Eveline crept forwards as directed, conceiving resistance to be of
no avail, and thinking that compliance with the request of one who
spoke like a person of consequence, might find her protection
against the unbridled fury of the Welsh, to whom she was
obnoxious, as being the cause of Gwenwyn's death, and the defeat
of the Britons under the walls of the Garde Doloureuse.

She crept then forwards through a narrow and damp passage, built
on either side with rough stones, and so low that she could not
have entered it in any other posture. When she had proceeded about
two or three yards, the passage opened into a concavity or
apartment, high enough to permit her to sit at her ease, and of
irregular, but narrow, dimensions. At the same time she became
sensible, from the noise which she heard behind her, that the
ruffians were stopping up the passage by which she had been thus
introduced into the bowels of the earth. She could distinctly hear
the clattering of stone with which they closed the entrance, and
she became sensible that the current of fresh air, which had
rushed through the opening, was gradually failing, and that the
atmosphere of the subterranean apartment became yet more damp,
earthy, and oppressive than at first.

At this moment came a distant sound from without, in which Eveline
thought she could distinguish cries, blows, the trampling of
horse, the oaths, shouts, and screams of the combatants, but all
deadened by the rude walls of her prison, into a confused hollow
murmur, conveying such intelligence to her ears as we may suppose
the dead to hear from the world they have quitted.

Influenced by desperation, under circumstances so dreadful,
Eveline struggled for liberty with such frantic energy, that she
partly effected her purpose by forcing her arms from the bonds
which confined them. But this only convinced her of the
impossibility to escape; for, rending off the veil which wrapped
her head, she found herself in total darkness, and flinging her
arms hastily around her, she discovered she was cooped up in a
subterranean cavern, of very narrow dimensions. Her hands, which
groped around, encountered only pieces of decayed metal, and a
substance which, at another moment, would have made her shudder,
being, in truth, the mouldering bones of the dead. At present, not
even this circumstance could add to her fears, immured as she
seemed to be, to perish by a strange and subterranean death, while
her friends and deliverers were probably within a few yards of
her. She flung her arms wildly around in search of some avenue of
escape, but every effort she made for liberating herself from the
ponderous circumvallation, was as ineffectual as if directed
against the dome of a cathedral.

The noise by which her ears were at first assailed increased
rapidly, and at one moment it seemed as if the covering of the
vault under which she lay sounded repeatedly to blows, or the
shock of substances which had fallen, or been thrown, against it.
It was impossible that a human brain could have withstood these
terrors, operating upon it so immediately; but happily this
extremity lasted not long. Sounds, more hollow, and dying away in
distance, argued that one or other of the parties had retreated;
and at length all was silent.

Eveline was now left to the undisturbed contemplation of her own
disastrous situation. The fight was over, and, as circumstances
led her to infer, her own friends were conquerors; for otherwise
the victor would have relieved her from her place of confinement,
and carried her away captive with him, as his words had menaced.
But what could the success of her faithful friends and followers
avail Eveline, who, pent up under a place of concealment which,
whatever was its character, must have escaped their observation,
was left on the field of battle, to become again the prize of the
enemy, should their band venture to return, or die in darkness and
privation, a death as horrid as ever tyrant invented, or martyr
underwent, and which the unfortunate young lady could not even
bear to think of without a prayer that her agony might at least be
shortened.

In this hour of dread she recollected the poniard which she wore,
and the dark thought crossed her mind, that, when life became
hopeless, a speedy death was at least within her reach. As her
soul shuddered at so dreadful an alternative, the question
suddenly occurred, might not this weapon be put to a more hallowed
use, and aid her emancipation, instead of abridging her
sufferings?

This hope once adopted, the daughter of Raymond Berenger hastened
to prove the experiment, and by repeated efforts succeeded, though
with difficulty, in changing her posture, so as to admit of her
inspecting her place of confinement all around, but particularly
the passage by which she had entered, and by which she now
attempted again to return to the light of day. She crept to the
extremity, and found it, as she expected, strongly blocked up with
large stones and earth, rammed together in such a manner as nearly
to extinguish all hope of escape. The work, however, had been
hastily performed, and life and liberty were prizes to stimulate
exertion. With her poniard she cleared away the earth and sods--
with her hands, little accustomed to such labour, she removed
several stones, and advanced in her task so far as to obtain a
glimmering of light, and, what was scarce less precious, a supply
of purer air. But, at the same time, she had the misfortune to
ascertain, that, from the size and massiveness of a huge stone
which closed the extremity of the passage, there was no hope that
her unassisted strength could effect her extrication. Yet her
condition was improved by the admission of air and light, as well
as by the opportunity afforded of calling out for assistance.

Such cries, indeed, were for some time uttered in vain--the field
had probably been left to the dead and the dying; for low and
indistinct groans were the only answer which she received for
several minutes. At length, as she repeated her exclamation, a
voice, faint as that of one just awakened from a swoon, pronounced
these words in answer:--"Edris of the Earthen House, dost thou
call from thy tomb to the wretch who just hastens to his own?--Are
the boundaries broken down which connect me with the living?--And
do I already hear, with fleshly ears, the faint and screaming
accents of the dead?"

"It is no spirit who speaks," replied Eveline, overjoyed at
finding she could at least communicate her existence to a living
person--"no spirit, but a most unhappy maiden, Eveline Berenger by
name, immured beneath this dark vault, and in danger to perish
horribly, unless God send me rescue!"

