CHAPTER XI.

Two notes, or, as they were then called, mots, upon his horn, formed

the only signal that Robin Hood gave of his return; but in an instant

those sounds brought forth a head from one of the windows, at the

height of about twelve or thirteen feet from the ground. That it was

apparently a human head, Hugh could distinguish, and also that it was a

very large one, somewhat strangely shaped; but he was not a little

surprised when the body began to follow after, with an extraordinary

serpent-like suppleness, till the knees were brought upon the window

sill; and then, the feet being swung over, the body was suddenly

dropped, and hung against the side of the house, while one hand

retained its hold of the stone work, and the other waved, what seemed

to be, an odd-looking cap, round and round in the air. The next instant

the being who had thought fit to employ this unusual method of descent,

let go the grasp of its left hand, and came down upon its feet,

bounding up again from the earth like a ball, and cutting a curious

caper in the air.

Although well accustomed to all the monsters which were then much

sought for in courts and castles, Hugh de Monthermer at first imagined

that the creature before him was an enormous ape, so extraordinary was

its agility, and such the pliancy of all its limbs. The arms, too, like

those of the Simia tribe, were of an extraordinary length, and the one

which attached it to the window as it hung from above, seemed to be

longer than the whole body. The moment after it descended, however, the

young knight was undeceived, for a human voice proceeded from the

supposed ape, of remarkable sweetness.

"Ho! Robin, Ho!" it said in English.[3] "So you have come home at

length, wicked wanderer. You have been feasting in the forest, I know,

and carried off little Harry with you to pamper him on wine and

comfits, and left Tangel behind with the women."

---------------

[Footnote 3: It must be remembered that Norman French was at that time

the language of the court.]

---------------

"Did I not take thee at Christmas," asked Robin, "and leave Harry

behind? It was but fair, Tangel!"

"Ay, but he's the favourite," said the dwarf, "though he can't do half

that I can. Pretty looks, Robin, pretty looks! You're like all the

world, beauty's fool. Pretty looks are everything! But I'll comb him

into worsted when he comes back again."

"Nay; thou wilt not hurt him," replied Robin; "thou lovest him as well

as we do, Tangel."

"I love him!" exclaimed the dwarf. "Scurvy little monster of whiteness!

I love him not--out upon him! I'll carve his pink cheeks for him, and

bore a hole in each of his eyes. Take care what you do with him, Robin,

and look well to your meat; for if I find you kinder to him than to me,

I'll roast him before a slow fire, baste him in his own fat, and serve

him up to you as a barbecued pig. Ha! ha! ha!--that will be fine

sport!--Come, give me the horses.--Who have you got here in the purfled

jerkin?--Give you good day, sir," and with his cap in his hand, he made

a low and grotesque bow to the young lord.

"He will take your horse, my lord," said Robin. "Now let us in," and

approaching the door, he shook it with his hand. It was locked,

however, and the stout forester was obliged to have recourse to an

instrument, in use during many centuries in England, which served the

purpose of a knocker. It consisted merely of a large ring with sundry

notches in it; and, a small iron bar, hanging beside it by a chain,

being rapidly run over the indented surface, produced a sharp and

unpleasant sound, which soon called the attention of those within, who

enquired who was there.

The door was speedily thrown open at Robin's well-known voice, and Hugh

de Monthermer followed his guide through a long dark passage into a

room at the back of the house. There were lights in it, though it was

vacant; and it was hung with tapestry, which was stained in some places

as if with damp, though in general the colours were as fresh as when

first the texture was wrought.

"Here, Cicely," said Robin Hood, pausing at the door after his guest

had entered, and speaking to a pretty young woman who had given them

admission--"Bid them prepare a chamber for this young lord; and hark!

tell old Martha--"

The rest of the sentence was lost to the ears of the young gentleman,

and after the girl had tripped away, the Outlaw remained upon the

ground, apparently in a meditative mood, till at length the sound of

some one singing seemed to rouse him from his reverie. It was a

remarkably sweet voice, and the air was one but little known in England

at the time, coming from those Southern lands where music had made

greater progress than with us.

Robin listened for a moment or two, and then said aloud, though

evidently speaking to himself--"It is scarcely just, after all, to

punish the innocent for the guilty; and it must be a punishment, though

she bears it lightly. I must speak with him first, however."

