The same night, following the tragic ending of the tournament, and about two hours after Curfew had rung out its warning to churls, housecarles, and Saxons, all and sundry, who should be caught abroad after the bell had voiced the hour, there were seated in the Abbot's room two individuals engaged in a most earnest conversation. The look of deadly malignity on their countenances, and the low, fierce oaths with which they frequently emphasised their speech, was palpable evidence that they plotted mischief. Though one of them had partially divested himself of his attire, there was that about his dress which betokened that it was strangely out of keeping with the language he was using, and the business he was engaged in. The other was dressed in soldier's attire, and in the sturdy figure we easily recognise Pierre, confidante and willing tool of Baron Vigneau, and the sharer in most of his villainous exploits. The Abbot's room was spacious and lofty, and he had had it hung with costly silken hangings, and rich Turkish carpets covered the floor. The furniture also was of carved oak, delicate in workmanship, and of priceless value; for many handicraftsmen of great skill and experience came over with the Normans, or followed in the wake of the soldiery. On an exquisitely carved cabinet had been hastily thrust the remains of a substantial repast of boiled capon and venison cutlets; whilst on the table between them were two silver tankards containing good Rhenish wine, and from which libations, copious and frequent, were poured down two throats which it seemed impossible to effectually slake. Several letters on parchment, with the massive seal of De Montfort impressed upon them, were lying on the table betwixt them, the contents of which had been duly read over to Pierre by the Abbot; and the following conversation was proceeding:—
"No doubt," said the Abbot, "the whole thing was arranged by the cunning old fox De Montfort and his daughter. The make-believe of a foreign cousin was a ruse to prevent the exposure of the Saxon villain. His advent, also, was so timed that not the slightest opportunity was given to any one to see through his disguise; and he spoke the Norman language well."
"Well, I have often wondered at De Montfort's leniency to those Saxon wolves on the hills. He professed to send for help to William when he was at York last; but there has been no help forthcoming," said Pierre.
"I don't believe he ever sent such message; but the devil himself is not more cunning than De Montfort, and, unless we act promptly, he'll circumvent us."
"Well, what's the business? Are you going to make use of those letters, and have him brought to book promptly?"
"That is it. What I wish, is that you, Pierre, should take this matter in hand; for it must be done by some one with sufficient courage and determination. I should like you to proceed forthwith to the court of his Majesty William, and lay before him these damning proofs of De Montfort's treachery. If you will undertake this, I confidently anticipate that within three months the traitor's head will be suspended over the gates of his castle. That done, I shall urge my suit for the possession of his forfeited lands, with well-assured success. Then, trust me, I will humble the pride of his haughty and scornful daughter. She shall know promptly, for I will teach her, that though Vigneau is dead, Vigneau still lives. I love her, and I hate her, and when she is in my power I will have my fill of both love and hate, mark me! I will have quits for all I owe her, for she has not only compassed the death of my brother, but she has thwarted me here constantly, by taking under her protection that old hypocrite Adhelm (meaning myself). I'll be revenged on both of them at a blow, mark me, Pierre!"
"Humph! This sounds well and good, your Reverence, no doubt, from your standpoint; but, if you will excuse me, I didn't see very clearly at what point Pierre came in when these good things were to be distributed. Now, it appears that I shall figure very prominently in the work of scotching this snake. So, so! well and good, revenge may be very sweet to you, and maybe it will be sweet to me; I'll not deny I like the flavour of it, but, after that, what additional? I shall want either the skin or the carcase, certainly, if I shoot the deer; if not, why, marry, I'll never bruise my shins in the chase. So, will you please point out where this thing is to be profitable to me? Devil's work, you know, should be well paid, for we must scorch for it by-and-bye, must we not, eh?"
"Thou shalt have everything I am able to bestow, Pierre; and thou shalt find that in my exalted position my powers of promotion will be equal to thy deserts. How sayest thou? wilt thou try the monk's calling? Nothing easier! I was a soldier ere I donned the hair shirt, eh! and took to mortifying the flesh, as thou well knowest I have done most rigidly at all times."
"Marry, 'tis quite true, the devil himself would vouch for it; and a merry jest it is. And now, after your Reverence's example, there's no saying, but we may expect the devil himself to turn monk some day; and, in faith, by copying your Reverence closely, he'd make more sinners in't, than he would by his old tricks;" and Pierre laughed most immoderately.