"Eveline Berenger!" exclaimed he whom she addressed, in the
accents of wonder. "It is impossible!--I watched her green mantle
--I watched her plumy bonnet as I saw her hurried from the field,
and felt my own inability to follow to the rescue; nor did force
or exertion altogether leave me till the waving of the robe and
the dancing of the feathers were lost to my eyes, and all hope of
rescuing her abandoned my heart."

"Faithful vassal, or right true friend, or courteous stranger,
whichsoever I may name thee," answered Eveline, "know thou hast
been abused by the artifices of these Welsh banditti--the mantle
and head-gear of Eveline Berenger they have indeed with them, and
may have used them to mislead those true friends, who, like thee,
are anxious for my fate. Wherefore, brave sir, devise some
succour, if thou canst, for thyself and me; since I dread that
these ruffians, when they shall have escaped immediate pursuit,
will return hither, like the robber to the hoard where he has
deposited his stolen booty."

"Now, the Holy Virgin be praised," said the wounded man, "that I
can spend the last breath of my life in thy just and honourable
service! I would not before blow my bugle, lest I recalled from
the pursuit to the aid of my worthless self some of those who
might be effectually engaged in thy rescue; may Heaven grant that
the recall may now be heard, that my eyes may yet see the Lady
Eveline in safety and liberty!"

The words, though spoken in a feeble tone, breathed a spirit of
enthusiasm, and were followed by the blast of a horn, faintly
winded, to which no answer was made save the echoing of the dell.
A sharper and louder blast was then sent forth, but sunk so
suddenly, that it seemed the breath of him who sounded the
instrument had failed in the effort.--A strange thought crossed
Eveline's mind even in that moment of uncertainty and terror.
"That," she said, "was the note of a De Lacy--surely you cannot
be my gentle kinsman, Sir Damian?"

"I am that unhappy wretch, deserving of death for the evil care
which I have taken of the treasure intrusted to me.--What was my
business to trust to reports and messengers? I should have
worshipped the saint who was committed to my keeping, with such
vigilance as avarice bestows on the dross which he calls treasure
--I should have rested no where, save at your gate; outwatched the
brightest stars in the horizon; unseen and unknown myself, I
should never have parted from your neighbourhood; then had you not
been in the present danger, and--much less important consequence--
thou, Damian de Lacy, had not filled the grave of a forsworn and
negligent caitiff!"

"Alas! noble Damian," said Eveline, "break not my heart by blaming
yourself for an imprudence which is altogether my own. Thy succour
was ever near when I intimated the least want of it; and it
imbitters my own misfortune to know that my rashness has been the
cause of your disaster. Answer me, gentle kinsman, and give me to
hope that the wounds you have suffered are such as may be cured.--
Alas! how much of your blood have I seen spilled, and what a fate
is mine, that I should ever bring distress on all for whom I would
most willingly sacrifice my own happiness!--But do not let us
imbitter the moments given us in mercy, by fruitless repinings--
Try what you can to stop thine ebbing blood, which is so dear to
England--to Eveline--and to thine uncle."

Damian groaned as she spoke, and was silent; while, maddened with
the idea that he might be perishing for want of aid, Eveline
repeated her efforts to extricate herself for her kinsman's
assistance as well as her own. It was all in vain, and she had
ceased the attempt in despair; and, passing from one hideous
subject of terror to another, she sat listening, with sharpened
ear, for the dying groan of Damian, when--feeling of ecstasy!--the
ground was shaken with horses' feet advancing rapidly. Yet this
joyful sound, if decisive of life, did not assure her of liberty--
It might be the banditti of the mountains returning to seek their
captive. Even then they would surely allow her leave to look upon
and bind up the wounds of Damian de Lacy; for to keep him as a
captive might vantage them more in many degrees, than could his
death. A horseman came up--Eveline invoked his assistance, and the
first word she heard was an exclamation in Flemish from the
faithful Wilkin Flammock, which nothing save some spectacle of the
most unusual kind was ever known to compel from that phlegmatic
person.

His presence, indeed, was particularly useful on this occasion;
for, being informed by the Lady Eveline in what condition she was
placed, and implored at the same time to look to the situation of
Sir Damian de Lacy, he began, with admirable composure and some
skill, to stop the wounds of the one, while his attendants
collected levers, left by the Welsh as they retreated, and were
soon ready to attempt the liberation of Eveline. With much
caution, and under the experienced direction of Flammock, the
stone was at length so much raised, that the Lady Eveline was
visible, to the delight of all, and especially of the faithful
Rose, who, regardless of the risk of personal harm, fluttered
around her mistress's place of confinement, like a bird robbed of
her nestlings around the cage in which the truant urchin has
imprisoned them. Precaution was necessary to remove the stone,
lest falling inwards it might do the lady injury.

At length the rocky fragment was so much displaced that she could
issue forth; while her people, as in hatred of the coercion which
she had sustained, ceased not to heave, with bar and lever, till,
totally destroying the balance of the heavy mass, it turned over
from the little flat on which it had been placed at the mouth of
the subterranean entrance, and, acquiring force as it revolved
down a steep declivity, was at length put into rapid motion, and
rolled, crashed, and thundered, down the hill, amid flashes of
fire which it forced from the rocks, and clouds of smoke and dust,
until it alighted in the channel of a brook, where it broke into
several massive fragments, with a noise that might have been heard
some miles off.