"Remember, you are not alone, good Robin," said Hugh of Monthermer,

unwilling to be a partaker in the Outlaw's counsels.

Robin Hood laughed--"It was ever a fault of mine," he replied, "that my

tongue was a false gaoler to my thoughts. One would sometimes fancy I

was an old doating woman, to mumble to myself the fragments of

half-digested purposes. But come, my lord, you have not supped, I have;

and as there is much business to do, I must leave you for a time. I go

to see a young friend of yours and mine, in order to hold with him some

counsel of importance; and I beseech you, quit not this house till I

return, which will be in about two hours' time."

"I will not," answered Hugh, "and in the meantime, rather than sup, I

will lie me down and take some rest, having first, with your good

leave, seen to the accommodation of my horse."

"Trust him to my people, trust him to my people," replied Robin

Hood--"and follow my advice. Take some supper: you may have to ride far

to-night, for aught you know; and meat and drink in moderation, is

strength, if not courage. Hunger is a sad tamer of stout limbs."

As he spoke, he lighted a small silver lamp at one of the candles,

which hung in a large polished brass sconce against the wall, and

bidding the young lord follow, he led the way through another of those

long narrow passages which occupied so much space in all ancient

houses. No doors appeared on either side till a sudden turn to the

right brought them to the foot of a heavy wooden staircase, the steps

of which seemed to be composed of solid blocks of wood, piled round a

common centre. There was a rope on either hand fastened by stanchions

of iron let into the stonework of the wall.

"There," said Robin Hood, giving the young lord the lamp, "if you go up

and open the door just before you, at the top, you will find some

supper ready. When you are tired, and wish to go to bed, call for

Cicely or Tangel, and they will show you the way. I must hasten away,

or I may miss my time."

Hugh de Monthermer took the lamp and bidding God speed him for the

present, ascended the stairs with a slow step. At the top he found

himself in a large sort of vestibule, lighted from one end, and

containing three doors; one immediately opposite to him, as Robin had

said; another a little farther down, and another upon his left hand;

but although the directions of the Outlaw had been very distinct, Hugh

de Monthermer paused and hesitated, for he heard the sound of voices

speaking within, and the tongues seemed those of women.

Although he was by no means averse to the society of the fair, the

young knight imagined that there must be some mistake, as the Outlaw

had given him no cause to suppose that any one was waiting for him.

After a moment of suspense, however, he approached and knocked; and a

voice answered, "Come in, for we have no means of keeping any one out."

The sight that presented itself to Hugh de Monthermer made him pause

suddenly in surprise not unmingled with pleasure. The room was a small

low-roofed chamber, covered with dark-coloured painted cloth instead of

arras, but well lighted, and with a blazing log on the hearth, which

might be needed in that old dwelling, notwithstanding the month being

May. Although the furniture was ancient even in those times, yet

everything was most comfortable according to the usages of the day. The

floor was thickly strewed with dry rushes, and a table was in the

midst, on which pretty Cicely was arranging, in haste, a number of

dishes, and plates, and drinking-cups.

But it was neither on the maid nor on the table that the eyes of Hugh

rested, for in a chair, at some distance from the fire, sat a fair

lady, amusing herself with an old embroidery frame, while on two seats

somewhat lower, engaged in winding and unwinding silks, sat two girls

of about the same age as their mistress, one of whom was evidently the

person who had spoken, as her eyes were fixed upon the door, and her

pretty little lips still apart.

If the surprise of Hugh de Monthermer was great, that of the party

within seemed not less so. The lady at once dropped the embroidery

frame, started up and ran towards him with her hands extended, as if

she would have cast herself into his arms, exclaiming, with a glowing

cheek and sparkling eye--"Hugh!" Then, suddenly stopping herself, she

turned her eyes to the ground, and the colour became still brighter in

her face than before. She recovered herself in a moment; but neither of

the maids of Lucy de Ashby ever jested with their mistress afterwards

upon her wearing the colours of the House of Monthermer.

Hugh, however, did not hesitate, but advancing, with a quick step, took

the hand that was held out to him, and pressed his lips upon it.

"Lucy!" he cried, "have I then found you at last?"