"Thou hadst ever a sharp tongue, Pierre, and little regard for thy betters; but I absolve thee. Nevertheless, I advise thee to the holy calling also. Then what could hinder me bestowing upon thee my Abbot's office? The best of all things would be at thy command—ease, wine, wenches, and a jolly fat trencher at all times. I warrant thee there is no life so merry and so bountiful as the command of a good fat monastery."
"Bravo!" shouted Pierre, who was immensely tickled by the Abbot's suggestion; and, bursting again into a roar of laughter, he cried, "well, this is too rich for anything! Pierre turned Saint; ha, ha, ha! 'Twould be after the most godly example of your Grace, I trow. Ha, ha! good! I'll wash it down, anyhow;" and he raised the tankard to his lips, and cried, "Drink to't, your Reverence. Here's to Saint Pierre of pious memory;" and promptly he drained the tankard to the bottom; then, bringing it down again with a bang upon the table, he fairly roared with laughter.
"Thou art an ass, Pierre! An arrant ass!" said the Abbot, who was considerably nettled at the freedom with which Pierre made a jest of him and his office. "Canst thou not see that after the Baron's death De Montfort will soon be quit of us if we cannot checkmate him? To jest under the gallows, and end it by swinging on them, is fool's work."
"Well, well, I'll turn the matter over carefully, I think," said Pierre a little more soberly. "Your Grace has done it, and I think there is something in it. I don't know how the sneaking method of doing things, after the dare-devil manner familiar to me, will suit my stomach. I have always liked the chase better than the game, and I confess I would rather fight it through, come what may.
"But," said he, bursting into a loud guffaw, as the ludicrousness of his turning monk thrust itself upon him, and relapsing again into the jocularity and bitter sarcastic tone familiar to him,—
"Now that you recommend it so strongly, I think I will retire from active duties, and grow fat and wheezy like yourself. Anyhow, it stands to reason, the bigger the paunch the more good sack wine it will hold, and that is an item. True, too, a lazy life and a lascivious appetite are bound to go together. Less force to labour, and more to lechery; that's the sum of it. I think I come to't, your Reverence. Beshrew me! what would any man have? for if he lust lustily, and be a jolly trencherman to boot, with his fill provided to him, what can he wish for more? My hand on it, your Reverence! I'll undertake the venture. It is a mad hazard, but I like it none the worse for that!"
"Then when wilt thou start on thine errand, Pierre? Time is precious. The Count knows I have possession of those letters, and, mark me, he will circumvent us if he can."
"Line my pocket with gold pieces and I'll start at cock crowing, and De Montfort may catch me if he can, when once I get the start of him."
Slowly at that instant the door opened behind them, and Oswald, Wulfhere and a couple of attendants, armed to the teeth, entered, and closed the door behind them, whilst one stout yeoman set his back against it. The countenance of Vigneau fell on the instant as though a sword had pierced him, and he became livid as death. Hastily clutching at the letters lying on the table, he endeavoured to thrust them into a recess of the cabinet, and he fairly cowered in abject terror before these strange visitants. On the contrary, Pierre whipped out his broadsword, and fiercely stood at bay; his savage valour being in striking contrast to the crouching cowardice of the Abbot.
"Give place, master," said Wulfhere, advancing on Pierre; "this fellow is mine. You have already had your revenge. Now, blood-thirsty villain," said he, addressing Pierre, "I told thee, did I not, that the time would come when thou shouldest answer to me for thy cruelties and murders? the time has come now; and thou canst no longer shirk the fate that has long awaited thee."
"Did I ever shirk meeting thee, or any churlish Saxon in Britain? Give me fair play, and I'll give thee a speedy passage to the devil, sirrah!" said Pierre savagely, striding towards Wulfhere.
So the two stood upon their guard. The Abbot shrinking in mortal terror in one corner, whilst Oswald and his followers looked on in anxious suspense; for they knew well the strength and brutal valour of Pierre, who was ever foremost in any fray, and equally an adept at either stroke or thrust. Wulfhere also was second to none amongst the Saxon outlaws in skill and strength, or personal bravery. Toe to toe for a moment they stood eyeing each other with lips set, and mortal enmity in their eyes. Then stroke and thrust and parry followed each other in rapid succession. The rapid advancing or retiring, as each one gave or received a stroke, by these powerful gladiators, wrought the spectators to such a pitch of excitement that they held their breath almost to suffocation. But the climax came in a totally unexpected manner. Wulfhere drove at his antagonist a powerful sweep of his sword, but Pierre effectually interposed his sword and parried the blow. Such was the force of the blow, however, that the treacherous weapon flew in two, the point striking the opposite side of the room, and the hilt, with half the broken blade, remaining in Wulfhere's hand. Ere Oswald could interpose between them, Pierre shouted,—
"Aha! Now I have you!" and rushed in with a furious lunge at Wulfhere's body.