With garments rent and soiled through the violence which she had
sustained; with dishevelled hair, and disordered dress; faint from
the stifling effect of her confinement, and exhausted by the
efforts she had made to relieve herself, Eveline did not,
nevertheless, waste a single minute in considering her own
condition; but with the eagerness of a sister hastening to the
assistance of her only brother, betook herself to examine the
several severe wounds of Damian de Lacy, and to use proper means
to stanch the blood and recall him from his swoon. We have said
elsewhere, that, like other ladies of the time, Eveline was not
altogether unacquainted with the surgical art, and she now
displayed a greater share of knowledge than she had been thought
capable of exerting. There was prudence, foresight, and
tenderness, in every direction which she gave, and the softness of
the female sex, with their officious humanity, ever ready to
assist in alleviating human misery, seemed in her enhanced, and
rendered dignified, by the sagacity of a strong and powerful
understanding. After hearing with wonder for a minute or two the
prudent and ready-witted directions of her mistress, Rose seemed
at once to recollect that the patient should not be left to the
exclusive care of the Lady Eveline, and joining, therefore, in the
task, she rendered what assistance she could, while the attendants
were employed in forming a litter, on which the wounded knight was
to be conveyed to the castle of the Garde Doloureuse.




CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.


  A merry place, 'tis said, in times of yore,
  But something ails it now--the place is cursed.
      WORDSWORTH.


The place on which the skirmish had occurred, and the deliverance
of the Lady Eveline had been effected, was a wild and singular
spot, being a small level plain, forming a sort of stage, or
resting-place, between two very rough paths, one of which winded
up the rivulet from below, and another continued the ascent above.
Being surrounded by hills and woods, it was a celebrated spot for
finding game, and, in former days, a Welsh prince, renowned for
his universal hospitality, his love of _crw_ and of the
chase, had erected a forest-lodge, where he used to feast his
friends and followers with a profusion unexampled in Cambria.
The fancy of the bards, always captivated with magnificence, and
having no objections to the peculiar species of profusion
practised by this potentate, gave him the surname of Edris of the
Goblets; and celebrated him in their odes in terms as high as
those which exalt the heroes of the famous Hirlas Horn. The
subject of their praises, however, fell finally a victim to his
propensities, having been stabbed to the heart in one of those
scenes of confusion and drunkenness which were frequently the
conclusion of his renowned banquets. Shocked at this catastrophe,
the assembled Britons interred the relics of the Prince on the
place where he had died, within the narrow vault where Eveline had
been confined, and having barricaded the entrance of the sepulchre
with fragments of rock, heaped over it an immense _cairn_, or
pile of stones, on the summit of which they put the assassin to
death. Superstition guarded the spot; and for many a year this
memorial of Edris remained unviolated, although the lodge had gone
to ruin, and its vestiges had totally decayed.

In latter years, some prowling band of Welsh robbers had
discovered the secret entrance, and opened it with the view of
ransacking the tomb for arms and treasures, which were in ancient
times often buried with the dead. These marauders were
disappointed, and obtained nothing by the violation of the grave
of Edris, excepting the knowledge of a secret place, which might
be used for depositing their booty, or even as a place of retreat
for one of their number in a case of emergency.

When the followers of Damian, five or six in number, explained
their part of the history of the day to Wilkin Flammock, it
appeared that Damian had ordered them to horse at break of day,
with a more considerable body, to act, as they understood, against
a party of insurgent peasants, when of a sudden he had altered his
mind, and, dividing his force into small bands, employed himself
and them in reconnoitring more than one mountain-pass betwixt
Wales and the Marches of the English country, in the neighbourhood
of the Garde Doloureuse.

This was an occupation so ordinary for him, that it excited no
particular notice. These manoeuvres were frequently undertaken by
the warlike marchers, for the purpose of intimidating the Welsh,
in general, more especially the bands of outlaws, who, independent
of any regular government, infested these wild frontiers. Yet it
escaped not comment, that, in undertaking such service at this
moment, Damian seemed to abandon that of dispersing the
insurgents, which had been considered as the chief object of the
day.

It was about noon, when, falling in, as good fortune would have
it, with one of the fugitive grooms, Damian and his immediate
attendants received information of the violence committed on the
Lady Eveline, and, by their perfect knowledge of the country, wore
able to intercept the ruffians at the Pass of Edris, as it was
called, by which the Welsh rovers ordinarily returned to their
strongholds in the interior. It is probable that the banditti were
not aware of the small force which Damian headed in person, and at
the same time knew that there would be an immediate and hot
pursuit in their rear; and these circumstances led their leader to
adopt the singular expedient of hiding Eveline in the tomb, while
one of their own number, dressed in her clothes, might serve as a
decoy to deceive their assailants, and lead them, from the spot
where she was really concealed, to which it was no doubt the
purpose of the banditti to return, when they had eluded their
pursuers.

