a hasty step without, approaching the door, induced him to pause. The next moment, the door opened, and both he and Evaline started up in surprise. The person who entered was Don Felix di Corva.

CHAPTER IV.

After all, employment, next to a clear conscience, is the best antidote to a brown-study. Hildebrand, it is true, did not possess the one, but he was soon to forget his uneasiness in the bustle of the other. On his arrival in London, he proceeded straight to the residence of Sir Walter Raleigh, in the Strand; and there, to his great contentment, found a sphere opened to him, which promised to leave him little opportunity for melancholy.

Sir Walter received both him and Don Rafaele with the utmost warmth and eagerness. Their greetings being despatched, he acquainted Hildebrand, in a few words, with the object and nature of the service in which he was to be employed. From what he said, Hildebrand learned that these particulars were yet secret, but that it was understood, among the few who were informed on such matters, that he would be directed to sail immediately for the coast of Spain, and collect information relative to the expected armada. He told him, further, that he would sail with the Queen’s commission, in his own ship, which had been taken up by the Government for the public service, and was now perfectly ready to put to sea.

“And now that I have told thee all,” he concluded, “let us straight to horse, and ride off to Deptford, to my Lord Admiral. I know he waits us with some impatience.”

“We will to him out of hand, then,” answered Hildebrand. “Don Rafaele will wait our return here.”

The personage referred to, understanding what was said, at once agreed to the proposal, and the two friends thereupon prepared to set forth. Their horses were soon ready; and, taking leave of Don Rafaele, who followed them to the door, and waited to see them depart, they quickly mounted, and set forward for Deptford.

Hitherto Hildebrand had seen little preparation against the formidable armada of which he had brought the first intimation to England, and which threatened not only the independence, but the religion, and even the very existence of the empire. On his way through the city, however, nothing was to be seen but martial costumes, and warlike provisions. The staid citizens, who had never known any parade but Sir Thomas Gresham’s new “Bourse,” bore themselves like soldiers, and looked fresh from the drill-ground; and even the ’prentices walked erect, and aspired to look like Cæsars. Cutlers’ marts seemed to be the popular places of resort; and the lucky shop that, among other weapons, could exhibit to public view one of the clumsy firelocks then in use, and which are to this day called after the reigning sovereign, by the name of “Brown Bess,” was more frequented than the Paris Garden. London-bridge and the Borough looked no less alive to the crisis; and beyond, in St. George’s-fields, and through the whole line of road to Deptford, were seen companies of recruits, arrayed in the most motley habits, undergoing the initiatory and vexatious process of drill.

But it was at Deptford, the principal depôt of the marine, that the greatest preparations against the expected invasion were in progress. Here were clearly at work the master-spirits of the age. Artificers, engineers, officers, mariners, and labourers were seen engaged in their various departments with the regularity of machines. The burring of furnaces, the ringing of anvils, the rattling of hammers, and the hilloing of sailors, as cannon were cast, balls moulded, and ships laid down or re-rigged, created so loud and confused a din, that sounds could hardly be distinguished, and the voice could only be heard when raised to its highest pitch.

Pushing past various groups of officers and mariners, Sir Walter and Hildebrand proceeded straight to the office of the Lord Admiral, Lord Howard of Effingham, in the chief dock-yard. On sending that officer his name, Sir Walter was ordered to be admitted; and under the guidance of the porter, he repaired, together with Hildebrand, to the Admiral’s presence.

There were two personages in the room to which they were conducted. One of them, who was no other than the Lord Admiral, was an elderly man, of rather tall stature, and a grave, but commanding presence. The other was little beyond the middle age; and but for his laced jerkin, which spoke him an officer, would hardly have been looked upon as a gentleman. Although, however, his stature was mean, and his manners far from graceful, there was a certain touch of daring in his face, especially in his eye, that quickly won him attention, and even gave him a look of authority. His features, moreover, were so familiar to Englishmen, from the respect which was paid to them by the sign-boards of taverns, and other places of resort, that they required no beauty to recommend them to notice, but commanded admiration by their very plainness. He was Sir Francis Drake.

The two admirals rose as Sir Walter entered, and extended their hands to welcome him.

“My Lord Admiral, how is it with you?” cried Sir Walter, taking his proffered hand. “Sir Francis,” he added, as he extended that personage his other hand, “give thee the fair time of day!”

“Fair time enough, Sir Walter,” replied Drake. “’Tis but little past six bells.”

“Sir Walter wishes thee a fair day,” said the Lord Admiral, in explanation of Sir Walter’s greeting.

“Marry, come up, but methought he spoke to the clock!” cried Drake. “Howsomever, the day is a fair one, though it blows marvellous slack. I’ve seen windier days.”

“Ay, ay, doubtless,” observed Sir Walter, laughing. “But, my Lord Admiral,” he continued, turning to that officer, “I have brought thee the captain of the ‘Eliza,’ who was so heartily preferred to thy favour by her Highness.”

Here Hildebrand, who had hitherto remained at the door, stepped somewhat forward, and prepared to pay the Lord Admiral his respects. Before he could effect his purpose, however, he was arrested by Drake, who, springing forward, came between him and the Lord Admiral, and caught him by the hand.

“Harkye, in your ear, tip us thy grappling-iron!” he cried. “Blow me taught, but thou’rt a fair-weather fellow, too, to overhaul the Don’s shiners! Harkye, in your ear, we’ll have a jorum of liquor anon, at the ‘Three Jolly Mariners,’ in the town yonder.”