The words were true enough, but not in the sense in which Pierre had uttered them; for with lightning-like agility Wulfhere sprang aside, and the glittering weapon slid harmlessly into the empty air beyond him. So confident, however, had Pierre been of the helplessness of his opponent, and so confident of the deadliness of his thrust, that he took no precaution whatever of his own body. The eager rush also of his own onslaught, coupled with the force with which Wulfhere drove the broken blade at him, caused it to pass clean through his body, and, with a groan and a half-uttered oath, he fell forward on his face, dead.
The Abbot, as he witnessed the close of the tragic scene, literally crawled to the feet of Oswald, begging piteously for mercy. One of the men-at-arms who accompanied Oswald, advanced upon him, and said,—
"Leave him to me, master. Now, dastardly fiend!" said he, addressing the Abbot, "there has come a reckoning day even for you. You remember the little cot out yonder befouled by your infamous presence. You know the boy murdered by you in cold blood, and waiting to be avenged until this hour. The time has come at last."
"Have mercy upon me," moaned the Abbot, "and I will recompense you liberally. Take this gold chain," said he, removing a massive gold chain from his neck, "it is very valuable, and I will give thee more."
"If you think a gold chain will recompense me for my dead child, base hound, you are greatly mistaken. His blood cries for vengeance, and I will exact it now."
As he spoke he raised his sword, and at a blow he severed the Abbot's head from his body.
"This is most ghastly work," said Oswald, "and to be done within the sacred precincts of this edifice it is most deplorable. But surely iniquities such as these men have constantly and unblushingly perpetrated call for most drastic remedies. Men, gather up these bodies, and bury them deep in the woods before the dawn."
The two men-at-arms called in some of their fellows who were watching in the corridors outside, and, swathing the bodies in the Abbot's robes, they hurried along the corridors and out of the grounds, bearing their ghastly burden to secret burial in the forest.
Oswald and Wulfhere remained behind engaged in diligent search.
"There are certain documents possessed by this man which are of vast importance to some one I would like to serve," said Oswald. "We must find them, if possible, ere we quit this place. I saw the Abbot hastily remove some papers as we entered, as though he was exceedingly anxious to conceal them. I strongly suspect they are the letters I would fain lay hands upon."
So saying, he advanced to the cabinet, and throwing it open, almost immediately drew forth the letters which had well-nigh had such dire effects upon the life and happiness of Alice De Montfort. Oswald gave an exclamation of pleased surprise as the seal of De Montfort caught his eye, and, hastily unfolding them, he eagerly ran over their contents one by one, and, as he gathered their import, he said to Wulfhere,—
"These are indeed a treasure more precious than gold. They bear evidence of one fatal mistake on the part of one whose astuteness is otherwise marvellous; and they have been an instrument of terror to the author of them for a long time. Now this dread secret will henceforth be sealed for ever. Sealed it is in the death of those who knew and used it so unscrupulously; and it will soon be sealed in the destruction of these documents."
So he hastily thrust them into his bosom, and they continued their search. But nothing further that had any bearing upon the subject could be found.
"Our work in this place is evidently at an end for the present," said Oswald. "So let us be gone, for I would finish this day's work. I wot there are some who at this moment are in terrible suspense, and are awaiting in well-nigh mortal terror for the further development of this tragedy. So let us away, the night is still young, and there is a voice eagerly calling for me."