Accordingly, the robbers had already drawn up before the tomb for
the purpose of regularly retreating, until they should find some
suitable place either for making a stand, or where, if
overmatched, they might, by abandoning their horses, and
dispersing among the rocks, evade the attack of the Norman
cavalry. Their plan had been defeated by the precipitation of
Damian, who, beholding as he thought the plumes and mantle of the
Lady Eveline in the rear of the party, charged them without
considering either the odds of numbers, or the lightness of his
own armour, which, consisting only of a headpiece and a buff
surcoat, offered but imperfect resistance to the Welsh knives and
glaives. He was accordingly wounded severely at the onset, and
would have been slain, but for the exertions of his few followers,
and the fears of the Welsh, that, while thus continuing the battle
in front, they might be assaulted in the rear by the followers of
Eveline, whom they must now suppose were all in arms and motion.
They retreated, therefore, or rather fled, and the attendants of
Damian were despatched after them by their fallen master, with
directions to let no consideration induce them to leave off the
chase, until the captive Lady of the Garde Doloureuse was
delivered from her ravishers.

The outlaws, secure in their knowledge of the paths, and the
activity of their small Welsh horses, made an orderly retreat,
with the exception of two or three of their rear-guard, cut down
by Damian in his furious onset. They shot arrows, from time to
time, at the men-at-arms, and laughed at the ineffectual efforts
which these heavy-armed warriors, with their barbed horses, made
to overtake them. But the scene was changed by the appearance of
Wilkin Flammock, on his puissant war-horse, who was beginning to
ascend the pass, leading a party consisting both of foot and
horse. The fear of being intercepted caused the outlaws to have
recourse to their last stratagem, and, abandoning their Welsh
nags, they betook themselves to the cliffs, and, by superior
activity and dexterity, baffled, generally speaking, the attempts
of their pursuers on either hand. All of them, however, were not
equally fortunate, for two or three fell into the hands of
Flammock's party; amongst others, the person upon whom Eveline's
clothes had been placed, and who now, to the great disappointment
of those who had attached themselves to his pursuit, proved to be,
not the lady whom they were emulous to deliver, but a fair-haired
young Welshman, whose wild looks, and incoherent speech, seemed to
argue a disturbed imagination. This would not have saved him from
immediate death, the usual doom of captives taken in such
skirmishes, had not the faint blast of Damian's horn, sounding
from above, recalled his own party, and summoned that of Wilkin
Flammock to the spot; while, in the confusion and hurry of their
obeying the signal, the pity or the contempt of his guards
suffered the prisoner to escape. They had, indeed, little to learn
from him, even had he been disposed to give intelligence, or
capable of communicating it. All were well assured that their lady
had fallen into an ambuscade, formed by Dawfyd the one-eyed, a
redoubted freebooter of the period, who had ventured upon this
hardy enterprise in the hope of obtaining a large ransom for the
captive Eveline, and all, incensed at his extreme insolence and
audacity, devoted his head and limbs to the eagles and the ravens.

These were the particulars which the followers of Flammock and of
Damian learned by comparing notes with each other, on the
incidents of the day. As they returned by the Red Pool they were
joined by Dame Gillian, who, after many exclamations of joy at the
unexpected liberation of her lady, and as many of sorrow at the
unexpected disaster of Damian, proceeded to inform the men-at-
arms, that the merchant, whose hawks had been the original cause
of these adventures, had been taken prisoner by two or three of
the Welsh in their retreat, and that she herself and the wounded
Raoul would have shared the same fate, but that they had no horse
left to mount her upon, and did not consider old Raoul as worth
either ransom or the trouble of killing. One had, indeed, flung a
stone at him as he lay on the hill-side, but happily, as his dame
said, it fell something short of him--"It was but a little fellow
who threw it," she said--"there was a big man amongst them--if he
had tried, it's like, by our Lady's grace, he had cast it a
thought farther." So saying, the dame gathered herself up, and
adjusted her dress for again mounting on horseback.

The wounded Damian was placed on a litter, hastily constructed of
boughs, and, with the females, was placed in the centre of the
little troop, augmented by the rest of the young knight's
followers, who began to rejoin his standard. The united body now
marched with military order and precaution, and winded through the
passes with the attention of men prepared to meet and to repel
injury.




CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH.


  What! fair and young-, and faithful too?
  A miracle if this be true.
     WALLER.


Rose, by nature one of the most disinterested and affectionate
maidens that ever breathed, was the first who, hastily considering
the peculiar condition in which her lady was placed, and the
marked degree of restraint which had hitherto characterized her
intercourse with her youthful guardian, became anxious to know how
the wounded knight was to be disposed of; and when she came to
Eveline's side for the purpose of asking this important question,
her resolution well-nigh failed her.

The appearance of Eveline was indeed such as might have made it
almost cruelty to intrude upon her any other subject of anxious
consideration than those with which her mind had been so lately
assailed, and was still occupied. Her countenance was as pale as
death could have made it, unless where it was specked with drops
of blood; her veil, torn and disordered, was soiled with dust and
with gore; her hair, wildly dishevelled, fell in, elf-locks on her
brow and shoulders, and a single broken and ragged feather, which
was all that remained of her headgear, had been twisted among her
tresses and still flowed there, as if in mockery, rather than
ornament. Her eyes were fixed on the litter where Damian was
deposited, and she rode close beside it, without apparently
wasting a thought on any thing, save the danger of him who was
extended there.

Rose plainly saw that her lady was under feelings of excitation,
which might render it difficult for her to take a wise and prudent
view of her own situation. She endeavoured gradually to awaken her
to a sense of it. "Dearest lady," said Rose, "will it please you
to take my mantle?"