"Have you been seeking me, my lord?" asked Lucy de Ashby, glancing her

eyes timidly towards the two maids; "I trust you are come to deliver

us--though, to say sooth," she added, with a gay look, "we have been so

well treated in the forest, and so thoroughly despaired of gaining our

freedom, that we had well-nigh chosen ourselves husbands from the bold

rangers."

"You might do worse, Lady," said Cicely, scarcely liking the subject to

be jested with; "there are honest hearts in the forest!"

"Doubtless, my good girl," replied Lucy; "but you forget, we have not

tried them yet. Now, my good Lord Hugh, let us know, in a word, whether

you are come to deliver us or not.--On my life, one would think that he

was the man who goes about preaching patience: to keep a lady one whole

minute without an answer!"

"Nay," replied Hugh, "I am so surprised to find you here, that my

wonder must have time to cool. But, in reply to your question, fairest

lady, I must own, though I certainly came into Sherwood to seek you, I

came not here to deliver you."

"Why, how is that, Sir Knight?" demanded Lucy, a shade of

disappointment coming over her bright countenance, at the thought of

being detained longer in the forest; for, however gaily we may bear it,

the loss of liberty is always painful, and the exercise of that gift

which has brought so much misery to every man--our own free will--is

not the less dear under any circumstances--"Why, how is that? Surely,

if you came to seek me, you came to deliver me! You speak in riddles

but to tease me a little longer."

"Nay, Heaven forbid!" replied Hugh de Monthermer, "that I should tease

you at all! But, to explain what I mean, I must tell you the whole

story."

"Oh, tell it, tell it then!" cried the lady; "that is quite according

to every ballad in the land! The knight always finds the lady in the

wood, and then narrates his lamentable history."

"Mine shall be a short one, at all events," said Hugh, and he

proceeded, as briefly as possible, to relate all that had occurred to

him during the last six-and-thirty hours.

Every one, of course, in this world tells his story in his own way, and

his manner of telling it is not alone modified by his own peculiar

character, but by the circumstances in which he is placed, and the

passions that are within him at the moment. This truism may be trite

enough, but it was applicable to the case of Hugh de Monthermer, for

his own sensations at the time affected the method of telling his tale

even more than any of the peculiarities of his own nature. The feelings

that he entertained towards Lucy de Ashby--the difficulty of

restraining those feelings, and yet the fear of suffering them to

appear too openly, circumstanced as he then was, all modified his

history, and made it very different from what it would have been had he

been indifferent to the person whom he addressed. Love, however, has

ever been considered a skilful teacher of oratory, and without any

actual intention of doing so, every word that Hugh de Monthermer

uttered showed the fair girl beside him something more of the passion

which she already knew was in his heart.

He paused but little upon the anxiety of her father, or the indignation

of her brother, but he detailed at length the whole of his own course

while seeking her, the grief he had felt, the apprehensions he had

entertained, and the disappointment he had experienced when frustrated

in his endeavours; and, although there appeared from time to time

flashes of his own gay and sparkling disposition--though he told his

tale jestingly, with many a light figure and playful illustration,

there was an undertone of deep tenderness running through the whole,

which showed Lucy that the sportive tone was but as a light veil cast

over the true feelings of his heart.

The reader need hardly be told, after the traits that we have

given--which, though they be few, were significant enough--that Lucy

was not by any means displeased with the discoveries which she made in

Hugh de Monthermer's bosom. That she loved him we have not attempted to

conceal, but the history of her love is somewhat curious, and worth

inquiring into, as it displays some of the little secrets of the human

heart.

Lucy de Ashby was by no means a coquette; her nature was too

tender--too sensitive, her mind too imaginative for cold arts. She knew

that she was beautiful, it is true; indeed she could not doubt it, for

she saw it in every mirror, and heard it from every tongue; but she was

far less anxious for admiration than for love. Indeed, to persons not

naturally vain, who aim at higher objects than merely to please the

eye, personal admiration, although they may know that they deserve it,

may sometimes become even burdensome. Lucy, for one, was tired of

hearing that she was beautiful, and to tell her that she was so, in

whatever courtly forms the intimation might be conveyed, was no way of

winning her favour. It was the general mode, however adopted by the

young nobles who frequented the Court of England, and were admitted to

her father's house. They thought they could never too much praise her

loveliness or extol her grace. It was the custom of the day, the only

mode of winning lady's love then known; and the world were much

surprised to find that for one or two years she remained very cold and

insensible to all who strove by such means to raise a warmer feeling in

her bosom.