We left Sigurd and his two followers in the cave in the mountains. Sigurd, as usual, was restless and eager for further attacks upon the Normans. So, early next morning, one of his men, in obedience to his commands, climbed to the top of the mountain for the purpose of signalling the scattered band, who, since the departure of their leader, with the wounded chieftain Oswald—narrated previously—had been in hiding in small companies, or singly, with their wives and children. This messenger laboriously scaled peak after peak until he mounted the loftiest eminence of all; from whence, far away in the hazy distance, summit after summit towered heavenwards, with scarred weird valleys lying between them, and the placid wood-encircled lakes in goodly number shining like burnished silver, looking up to heaven, reflecting sun and cloud in their still depths. The man, ignorant, unlettered, and uncultured as he was, felt the mighty inspiration; and he stood passively for a few minutes surveying the scene lying before him. Then slowly he turned upon his heel until he had faced every point of the compass, taking in the mighty distances within the circle of these mountain sentinels, with the magnificent and inspiring solitudes around on every hand. The cool mountain breeze stirred his long, unkempt locks and beard; and the air, pure as the unsullied breath of heaven, like an inspiration thrilled through his lungs, and poured its vitalising energy through every vein in his body. Not a sound, however, broke from his lips betokening any sense of admiration or appreciation of what he looked upon. Only some half-articulated guttural sounds betokened intense inward satisfaction. But now, in a moment, quick as thought, his brawny arms unfolded from across his broad chest, and a fierce fire of rage kindled in his eye; a savage expression also escaped his lips, for the deep baying of a hound broke upon his ear, and turning, he saw down in the valley yonder, Norman soldiers putting bloodhounds on the trail of his chieftain, Sigurd. Instantly, without staying to rear aloft the beacon, which was to speak to comrades hiding in distant valleys or on the distant hills, he darted over the shoulder of the hill, and with long, fleet strides, seemed almost to fly towards the cave, where, in hiding, he had left his master. On reaching the cave he hurriedly explained to Sigurd the position of affairs. With a savage exclamation the chieftain said,—
"Ha! they hunt me with dogs again, as though I were a wolf or a hog. Well, let them beware! the wild boar of the mountains will find them more sport than will be pleasant, as he has done many times before! I suppose it will be a long race, for these Norman sleuthhounds are sure of scent, and will not be easily shaken off! Forward ye up the burn; we will go over the head, for there is a trap laid for them up yonder. From thence we go down into Deepdale, keeping along round the head of Ulleswater. Ye will get a good start, and may take it easy."
"What will ye do, Jarl? If ye mean to attack these Norman dogs, we would rather stand by you and share the risk."
"I shall be ruled by fate. Skuld, the Viking's friend, has me in his keeping; I shall not be slain; but one thing I must do, I must show myself to them, so as to divert the scent from this place. We must not let the hounds lead them to our lair here, for it is a snug port in a storm, and we shall need it for rest many times yet, I fear. When I have showed myself to them, I shall follow after you. As ye scale the summit ye may look out; if I need you I will signal, but it is not likely."
Buckling on their swords alone, so as to be lightly equipped, the two men followed the water-course which marked the dividing line betwixt the hills on either side, and which, in its turn, was flanked on each hand by the dense wood stretching for more than a mile further up the burn, until the inhospitable Zone was reached, where tree and shrub were pinched and stunted into barrenness by the chill mountain air, and where shelter only could be obtained by the innumerable and gigantic limestone boulders, which grimly stood sentinel over the leaping and tumbling waters. Sigurd hastily stowed away some provisions in a leathern case, which he strapped over his shoulders. Then, buckling on his belt, from which his broadsword was suspended, he crept from his hiding-place and strode upwards through the tangled undergrowth, making for the clear on the mountain side. His purpose, as we have already said, being to throw the hounds off the old scent which led to the cave overlooking the tarn, and to draw them directly after himself; for he was very little dismayed at the prospect, so confident was he of his own power to keep them at a safe distance, and weary out, if need be, the Norman band. Having cleared the wood, he climbed up the hillside for a little way, scanning carefully the course along which the enemy must come. All was quiet as yet, so he sat him down to await events. He had not long to wait in this position, however, ere the cry of the hounds and the shouting of men smote upon his ear, and he started to his feet. Yonder in the distance, and coming along the mountain side, he espied a couple of men, each leading a hound, and a company of thirty or forty Norman men-at-arms followed after. Climbing upon a knoll, professedly to survey the party, but in reality to attract attention to himself, he stood for a moment, a conspicuous figure on the barren hillside, and speedily he was seen by the Normans, who set up a great shout of exultation as they beheld the burly figure of their dire foe so nearly in their power. Sigurd waved his sword defiantly in their faces, and then turned and sped him after his men, towards the valley's head. Eagerly the Normans followed after, having Sigurd almost constantly in view; and, as they deemed, soon to be run down and captured.