"Torment me not," answered Eveline, with some sharpness in her
accent.

"Indeed, my lady," said Dame Gillian, bustling up as one who
feared her functions as mistress of the robes might be interfered
with--"indeed, my lady, Rose Flammock speaks truth; and neither
your kirtle nor your gown are sitting as they should do; and, to
speak truth, they are but barely decent. And so, if Rose will turn
herself, and put her horse out of my way," continued the tire-
woman, "I will put your dress in better order in the sticking in
of a bodkin, than any Fleming of them all could do in twelve
hours."

"I care not for my dress," replied Eveline, in the same manner as
before.

"Care then for your honour--for your fame," said Rose, riding
close to her mistress, and whispering in her ear; "think, and that
hastily, how you are to dispose of this wounded young man."

"To the castle," answered Eveline aloud, as if scorning the
affectation of secrecy; "lead to the castle, and that straight as
you can."

"Why not rather to his own camp, or to Malpas?" said Rose--
"dearest lady, believe, it will be for the best."

"Wherefore not--wherefore not?--wherefore not leave him on the
way-side at once, to the knife of the Welshman, and the teeth of
the wolf?-Once--twice--three times has he been my preserver. Where
I go, he shall go; nor will I be in safety myself a moment sooner
than I know that he is so."

Rose saw that she could make no impression on her mistress, and
her own reflection told her that the wounded man's life might be
endangered by a longer transportation than was absolutely
necessary. An expedient occurred to her, by which she imagined
this objection might be obviated; but it was necessary she should
consult her father. She struck her palfrey with her riding-rod,
and in a moment her diminutive, though beautiful figure, and her
spirited little jennet, were by the side of the gigantic Fleming
and his tall black horse, and riding, as it were, in their vast
shadow. "My dearest father," said Rose, "the lady intends that Sir
Damian be transported to the castle, where it is like he may be a
long sojourner;--what think you?-is that wholesome counsel?"

"Wholesome for the youth, surely, Roschen," answered the Fleming,
"because he will escape the better risk of a fever."

"True; but is it wise for my lady?" continued Rose.

"Wise enough, if she deal wisely. But wherefore shouldst thou
doubt her, Roschen?"

"I know not," said Rose, unwilling to breathe even to her father
the fears and doubts which she herself entertained; "but where
there are evil tongues, there may be evil rehearsing. Sir Damian
and my lady are both very young-Methinks it were better, dearest
father, would you offer the shelter of your roof to the wounded
knight, in the stead of his being carried to the castle."

"That I shall not, wench," answered the Fleming, hastily--"that I
shall not, if I may help. Norman shall not cross my quiet
threshold, nor Englishman neither, to mock my quiet thrift, and
consume my substance. Thou dost not know them, because thou art
ever with thy lady, and hast her good favour; but I know them
well; and the best I can get from them is Lazy Flanderkin, and
Greedy Flanderkin, and Flemish, sot---I thank the saints they
cannot say Coward Flanderkin, since Gwenwyn's Welsh uproar."

"I had ever thought, my father," answered Rose, "that your spirit
was too calm to regard these base calumnies. Bethink you we are
under this lady's banner, and that she has been my loving
mistress, and her father was your good lord; to the Constable,
too, are you beholden, for enlarged privileges. Money may pay
debt, but kindness only can requite kindness; and I forebode that
you will never have such an opportunity to do kindness to the
houses of Berenger and De Lacy, as by opening the doors of your
house to this wounded knight."

"The doors of my house!" answered the Fleming--"do I know how long
I may call that, or any house upon earth, my own? Alas, my
daughter, we came hither to fly from the rage of the elements, but
who knows how soon we may perish by the wrath of men!"

"You speak strangely, my father," said Rose; "it holds not with
your solid wisdom to augur such general evil from the rash
enterprise of a Welsh outlaw."

"I think not of the One-eyed robber," said Wilkin; "although the
increase and audacity of such robbers as Dawfyd is no good sign of
a quiet country. But thou, who livest within yonder walls, hearest
but little of what passes without, and your estate is less
anxious;--you had known nothing of the news from me, unless in
case I had found it necessary to remove to another country."

"To remove, my dearest father, from the land where your thrift and
industry have gained you an honourable competency?"

"Ay, and where the hunger of wicked men, who envy me the produce
of my thrift, may likely bring me to a dishonourable death. There
have been tumults among the English rabble in more than one
county, and their wrath is directed against those of our nation,
as if we were Jews or heathens, and not better Christians and
better men than themselves. They have, at York, Bristol, and
elsewhere, sacked the houses of the Flemings, spoiled their goods,
misused their families, and murdered themselves.--And why?--except
that we have brought among them the skill and industry which they
possessed not; and because wealth, which they would never else
have seen in Britain, was the reward of our art and our toil.
Roschen, this evil spirit is spreading wider daily. Here we are
more safe than elsewhere, because we form a colony of some numbers
and strength. But I confide not in our neighbours; and hadst not
thou, Rose, been in security, I would long ere this have given up
all, and left Britain."

"Given up all, and left Britain!"--The words sounded prodigious in
the ears of his daughter, who knew better than any one how
successful her father had been in his industry, and how unlikely
one of his firm and sedate temper was to abandon known and present
advantages for the dread of distant or contingent peril. At length
she replied, "If such be your peril, my father, methinks your
house and goods cannot have a better protection than, the presence
of this noble knight. Where lives the man who dare aught of
violence against the house which harbours Damian de Lacy?"