During the greater part of that time the House of Monthermer had been

at open enmity with that of Ashby, and Hugh himself was the object of

many a bitter and an angry speech on the part both of her father and

her brother. Now it may seem that the fair lady was a little animated

by the spirit of contradiction, when we acknowledge that the hatred

which her family entertained towards the young Lord Hugh was one of the

first causes that created in Lucy's bosom a feeling in his favour. But

the reader must not forget, Lucy had no reason to suppose that the

animosity of her family was well-founded, or their harsh censure just.

On the contrary, from every indifferent person whom she was inclined to

respect and esteem, she heard the highest praises of him whom her

father and brother delighted to decry. She saw, also, that they

themselves had no slight difficulty in finding matter for blame in the

conduct of the rival house; and when occasionally the two families met,

either at the Court or at any of the chivalrous pageants of the day, it

seemed to her that in demeanour, at least, Hugh de Monthermer was very

different from that which the voice of angry passion represented him.

All these things sunk into her mind; and although she said nothing upon

the subject, but remained equally silent when he was condemned or

praised, the conviction forced itself upon her that he was the object

of injustice; and where is the woman's heart without that latent

chivalry which instantly takes arms in favour of the oppressed?

Thus went on the history of Lucy's love till that reconciliation was

brought about between the families, of which we have already spoken.

Circumstances then led them into frequent communication, and a great

change took place in her father's opinion of the young lord. He made no

longer any difficulty of acknowledging that Hugh was one of the most

distinguished gentlemen of the day; and though her brother Alured did

not forget his enmity so easily--for in his case there was a touch of

envious jealousy in it--yet he suffered the motives too plainly to

appear; and Lucy, seeing, esteeming, and admiring, had always ready a

champion in her own breast to defend the cause of Hugh de Monthermer.

Had anything been wanting to lead her onward to that state in which the

whole heart is given--where there is no retreat, and where all other

sensations are swallowed up in love--some of the events of the first

few months succeeding the reconciliation of the two families would have

speedily furnished it.

For some time Hugh de Monthermer paid only such attention to Lucy de

Ashby as the courtesy of the day required. She was certainly

surprised--perhaps a little disappointed, that the only man for whose

admiration she had ever wished, should not at once be captivated by her

beauty, as others had been. Many a woman, under such circumstances,

would have thrown out every lure, would have used every art to win his

attention; but Lucy did not so: she retired to her own chamber, and

fell into deep meditation. "He may love some one else," she said to

herself, and as she said so, she felt inclined to weep; but she

repressed her tears, and determined never to let her thoughts rest for

a moment upon him again. She chid herself for unwomanly rashness, even

for the preference she felt; but with poor Lucy the time for good

resolutions or self-chiding to be of any avail, was past. She loved

already--loved truly, and those who have so loved, well know that, like

the garment imbued with the blood of Nessus, true affection, when once

it clothes the human heart, can never be torn off, and that even in the

effort to do so the very veins and flesh are rent away along with it.

She was not destined long to suffer any doubt, however: a single day

brought her relief, and changed sorrow into joy. The Earl of Monthermer

and his nephew were then at her father's castle of Lindwell, enjoying

the sports of the brown autumn, and cementing the newly-revived

friendship between the two houses in the intimate communication of

domestic life. The day after she had indulged in the melancholy

thoughts, and made all the vain resolutions, and addressed to her own

heart the idle reproaches we have mentioned, Hugh and Lucy were seated

next each other at the table, and at first their conversation was cold

and commonplace. At length, however, as so often happens, something was

said--some accidental word--some mere casual observation--some

sentence, apparently as light as air, but accompanied by smile, or

glance, or tone, indicative of feelings deeper than the words implied,

and the heart of each seemed to open to the other as if by magic.

I recollect once visiting a house where the scenery around appeared

tame and monotonous enough. The rooms were stately, fine pictures hung

upon the walls, and many objects of art and interest lay scattered

round, but still when one looked forth there was nothing beautiful

before the eye, till suddenly, in a dark, dull chamber, in a remote

part of the mansion, a servant drew back a blind from a small window,

and one of the most magnificent scenes in nature burst instantly upon

the view.