As they followed after Sigurd up the valley it grew gradually into a most desolate and awe-inspiring solitude. All along the mountain summits the limestone rocks jutted out clear of every vestige of verdure—bare, bold, ominous, and frowning. The slow, but persistent disintegrating influences of climate and atmosphere had, through the centuries, slowly diminished their beetling heads; and all adown their scraggy sides layer upon layer of rocky fragments testified most eloquently that rugged and strong as were these rocky eminences, there was a despoiler strong enough even to cope with their might; whilst in the bottom of the glen were huge rocks lying where Nature's invisible fingers had toppled them from the summit. Few living things haunted the place. Yonder, over the crest of the mountain, a pair of golden eagles were wheeling in circles, delighting in the strength of their matchless pinions. Here and there a rabbit might be seen stealing in and out amongst the boulders. Several carrion crows, with hoarse croak, flitted from boulder to boulder in ominous expectation of coming carnage. Rich and plentiful had been their fare since the coming of the Normans, and, with true instinct, these flying Saxons and pursuing Normans, they knew, were prophetic of gratification to their base appetites.
On the Normans came, their following after being greatly expedited by a constant sight of the quarry. For there was no need to be careful, or anxious lest their hounds lost the trail. Sigurd was not a quarter of a mile ahead, but in consequence of the ascent, and the rough ground to be traversed, it represented a good start. He was also a much more powerful and skilful mountaineer than they were, and with the utmost ease he held the distance. As they progressed the ascent became steeper and steeper, wilder and more rugged. Frequently they lost sight of the Viking chief, as he disappeared behind huge boulders or frowning rocks, only to see him reappear again on some promontory still higher, from which he would watch them for a minute or two as they struggled after him, the savage defiances he shouted falling easily upon their ear. Nearer and nearer, however, they came towards the head of this rugged and water-furrowed gorge. Running along the topmost ridge of the hill on either side of the cleft, down which the water rushed, was a long line of steep beetling crags, bare, jutting, verdureless rocks, well-nigh impossible to scale, and involving a wide circuit to outflank. The waters, through countless generations, with unceasing rush and swirl, had shorn these flinty limestone rocks asunder in one steep slit from top to bottom; and to track the "mad Saxon"—as Sigurd was called by the Normans—through this weird crevice, was to penetrate a mere fissure between steep and overhanging rocks on either side, and so full of twists that the path was frequently completely hidden a couple of yards in advance. The Saxon knew his ground well.
Not so these Normans; but, enough for them, their foe was a flying foe, and they were numerous and consequently valorous. Ignoring completely the many lessons of personal valour and mad daring this man had taught them in the past, without pause they boldly followed after, the hounds foaming at the mouth and tugging at the leash. 'Twas a fearsome gap to enter, and they had not proceeded far when a jutting crag projected, and the waters were compelled to make a circuit in order to flow round it. With a deep bay, and an eager plunge in the turbid, rushing waters—for he scented blood—the hound which led the party dashed past the projection, eagerly dragging the Norman who followed after and held him. But a blow of Sigurd's sword cut the hound clean in two, and a second blow clave the Norman who held him. With a great shriek, a terror-stricken cry, and without pretence of defence, they turned in an eager scrambling retreat, each caring only for himself, and leaving the rearmost to the mercy of the savage giant who followed after. When they reached the open ground, where in numbers they could assail their foe, no foe was in sight. Sigurd had exhausted his opportunity and was gone. Who now would be first to enter again, and force this wild man from his lair? Alas! not one! There was, however, no time to lose, and the Normans were consumed with impotent rage. So some of them hurried round by the end of the crags, whilst some scaled the face of the cliff, each and all endeavouring, with utmost speed, to come upon the rocks above. This was done eventually, and, swarming to the brink of the rift, many heads endeavoured cautiously to peep over and down into the water-course, intensely hoping, but almost fearing, to set eyes upon their foe. But no Saxon was to be seen. They then rushed along the sides of the fissure, peeping down as they ran, and making sure that their victim was safely entrapped in his lair after all. But there was not a trace of him. On and on they rushed, over-lapping each other in turns, until, eventually, they came to the very summit, where the water-course had completely run out into a mere hollow, a deep, spongy marsh or bog. Hastily overtopping the hill, they eagerly looked down into the valley beyond. With wild execrations of rage they beheld the object of their direst hatred and fear moving down the mountain side with long, swinging strides, nearly a mile ahead, and immediately he disappeared in a dense wood, which seemed to stretch out its sheltering arms to the fugitive.