"I know not that," said the Fleming, in the same composed and
steady, but ominous tone--"May Heaven forgive it me, if it be sin!
but I see little save folly in these Crusades, which the
priesthood have preached up so successfully. Here has the
Constable been absent for nearly three years, and no certain
tidings of his life or death, victory or defeat. He marched from
hence, as if he meant not to draw bridle or sheathe sword until
the Holy Sepulchre was won from the Saracens, yet we can hear with
no certainty whether even a hamlet has been taken from the
Saracens. In the mean-while, the people that are at home grow
discontented; their lords, with the better part of their
followers, are in Palestine--dead or alive we scarcely know; the
people themselves are oppressed and flayed by stewards and
deputies, whose yoke is neither so light nor so lightly endured as
that of the actual lord. The commons, who naturally hate the
knights and gentry, think it no bad time to make some head against
them--ay, and there be some of noble blood who would not care to
be their leaders, that they may have their share in the spoil; for
foreign expeditions and profligate habits have made many poor; and
he that is poor will murder his father for money. I hate poor
people; and I would the devil had every man who cannot keep
himself by the work of his own hand!"

The Fleming concluded, with this characteristic imprecation, a
speech which gave Rose a more frightful view of the state of
England, than, shut up as she was within the Garde Doloureuse, she
had before had an opportunity of learning. "Surely," she said--
"surely these violences of which you speak are not to be dreaded
by those who live under the banner of De Lacy and of Berenger?"

"Berenger subsists but in name," answered Wilkin Flammock, "and
Damian, though a brave youth, hath not his uncle's ascendency of
character, and authority. His men also complain that they are
harassed with the duty of watching for protection of a castle, in
itself impregnable, and sufficiently garrisoned, and that they
lose all opportunity of honourable enterprise, as they call it--
that is, of fight and spoil--in this inactive and inglorious
manner of life. They say that Damian the beardless was a man, but
that Damian with the mustache is no better than a woman; and that
age, which has darkened his upper lip, hath at the same time
blenched his courage.--And they say more, which were but wearisome
to tell."

"Nay, but, let me know what they say; let me know it, for Heaven's
sake!" answered Rose, "if it concern, as it must concern, my dear
lady."

"Even so, Roschen," answered Wilkin. "There are many among the
Norman men-at-arms who talk, over their wine-cups, how that Damian
de Lacy is in love with his uncle's betrothed bride; ay, and that
they correspond together by art magic."

"By art magic, indeed, it must be," said Rose, smiling scornfully,
"for by no earthly means do they correspond, as I, for one, can
bear witness."

"To art magic, accordingly, they impute it," quoth Wilkin
Flammock, "that so soon as ever my lady stirs beyond the portal of
her castle, De Lacy is in the saddle with a party of his cavalry,
though they are positively certain that he has received no
messenger, letter, or other ordinary notice of her purpose; nor
have they ever, on such occasions, scoured the passes long, ere
they have seen or heard of my Lady Eveline's being abroad."

"This has not escaped me," said Rose; "and my lady has expressed
herself even displeased at the accuracy which Damian displayed in
procuring a knowledge of her motions, as well as at the officious
punctuality with which he has attended and guarded them. To-day
has, however, shown," she continued, "that his vigilance may serve
a good purpose; and as they never met upon these occasions, but
continued at such distance as excluded even the possibility of
intercourse, methinks they might have escaped the censure of the
most suspicious."

"Ay, my daughter Roschen," replied Wilkin; "but it is possible to
drive caution so far as to excite suspicion. Why, say the men-at-
arms, should these two observe such constant, yet such guarded
intelligence with one another? Why should their approach be so
near, and why, yet, should they never meet? If they had been
merely the nephew, and the uncle's bride, they must have had
interviews avowedly and frankly; and, on the other hand, if they
be two secret lovers, there is reason to believe that they do find
their own private places of meeting, though they have art
sufficient to conceal them."

"Every word that you speak, my father," replied the generous Rose,
"increases the absolute necessity that you receive this wounded
youth into your house. Be the evils you dread ever so great, yet,
may you rely upon it, that they cannot be augmented by admitting
him, with a few of his faithful followers."

"Not one follower," said the Fleming, hastily, "not one beef-fed
knave of them, save the page that is to tend him, and the doctor
that is to attempt his cure."

"But I may offer the shelter of your roof to these three, at
least?" answered Rose.

"Do as thou wilt, do as thou wilt," said the doating father. "By
my faith, Roschen, it is well for thee thou hast sense and
moderation in asking, since I am so foolishly prompt in granting.
This is one of your freaks, now, of honour or generosity--but
commend me to prudence and honesty.--Ah! Rose, Rose, those who
would do what is better than good, sometimes bring about what is
worse than bad!--But I think I shall be quit of the trouble for
the fear; and that thy mistress, who is, with reverence, something
of a damsel errant, will stand stoutly for the chivalrous
privilege of lodging her knight in her own bower, and tending him
in person."