What it was that Lucy de Ashby said to Hugh de Monthermer I know not,

but it drew back the veil from her heart and showed him a new world,

such as he had never dreamt was near at hand. He had certainly not been

without warm admiration of her beauty: he had felt its power, and

somewhat dreaded its effects; but the master spell was now added, and

the harmony between her person and her mind left him no power to

resist. His whole manner towards her changed at once; admiration and

regard were thenceforward in every look and in bright interchange of

thoughts and feelings; and when Lucy laid her head down upon her

pillow, her brain reeled with the memory of a thousand sweet sensations

crowded into the short space of a few hours.

Her brother was absent--there is reason to believe purposely--and on

the following day her father's horse fell in the chase and injured him,

though not dangerously. It was Hugh who brought her the tidings, who

soothed her apprehensions, who calmed and consoled her, and every hour

added something to the intimacy that grew up between them. They rode

forth in the woods together, they walked side by side upon the

battlements; and, though the words of love that might be spoken, were

all vague and shadowy, yet each understood the feelings of the other;

and Hugh only waited till the friendship of their houses should be more

confirmed, to demand the hand of Lucy as a new bond of union between

their families.

The man who delays even for an hour in love is a fool, or has no

experience. The latter was the case of Hugh de Monthermer. Had he asked

for Lucy de Ashby then, the old Earl would have granted her to him at

once; but in a few days Alured de Ashby returned, bringing his cousin

Richard with him; and it soon became evident to the lover that the

favourable moment was past for the time.

Such is the history of the affection which had grown up between Hugh

and Lucy to the time when last they parted. Some months had intervened,

and it may well be supposed that it was not a little soothing to the

sweet girl's heart to mark that strain of tenderness which, as we have

said, ran through the whole of Hugh de Monthermer's story. So pleasant

was it, indeed, that for a short time the disappointment of her hopes

of deliverance was forgotten in the gratification of other feelings.

She paused and mused; but at length her mind reverted to the more

painful consideration. She at once saw, when she reflected on all he

had just told her, that Hugh was bound by his promise to the Outlaw to

take no step whatever to set her free. He had sworn that all he beheld

and heard there should be to him as if it were not; and Lucy herself

had too much of the chivalrous spirit in her nature to wish that one

she loved should ever evade, even were it possible, the sincere

execution of an engagement he had formed. She looked in his face for a

moment or two in silence, and in the end asked him simply, "What then

do you intend to do?"

"Good faith, dear lady," he replied, "I see but one thing to be done,

which is, as I cannot take you away with me, to stay here with you;

and, if this terrible enchanter of Sherwood will not set you free, why

we must spend our days here under the green leaves, chasing the wild

deer, and singing the hours away."

Lucy smiled gaily, for the images were not unpleasant ones that Hugh de

Monthermer's reply called up. She thought it would be a very happy

life; and if those sad bonds of circumstances which continually tie

down the noblest energies of the mind and the best, and strongest

feelings of the heart had permitted it, she would willingly have cast

off high rank and station, and all the gawds and gewgaws of society, to

remain with Hugh de Monthermer in the forest of Sherwood and pass the

rest of her days in low estate.

His reply threw her into a new fit of musing, however, and their

farther conversation was interrupted, for the moment, by the pretty

maid, Cicely, calling their attention to the supper, which was spread

upon the table. The two lovers sat down side by side; Lucy's maidens

took their seats opposite, and the meal passed over partly in gay,

partly in serious conversation; but, between Lucy and Hugh, there was

of course a degree of restraint from the presence of others, which was

sufficiently evident to those who caused it.

There is a general sympathy in every woman's heart for love, but, of

course, that sympathy is more active in the young, who feel, than in

the old, who only remember the passion. With unchilled hearts ready to

thrill at the first touch, Lucy de Ashby's two maids having so lately

been enlightened fully in regard to their mistress's feelings for Hugh

de Monthermer, were only anxious for an excuse to leave the lady and

her lover alone; and not finding any ready to their hand, they

dispensed with all pretexts whatever, first the one and then the other

quitting the room, and betaking themselves to the sleeping-chamber

which had been assigned to them and their lady.