Sigurd was now joined by his two comrades, and together they pushed on for two or three miles through the forest, eventually rounding the head of Lake Ulleswater, and patiently climbing the steep headland on the opposite side of the lake. Here they halted for a while to rest and eat; but they were soon again roused to action by the voices of men and hound persistently following after. For the Normans were enraged, and, with the remaining hound, they continued mile after mile to track their arch enemy. Sigurd and his men, at a steady trot, continued to lead the chase, covering another five or six miles down the side of the lake without halting.
"Shall we keep up the race until we weary them out, Jarl?" remarked one of the men to Sigurd.
"No, I have another purpose in view; but this long race, with the taste of steel in the middle of it, will do them good."
"Ye do not purpose making for the cave, Jarl, do ye? There are not half a dozen men there, and we are no match for this company. Then there are the women and children to be thought of."
"No, that will not do at present. The boat will be safely moored at the foot of Hawks' Cliff, will it not, think ye?"
"Yes, I doubt not," was the reply. "I see now, Jarl. It is very good. To slip the noose so deftly when the Normans think to hang us is well thought of."
On for a little while the three continued, until coming to the rendezvous known to them as Hawks' Cliff—stupendous rocks shorn down with well-nigh a perpendicular face and overhanging the lake. Down these rocks, which required a cool head, deft feet, and a knowledge of the giddy path, these three swiftly descended, until the water was reached, where a boat was found snugly moored beneath the sheltering arms of the trees which fringed the water's edge. Into this boat the three stepped, and as the pursuers drew near they pulled away from the shore, making for the opposite side of the lake. Here was a masterly manœuvre, completely foiling the enemy. For whether they went round by the bottom of the lake, or retraced their steps by the head, it meant a start of ten or twelve miles to the fugitives; and with the day wearing on, and the pursuers wearied and fagged, the chase was manifestly closed for the day, with one more futile attempt to destroy this redoubtable enemy, who unweariedly persisted in exacting bloody tribute from their ranks, disdaining every overture of reconciliation, and defying their utmost efforts to subdue him.
Through the woods with sure-footed fleetness their powerful horses bore Oswald and Wulfhere on the fateful night of their visit to the monastery. Matters of most momentous importance to Oswald at least, as well as to Alice and the Count her father, called for urgency, and would brook no delay. Presently the pair stood together in the wood, hard by the place of the mysterious passage. "Hold the horses, Wulfhere, and await my return; our rest will be more welcome, and much sweeter when we have brought peace unto others, and disburthened our minds of the momentous issues following on this day's work." So saying, he swung himself aloft, and speedily disappeared in the cavernous recesses of the giant oak.
Meanwhile, on the turret a lonely figure paced round and round its battlemented heights in the shivering cold, but all unconscious, and insensible to its chilling influences. It was Alice De Montfort who waited and watched in the loneliness of the night, hoping, yet despairing of hearing the welcome voice, or seeing the welcome form of her Saxon lover. Ever and anon, as she paced to and fro, she lifted up her tear-stained eyes in voiceless prayer to the heavens above her; but the driving clouds as they scudded across the face of the sky, seemed to shut out hope, and all response from the vaulted blue, toward which she looked for succour and for comfort. Then in mute agony she turned from the Omnipotent, whose form she could not see; and whose voice she could not hear, but who, though as yet there was no token, had nevertheless heard her prayer ere it was uttered, and in His own way was sending fleet messengers of hope.
Was there hope and help in man? She mounted the parapet and peered long and anxiously over the bastions into the cheerless night, listening with strained attention for sound of voice or human footfall. But the teeth of the driving wind bit with piteous severity her wan cheek, and she sank down again beneath the shelter of the wall.
"Will he come to-night?" she yearningly asked of the empty air.
Her faint heart gave the answer to the question.
"No, he is a fugitive and a hunted Saxon; a wolfshead and an outlaw; and after this day's vengeance he must hide himself as best he can. But I love him all the more for that, for he is brave and true, and I will gladly share poverty and exile with him. What would I not give this moment to know that he is safe? to feel the grasp of his strong arm; to hear his voice, resolute as a hero's should be, yet withal so tender, that a little babe would be hushed to sleep by its gentleness, as though 'twere a mother's lullaby. How danger seems to fly from me, and dark, overhanging fate is fronted by silver-winged hope when he is nigh! But, alas! vain are all my hopes, for he comes not. Perhaps already the traitorous minions have avenged themselves in his blood, and I shall never see him more. I must fain get me to my chamber and weep, and pray the night away, in the hope that with to-morrow's light there may come some tidings of him. Just one last look from the bastion ere I descend."