The Fleming prophesied true. Rose had no sooner made the proposal
to Eveline, that the wounded Damian should be left at her father's
house for his recovery, than her mistress briefly and positively
rejected the proposal. "He has been my preserver," she said, "and
if there be one being left for whom the gates of the Garde
Doloureuse should of themselves fly open, it is to Damian de Lacy.
Nay, damsel, look not upon me with that suspicious and yet
sorrowful countenance--they that are beyond disguise, my girl,
contemn suspicion--It is to God and Our Lady that I must answer,
and to them my bosom lies open!"

They proceeded in silence to the castle gate, when the Lady
Eveline issued her orders that her Guardian, as she emphatically
termed Damian, should be lodged in her father's apartment; and,
with the prudence of more advanced age, she gave the necessary
direction for the reception and accommodation of his followers,
and the arrangements which such an accession of guests required in
the fortress. All this she did with the utmost composure and
presence of mind, even before she altered or arranged her own
disordered dress.

Another step still remained to be taken. She, hastened to the
Chapel of the Virgin, and prostrating herself before her divine
protectress, returned thanks for her second deliverance, and
implored her guidance and direction, and, through her
intercession, that of Almighty God, for the disposal and
regulation of her conduct. "Thou knowest," she said, "that from no
confidence in my own strength, have I thrust myself into danger.
Oh, make me strong where I am most weak--Let not my gratitude and
my compassion be a snare to me; and while I strive to discharge
the duties which thankfulness imposes on me, save me from the evil
tongues of men--and save--oh, save me from the insidious devices
of my own heart!"

She then told her rosary with devout fervour, and retiring from
the chapel to her own apartment, summoned her women to adjust her
dress, and remove the external appearance of the violence to which
she had been so lately subjected.




CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH


   _Julia._----Gentle sir,

   You are our captive--but we'll use you so,
   That you shall think your prison joys may match
   Whate'er your liberty hath known of pleasure.

   _Roderick._
   No, fairest, we have trifled here too long;
   And, lingering to see your roses blossom,
   I've let my laurels wither.

   OLD PLAY.


Arrayed in garments of a mourning colour, and of a fashion more
matronly than perhaps altogether befitted her youth--plain to an
extremity, and devoid of all ornament, save her rosary--Eveline
now performed the duty of waiting upon her wounded deliverer; a
duty which the etiquette of the time not only permitted, but
peremptorily enjoined. She was attended by Rose and Dame Gillian.
Margery, whose element was a sick-chamber, had been already
despatched to that of the young knight, to attend to whatever his
condition might require.

Eveline entered the room with a light step, as if unwilling to
disturb the patient. She paused at the door, and cast her eyes
around her. It had been her father's chamber; nor had she entered
it since his violent death. Around the walls hung a part of his
armour and weapons, with hawking gloves, hunting-poles, and other
instruments of silvan sport. These relics brought as it were in
living form before her the stately presence of old Sir Raymond.
"Frown not, my father,"--her lips formed the words, though her
voice did not utter them--"Frown not--Eveline will never be
unworthy of thee."

Father Aldrovand, and Amelot, the page of Damian, were seated by
the bedside. They rose as Lady Eveline entered; and the first, who
meddled a little with the healing art, said to Eveline "that the
knight had slumbered for some time, and was now about to awake."

Amelot at the same time came forward, and in a hasty and low
voice, begged that the chamber might be kept quiet, and the
spectators requested to retire. "My lord," he said, "ever since
his illness at Gloucester, is apt to speak something wildly as he
awakes from sleep, and will be displeased with me should I permit
any one to be near him."

Eveline accordingly caused her women and the monk to retire into
the anteroom, while she herself remained standing by the door-
communication which connected the apartments, and heard Damian
mention her name as he turned himself painfully on his couch. "Is
she safe and unharmed?" was his first question, and it was asked
with an eagerness which intimated how far it preceded all other
considerations. When Amelot replied in the affirmative, he sighed,
as one whose bosom is relieved from some weighty load, and in a
less animated voice, asked of the page where they were. "This
apartment," he said, "with its furniture, are all strange to me."

"My dear master," said Amelot, "you are at present too weak to ask
questions and receive explanations."

"Be I where I will," said Damian, as if recovering his
recollection, "I am not in the place where my duty calls me. Tell
my trumpets to sound to horse--to horse, and let Ralph Genvil
carry my banner. To horse--to horse! we have not a moment to
lose!"

The wounded knight made some effort to rise, which, in his state
of weakness, Amelot was easily able to frustrate. "Thou art
right," he said, as he sunk back into his reclining posture--"thou
art right--I am weak--but why should strength remain when honour
is lost?" The unhappy young man covered his face with his hands,
and groaned in agony, which seemed more that of the mind than of
the body. Lady Eveline approached his bedside with unassured
steps, fearing she knew not what, yet earnest to testify the
interest she felt in the distresses of the sufferer. Damian looked
up and beheld her, and again hid his face with his hands.

"What means this strange passion, Sir Knight?" said Eveline, with
a voice which, at first weak and trembling, gradually obtained
steadiness and composure. "Ought it to grieve you so much, sworn
as you are to the duties of chivalry, that Heaven hath twice made
you its instrument to save the unfortunate Eveline Berenger?"

"Oh no, no!" he exclaimed with rapidity; "since you are saved, all
is well--but time presses--it is necessary I should presently
depart--no-where ought I now to tarry--least of all, within this
castle--Once more, Amelot, let them get to horse!"