There can be but little doubt that Lucy was well satisfied with their

departure; but yet a sort of timid panic took possession of her, and

she had well-nigh called them back. The next moment she smiled at her

own fears, and would have given a great deal to renew the conversation,

which had come to a sudden halt, upon some indifferent topic; but words

were wanting, and Lucy sat with the colour a little heightened in her

cheek, and the silky fringes of her soft dark eyes drooping so as to

veil half their light.

Hugh de Monthermer gazed at her with admiration and love, and although

he felt very certain that she was not without her share of tenderness

towards him, he determined to make "assurance double sure," and not

lose the opportunity which fortune had presented.

"Well, Lucy," he said, breaking the long pause at length, "as I cannot

deliver you, shall I remain with you to protect you?"

"Assuredly!" she answered, covering a certain degree of agitation with

a gay look, "you are a faithless knight, even to dream of quitting a

lady in this enchanted castle! Did you not say that you were to stay

here; and that we were to live a woodland life--chasing the wild deer,

and making the groves and dells echo with our horns? I declare it is

quite delightful to think of!"

"And you are to be my lady, and I am to be your knight?" asked the

lover. "Is it not so, Lucy?"

"To be sure!" replied his fair companion. "I will have you my most

devoted servant, as in duty bound. You shall train my hawks for me, and

teach my dogs, and ride by my side, and be ever ready to couch your

lance in my defence. In short, as I have said, you shall be my very

humble servant on all occasions."

"And nothing more?" inquired Hugh de Monthermer. "May I not sometimes

have a dearer title?" Lucy blushed deeply and was silent, and Hugh de

Monthermer went on; "May I not be called your lover, Lucy?--may I not

some time, perhaps, be called your husband? Dear girl," he continued,

taking her hand, which trembled a little in his,--"Dear girl, if we are

to remain here, depend upon it, we shall soon have to look for a priest

in the forest. What say you, Lucy, shall it be so?"

Lucy crushed a bright drop through her eyelashes, and giving her pretty

brow a wild fawnlike shake, she turned her glowing face towards him

with a look of gay daring, saying, "I dare say we could find one, Hugh,

if it were needful."

Her lover drew her somewhat nearer to him, whispering a few low words

in her ear.

"Hush, hush!" she said, "be satisfied, I will tell you no more!"

"But listen, dearest Lucy," said Hugh de Monthermer, "we have here a

few moments to ourselves: it may be long ere we have the same again. It

is right that we should clearly understand how we are placed. I love

you, dearest Lucy, as well as woman was ever loved! Do you believe me?"

"I dare say you do," replied Lucy, laughing, "I think it is quite

natural you should--How could you help yourself, poor youth!"

"And you love me as much, Lucy," added the young knight; "Is it not

so?"

"No!" cried Lucy, "I hate you! You know it quite well, and I shall hate

you still more if you tease me about it!"

"Hate me in the same way ever," replied Hugh de Monthermer, kissing her

cheek, "and I will forgive you, my sweet mistress.--But the case is

this, Lucy," he added, in graver tone; "there are difficulties and

dangers before us. Why they have brought you here, I do not know. How

long they may keep you, I cannot tell; but the moment that I dare to

leave you, I must march with all speed towards Wales. Battle and peril

are in my way--perhaps I may never see you more. A thousand evils may

occur, a thousand dark mischances may separate us for long, if not for

ever, and I would fain----"

"Say no more, Hugh, say no more," cried Lucy, at once rendered serious

by his words; "I do love you, if it will make you happy to hear it. I

have never loved any but you--There, I can say no more, can I?"

Hugh rewarded the confession as such an acknowledgment may best be

rewarded; but still he went on, after a few minutes, in the same tone.

"No one can tell dear girl," he proceeded, "what events the future may

have in store; but I see clouds gathering in the sky, portending storms

which may well dash down the blossom of our hopes, if we put it not

under shelter. What I mean is, that we must not fancy our affection

will meet with no opposition."

"But my father loves you, Hugh," exclaimed Lucy; "he loves, esteems,

and praises you."

"But your brother does not," replied her lover. "It is in vain, Lucy,

that I have sought his regard, by every honest means that a true heart

could take. Still he loves me not; and I am apprehensive lest in the

coming events some cause of dissension should arise, which might induce

him, and perhaps your father also, to endeavour to separate us for

ever."