So saying, she rose to her feet. Ah! a footstep on the stone stair arrests her attention. Some spy upon her movements—she is discovered! Her heart beats feverishly, and she sinks to the ground with the day's carnage flitting indistinctly before her mental vision. Ah! what is that? The tall form of the Saxon chieftain is outlined in the dim light, and with a cry of uncontrollable delight, and with supernatural energy she bounds across the intervening space, and flings herself into his strong arms in sweet insensibility.
"You are my own now, sweetheart," said Oswald, folding her to his breast, and imprinting a kiss upon her cold brow. "You anxious one; whatever have you been doing? watching in this chill night air all alone, and so scantily clad too."
The ears into which he uttered his loving words were deaf; and the eyes into which he vainly strove to look were closed.
"Poor child," said he, "this is too bad."
Then he folded her tightly in his arms and rested his warm cheek against hers. Her eyes slowly unclosed, and for a moment she gazed up into his face. Then slowly they closed again, and a sweet smile passed over her features, the revulsion of feeling from despair to the joy of hope was delicious. Like a little child waking in agony from some horrid dream, and finding its mother's form bending over it, and forthwith dropping once more into sleep, and peace, and rest.
For a minute or two she was perfectly passive, whilst the new joy seemed to be saturating her whole being.
"I am so glad you have come," she said, rousing herself. "I was filled with most dreadful forebodings of disaster to you, to my father, and to all of us. Excuse my silence, but the joy was so great I could do nothing but quietly drink it in. This horrid day has nearly killed me. Even now I am more afraid of the future. After you fled the Abbot boldly charged my father with disloyalty, and with having planned the day's slaughter of his brother. His rage and his threatenings were dreadful to hear, for he vowed that he would forthwith lay the matter before the king."
"Fear not, dearest, the worst is past. Everything has this day been purged away in blood. I care not to think about it, much less to talk about it. But after all, only the barest justice has been done, and I know of nothing that calls for repentance. Has the Count retired to rest?"
"No. I fear there will be little rest for him to-night. I left him some time ago pacing his room in despair, and revolving in his mind various plans for frustrating the malicious intentions of the Abbot."
"Other hands have already frustrated the evil designs of that most wicked and loathsome representative of the Church. The avenger has met him face to face, and he is no more. Come, let us go down to the Count. I am the bearer of news which will make him look kindly upon even a Saxon outlaw. Come with me, one telling of the story will suffice."
So together they descended the turret stair and sought De Montfort's room. Alice gave a gentle knock upon the heavy oaken door, but there was no response. Then she gently pushed open the door, and the pair entered together. The Count was sat with his elbows on the oaken table, his face buried in his hands, and totally oblivious of their entrance.
"Father!" said Alice gently.
The Count gave a start and raised his head, and immediately started to his feet at the spectacle which met his sight; for the stalwart Saxon once more stood before him: his astonishment being still more inflamed, as he witnessed his fair daughter lovingly clinging to the outlawed chieftain's arm, and radiant with smiles.
"Alice!"
"Father, give this noble Saxon a hearty welcome, for he richly merits it. A long time since I unwittingly gave him my heart, or rather he took it, and he has proved himself our bravest and truest friend. He is bearer also to-night, I believe, of most welcome news."
So saying, she led her Saxon lover to the Count, and Oswald, dropping on one knee, said,—
"Noble sir, your lovely daughter some time ago, in pure pity, gave me my life. On the night of the taking of this castle she opened the prison doors, and with her own hands undid my shackles——"
"Alice, I little thought that it was your doing!"
"Wait, father, till you hear this noble Saxon's story, and you will chide me no more for that act of mercy."
"Noble sir," said Oswald, "we Saxons never permit a debt of honour to go unrequited. I have endeavoured as best I could to discharge the debt of honour so nobly laid upon me; but the fair creditor has taken possession of my heart. I cannot eject her, if I would; and I would not, if I could, eject so lovely and so winsome a tenant."