"Nay, my good lord." said the damsel, "this must not be. As your
ward, I cannot let my guardian part thus suddenly--as a physician,
I cannot allow my patient to destroy himself--It is impossible
that you can brook the saddle."

"A litter--a bier--a cart, to drag forth the dishonoured knight
and traitor--all were too good for me--a coffin were best of all!
--But see, Amelot, that it be framed like that of the meanest
churl--no spurs displayed on the pall--no shield with the ancient
coat of the De Lacys--no helmet with their knightly crest must
deck the hearse of him whose name is dishonoured!"

"Is his brain unsettled?" said Eveline, looking with terror from
the wounded man to his attendant; "or is there some dreadful
mystery in these broken words?--If so, speak it forth; and if it
may be amended by life or goods, my deliverer will sustain no
wrong."

Amelot regarded her with a dejected and melancholy air, shook his
head, and looked down on his master with a countenance which
seemed to express, that the questions which she asked could not be
prudently answered in Sir Damian's presence. The Lady Eveline,
observing this gesture, stepped back into the outer apartment, and
made Amelot a sign to follow her. He obeyed, after a glance at his
master, who remained in the same disconsolate posture as formerly,
with his hands crossed over his eyes, like one who wished to
exclude the light, and all which the light made visible.

When Amelot was in the wardrobe, Eveline, making signs to her
attendants to keep at such distance as the room permitted,
questioned him closely on the cause of his master's desperate
expression of terror and remorse. "Thou knowest," she said, "that
I am bound to succour thy lord, if I may, both from gratitude, as
one whom he hath served to the peril of his life--and also from
kinsmanship. Tell me, therefore, in what case he stands, that I
may help him if I can--that is," she added, her pale cheeks deeply
colouring, "if the cause of the distress be fitting for me to
hear."

The page bowed low, yet showed such embarrassment when he began to
speak, as produced a corresponding degree of confusion in the Lady
Eveline, who, nevertheless, urged him as before "to speak without
scruple or delay--so that the tenor of his discourse was fitting
for her ears."

"Believe me, noble lady," said Amelot, "your commands had been
instantly obeyed, but that I fear my master's displeasure if I
talk of his affairs without his warrant; nevertheless, on your
command, whom I know he honours above all earthly beings, I will
speak thus far, that if his life be safe from the wounds he has
received, his honour and worship may be in great danger, if it
please not Heaven to send a remedy."

"Speak on," said Eveline; "and be assured you will do Sir Damian
de Lacy no prejudice by the confidence you may rest in me."

"I well believe it, lady," said the page. "Know, then, if it be
not already known to you, that the clowns and rabble, who have
taken arms against the nobles in the west, pretend to be favoured
in their insurrection, not only by Randal Lacy, but by my master,
Sir Damian."

"They lie that dare charge him with such foul treason to his own
blood, as well as to his sovereign!" replied Eveline.

"Well do I believe they lie," said Amelot; "but this hinders not
their falsehoods from being believed by those who know him less
inwardly. More than one runaway from our troop have joined this
rabblement, and that gives some credit to the scandal. And then
they say--they say--that--in short, that my master longs to
possess the lands in his proper right which he occupies as his
uncle's administrator; and that if the old Constable--I crave your
pardon, madam--should return from Palestine, he should find it
difficult to obtain possession of his own again."

"The sordid wretches judge of others by their own base minds, and
conceive those temptations too powerful for men of worth, which
they are themselves conscious they would be unable to resist. But
are the insurgents then so insolent and so powerful? We have heard
of their violences, but only as if it had been some popular
tumult."

"We had notice last night that they have drawn together in great
force, and besieged or blockaded Wild Wenlock, with his men-at-
arms, in a village about ten miles hence. He hath sent to my
master, as his kinsman and companion-at-arms, to come to his
assistance. We were on horseback this morning to march to the
rescue--when--"

He paused, and seemed unwilling to proceed. Eveline caught at the
word. "When you heard of my danger?" she said. "I would ye had
rather heard of my death!"

"Surely, noble lady," said the page, with his eyes fixed on the
ground, "nothing but so strong a cause could have made my master
halt his troop, and carry the better part of them to the Welsh
mountains, when his countryman's distress, and the commands of the
King's Lieutenant, so peremptorily demanded his presence
elsewhere."

"I knew it," she said--"I knew I was born to be his destruction!
yet methinks this is worse than I dreamed of, when the worst was
in my thoughts. I feared to occasion his death, not his loss of
fame. For God's sake, young Amelot, do what thou canst, and that
without loss of time! Get thee straightway to horse, and join to
thy own men as many as thou canst gather of mine--Go--ride, my
brave youth--show thy master's banner, and let them see that his
forces and his heart are with them, though his person be absent.
Haste, haste, for the time is precious."

"But the safety of this castle--But your own safety?" said the
page. "God knows how willingly I would do aught to save his fame!
But I know my master's mood; and were you to suffer by my leaving
the Garde Doloureuse, even although I were to save him lands,
life, and honour, by my doing so, I should be more like to taste
of his dagger, than of his thanks or bounty."

"Go, nevertheless, dear Amelot," said she; "gather what force thou
canst make, and begone."

"You spur a willing horse, madam," said the page, springing to his
feet; "and in the condition of my master, I see nothing better
than that his banner should be displayed against these churls."