Lucy bent down her eyes thoughtfully, and remained for several moments

without answering. "One cannot resist the will of a father," she said,

at length, "but I am not bound to obey the will of a brother. What is it

you would have me to do, Hugh?--I am in a foolish mood for complying,"

she added, with a smile. "I know not what you men would do, if we women

did not sometimes become as soft as wax when the sun shines on it."

Hugh de Monthermer paused, for there was a strong temptation at his

heart, and, to say the truth, he could scarcely resist it. He saw that

Lucy was in a yielding mood--he saw that, taking advantage of the

opportunity, he might, perhaps, win her even to give him her hand at

once. There were excuses for such a step, which, probably, no other

moment would furnish. In a situation of danger and captivity, where she

required the protection of one invested with some sacred right--far

from her own relatives, and having every reason to believe that her

father would approve her choice, a thousand motives for yielding to

such a request might easily be urged; and when pleaded by the voice of

love would doubtless prevail.

These were strong temptations to Hugh de Monthermer, whose heart was

not of the most icy nature; but, on the other hand, there were those

chivalrous feelings of honour in which he had been educated, which but

too few, indeed, of the nobles of his own day entertained, but which

were rooted in his mind as principles that even passion could not

overthrow. He demanded of himself, Would it be honourable? would it be

just?--Treated with kindness and trust as he had lately been by the

Earl of Ashby, ought he not to return confidence for confidence, and

boldly ask her father for Lucy's hand without taking advantage of her

unprotected situation to induce her to grant what might otherwise be

refused?

"It is like stealing a treasure," said Hugh to himself, "which we have

found by chance, but which we know belongs to another man."

Lucy looked up, wondering that he did not reply; and her lover,

believing that he risked nothing to show her both the passion which was

in his heart, and the principles which restrained that passion,

answered, at length, "Dear girl, I am sorely tempted--tempted to ask

you to be mine at once--tempted to ask you to send for that same priest

we talked of but now, and to give me this fair hand before we quit

these greenwood shades."

"Nay, nay, Hugh," cried Lucy, colouring brightly.

"Hear me, Lucy," said her lover; "I only said I was sorely tempted; but

I know I must not yield. Yet one thing, Lucy, I may seek, and that

fairly, for it is what I would ask were we now in the midst of the

gayest hall,--ay! or in that sweet oriel window of your father's

castle, where we have whiled away so many an hour with idle words that

covered deeper thoughts within. Will you promise to be mine?--Will you

promise to be mine whatever betide!"

Lucy gazed somewhat sadly in his face--"Sooner or later, Hugh," she

said; "sooner or later, I will. I must not resist my father's will. If

he oppose, I must obey so far, as to deny you for the time; but

never--believe me, Hugh, for I promise by all I hold most sacred--never

shall this hand rest as a bride in that of another man. They can but

send me to a convent; and that my father will not do, for I know that

often, when my brother's rash mood frets him and brings a cloud over

the calm evening sunshine of his days, he finds a comfort in my

presence, which he would not willingly be without."

"But, dear Lucy," said Hugh, "were your father dead, might not your

brother doom you to the dark cold shade of the cloister?"

"He cannot, Hugh--he dare not!" replied Lucy. "He has no power. The

lands I hold are not from him, nor from the King of England. However,

they might strip me of them, Hugh, it is true, and Lucy de Ashby might

be a dowerless bride, but----"

"But the more welcome, dearest Lucy!" replied Hugh. "Would that your

father even now would give me this fair hand, with nothing on it but

the ring that makes you mine! and should the time ever come when, after

his death, your brother opposes our union, but bring me that sweet

smile, and the kind word, 'Yes,' at the altar, and I shall think my

Lucy dowered well enough."

"It is sad, Hugh," said Lucy, "even to look forward to future joys when

one of those we love shall be no longer here; and, therefore, I will

still trust that my father's eyes may see our wedding, and his voice

give us a blessing. But my proud brother, Alured, shall never stand

between you and me.--Hark! there are steps upon the stairs!" she

exclaimed; "before they come, let me bind myself by bonds that cannot

be broken.--I promise you that, sooner or later, I will be yours, Hugh;

and that I will never be the bride of another; so help me Heaven at my

need!"