"Pray be seated, Saxon; I confess I do not understand the language used by either you or my daughter, nor do I know how far it is permissible for me to hold friendly intercourse with one whom my king expects me to be at deadly enmity with. But Saxon or not, you deported yourself to-day as a brave man and a true knight should do. The disguise was well planned and complete, and your advent timely. It was most daring, but what its purpose was I am at a loss to know."
"Its purpose was to rid you and yours of a most deadly viper, and to rid our race of a blood-thirsty tyrant."
"I divine thou knowest more of my concerns than it is meet a stranger should. But, be that as it may, I know not whether I am indebted to thee or not, for one viper laid low has given birth to others, whose venom I dread even more, and whom I have no means of appeasing.
"It is better I should explain, sire. It is true I became possessed of your secret, but the gratitude I owed to your daughter for the life given back to me from the jaws of death, as well as for the love I bore her, also for the fierce retribution I and my people owed to the brothers Vigneau, for numberless cruelties and outrages dealt out to our people, caused me to watch with scrupulous care, that I might serve you and yours and rid my people of a deadly terror. I have news for you, sire. Not only is Baron Vigneau dead, but also the Abbot, his brother, has fallen by the avenging hand of an outraged countryman of mine, and has been carried to his burial in the silent woods. Furthermore, here are the fatal letters," said Oswald, drawing them from his bosom and handing them to the Count.
"No living man, save ourselves, I believe, is aware of the nature of them, so it is easy to end their potency for mischief."
At the sight of the fatal letters which had for so long a time hung over him like the sword of Damocles, the countenance of the Count lighted up as though it were by magic, and, reading them over carefully, one by one, he ejaculated, "Thank God!" Then rising from his seat he walked to the huge fireplace, in which were the smouldering remains of a wood fire, and he dropped them into the embers, and watched the quick flame as it sped up the chimney. After this he most carefully raked over the filmy remains a pile of burning charcoal; then he returned to the table, and turned a satisfied and kindly look upon Oswald.
"Did I understand you to say, Saxon, that the Abbot was dead also?"
"Yes, sire, I knew well that the work was but half done and the deliverance half accomplished whilst the Abbot lived. I knew also that the least delay would be fatal, so I and a few followers made bold to force an entrance to the monastery, where we found the Abbot in close consultation with one Pierre, whom doubtless you have met."
"Yes, yes, Pierre—I know him well—a brave man, but an arrant villain withal. I trust he is not acquainted with this foolish act of mine."
"We found the Abbot communicating the whole matter to him, and by bribes and promises inciting him to proceed at once to London, and lay the letters before William. He hoped to bring down upon you the King's vengeance, and then to possess himself of your lands and possessions."
"And what of Pierre? then, is he at large, and in possession of this information?"
"No, sire. The stalwart fellow who acted the part of squire to me in the tournament had cause of quarrel with him personally, as well as a long catalogue of crimes against our people to avenge. He challenged Pierre, and single-handed, and in fair fight slew him; so he also is no more."
"Saxon, 'tis well done, whilst I have been moping and irresolute how to act, you have planned and executed. It is well done, as I have said, and I am a life-long debtor to you. But what is this betwixt yourself and my daughter? I am bewildered. Alice, are you two lovers?"
"Yes, father."
"And this thing has been going on for some time evidently, and under my very nose, and I as blind as a bat. This is passing strange; I confess, almost with shame, my obtuseness."
Alice rose from her seat, threw her arms about her father's neck, and affectionately imprinted a kiss upon his cheek, saying,
"Forgive us, father; we meant you no wrong, and we dared not confess until the circumstances were favourable; but all the while have we been carefully planning how we might extricate you from the power of your enemy."
"I have nothing to forgive, truly, you silly child. But was it wise to turn your heart adrift like a rudderless boat on a tempestuous sea, and leave the errant winds to drive it into port whenever they listed. A kindly providence, however, has watched over you, and you deserved it. Blindly, humanly speaking, your love has been placed, but it has been well placed, in the keeping of a brave man and true, though he be not of our race. But whither will all this tend, and how will imperious William receive the tidings—that the daughter of De Montfort has a Saxon lover?"
"Father, let us have patience and faith; all fear of disaster is now removed. This valiant Saxon lover of mine can wait the pleasure of our liege lord; and I—my happiness is so complete, I scarcely know whether I shall be, happiest as a lover or a wife. There remains much to be done, and I doubt not but William will know how to estimate the value of an ally and friend, who is at once wise and brave, even though he be a Saxon."