“I am marvellous grieved to stop good entertainment,” cried the Lord Admiral, laughing; “but worthy Master Clifford (methinks, I have his name right) must even to sea straight.”

“Though I would fain have spent an hour with good Sir Francis, my Lord, I am ready to set forth incontinently,” smiled Hildebrand.

“Marry, and splice my timbers, well spoken!” exclaimed Drake. “Harkye, in your ear, I be moored at ‘The Three Jolly Mariners;’ and, sink me, but better liquor can be had nowhere!”

“I’faith, I will speak it fair,” cried Sir Walter Raleigh, “by the same token that your worship once nigh choked me with a cup on’t, which did cause my Lady Nottingham, and divers other ladies of note, to laugh right heartily. But my Lord Admiral grows impatient.”

“The matter is urgent,” replied the Lord Admiral. “Captain Clifford,” he added to Hildebrand, “canst thou away to-night?”

“I fear me, no, my Lord,” answered Hildebrand; “for I have not yet been aboard.”

“Oh, all is ready aboard,” returned the Admiral. “Further, thy ship lies off the dock here, and can away at once.”

“Some time to-night, then, my Lord, we will go!” answered Hildebrand.

“You will find your orders aboard, not to be opened till you are off the Start,” said the Lord Admiral. “And now, not to detain thee longer, when thou hast so little time, give thee farewell, and God speed thee!”

He extended his hand as he spoke, and Hildebrand, with a profound bow, caught it up, and clasped it earnestly. He next bade farewell to Sir Francis Drake, who, as he clasped his hand, implored him, “in his ear,” but in a very loud voice, to remember the sign of “The Three Jolly Mariners,” and to be sure to “bear up” thither on his return. Hildebrand promised compliance, as did Sir Walter Raleigh also; and he and Hildebrand, without more words, then departed.

Although Hildebrand had expressed his readiness to leave England immediately, he was not so fully prepared, in regard to his personal affairs, as he at first conceived. However he might manage respecting himself, he could not so easily resolve how to dispose of Don Rafaele. It would be impossible, he felt, to take that person with him, as the enterprise he was about to embark in would doubtless be attended with great peril; and to leave him in England, where he was unknown, and where his youth and inexperience would have no protector, was almost equally repugnant to him. Unable to determine how he should act in the matter, he disclosed his embarrassing position to Sir Walter; and asked that cavalier, to whose opinion he invariably deferred, for his counsel thereon.

“Prithee, let it give thee no concern, good Clifford,” answered Sir Walter. “He shall take up his abode with me; and, I promise thee, in case thou incur any mishap, he shall find in me a warm and hearty friend.”

“That I am right sure of,” rejoined Hildebrand, “and heartily thank thee withal. But let us to the ship.”

“Nay, we will send thither my groom,” said Sir Walter, “to notify to Master Halyard, whom the Lord Admiral has retained as thy lieutenant, that thou wilt be aboard at eventide. We will straight to town.”

Hildebrand acquiesced in this arrangement; and it was, accordingly, on their arrival at the dock-yard gate, carried into execution. When the groom had been despatched to Master Halyard, Sir Walter and Hildebrand, without further delay, mounted their horses, and set out for town.

On reaching Durham House, they were hailed with eagerness by Don Rafaele, who inquired as curiously after the news, especially in the matter which had taken them forth, as though he were an Englishman.

“The news is, that I am straightway to take to the seas again, my fair Rafaele,” answered Hildebrand. “But be not thou discomposed thereat. Our right noble friend, Sir Walter here, will stand to thee in my stead, and provide thee a homestead ashore.”

Don Rafaele changed colour.

“I’faith, he likes not me for a host so well as thou,” cried Sir Walter, laughing. “I entreat thee, fair Senhor, look not on me with disfavour. By my lady’s hand, thou shalt find me a right faithful friend.”

Don Rafaele, whether he credited Sir Walter’s protestation, or not, turned his head aside, and made no reply. That he was moved, however, and even deeply, was apparent; for his broad chest heaved again, and his face retained no trace of colour.

“Nay, nay, be not downcast, Rafaele!” cried Hildebrand, yet in a voice far from cheering. “By my soul, the only grief that I know in this matter is, that I shall leave thee behind.”

“Then, wherefore not take me with thee?” asked Don Rafaele, in a tone of reproach.

“That were not reasonable,” answered Hildebrand. “I go on a mission of singular and exceeding peril.”

“Peril?” echoed Don Rafaele, raising his eyes, which, to his surprise, Hildebrand now perceived were dashed with tears:—“Peril, saidst thou? We had peril, methinks, on our way hither—ay, and singular and exceeding peril, too. Did I make any plaint thereat? Did I—did I shrink?”

“By my faith, no!” exclaimed Hildebrand.

“I would be surety for thee, that thy valour is above question,” cried Sir Walter.

“Thanks, thanks, noble Sir!” said Don Rafaele. “I hold thy hearty assurances right welcome; yet is thy face, for all that, not familiar to me as Master Clifford’s. I beseech thee, forget not I am in a strange land, where I have no kindred. Remember thee, furthermore, how notably young I am; and I was reared right tenderly, I dare affirm. Prithee, then, let me with thee!”

“I’faith, I can refuse thee no further, my Rafaele,” cried Hildebrand; “and only for the hazard to thyself, I were right content to have thy fair company. We will even fix it so.”