Making Love on the Ramparts.
When Sir Patrick Hepborne and Sir John Assueton arose in the morning,
they found their own squires and lacqueys in attendance. The busy note
of preparation was in the Castle-yard, and they were told that the
Bishop of Durham was just taking his departure.
The mitred ecclesiastic went off on an ambling jennet, accompanied by
the knights and churchmen who had come with him, and followed by a long
cavalcade of richly-attired attendants; and he was saluted by the
garrison drawn up in array, and by the guards as he passed outwards. He
was, moreover, attended by Sir Walter and his principal officers, who
rode half a day’s journey with him. The two friends were thus left to
entertain themselves until the evening. Assueton occupied himself in
studying the defences of the place, whilst Hepborne loitered about the
exterior of the keep, and the walls commanding a view of its various
sides, in the hope of being again blessed with a sight of the Lady
Eleanore.
As he was surveying the huge mass of masonry, so intently that a
bystander might have supposed that he was taking an account of the
number of stones it was composed of, the lady appeared at one of the
high windows on the side facing the Tweed. The knight had his eyes
turned in a different direction at the moment, so that she had a full
and undisturbed view of him, as he stood nearly opposite to her on the
rampart, for some time ere he perceived her. He turned suddenly round,
and she instantly withdrew; but not before he had enjoyed another
transient glimpse of that face which had already created so strong a
sensation in his breast.
“Provoking!” thought Hepborne; “yet doth the very modesty of this
angelic lady lead me the more to admire her. Unbending spirit, said
that knave at the hostel? She is as gentle as a dove. Would I could
behold her again.”
Sir Patrick stepped back upon the rampart so as to have a better view
inwards, and he was gratified by observing that her figure was still
within the deep window, though her face was obscured by its shade. He
recognized the rose-coloured mantle she had formerly appeared in. He
kissed his hand and bowed. He saw her alabaster arm relieve itself from
the mantle, and beheld the falcon he had rescued seated on her glove.
She stepped forward in such a manner to return his salute, that he
enjoyed a sufficient view of her face to make him certain that he was
not mistaken in the person. The lady pointed with a smile to her
falcon, kissed it, waved an acknowledgment of his courtesy, and again
retreating, disappeared.
As Sir Patrick was standing vainly hoping for her re-appearance, the
old minstrel, Adam of Gordon, chanced to come by. Hepborne saluted him
courteously.
“Canst thou tell me whose be those apartments that do look so cheerily
over the Tweed into Scotland?” demanded he.
“Ay,” said the old man, “’tis, as thou sayest, a cheering prospect;
’tis the country of my birth, and the country of my heart; I love it as
lover never loved mistress.”
“But whose apartments be those?” demanded Hepborne, bringing him back
to the question.
“Those are the apartments of the Lady Eleanore de Selby,” replied the
minstrel.
“Is it thy custom to play thy minstrelsy under the moonlight on the
rampart, as thou didst yestere’en?” demanded Hepborne.
“Yea, I have pleasure in it,” said Adam, with a shrewd look.
“And art thou always so attended?” demanded Hepborne; “is thy music
always wont to call that angel to thy side whom I last night beheld
there?”
“So thou dost think her an angel, Sir Knight?” cried Adam, with
pleasure glancing in his eyes.
“I do,” said Sir Patrick. “Already hath my heart been wounded by the
mere momentary glances to which chance hath subjected me, and eagerly
do I look for a cure from those eyes whence my hurt doth come. She is
beautiful.”
“Yea,” said old Adam, “and she is an angel in soul as well as in form.
But St. Andrew keep thee, Sir Knight, I must be gone;” and he hurried
away without giving Hepborne time to reply.
Assueton now came up, and Sir Patrick detailed to him the occurrences
we have just narrated, after which he walked about, looking every now
and then impatiently towards the window.
“Would I could have but one more sight of the Lady Eleanore,” cried he;
“her features have already become faint in my mind’s eye; would I might
refresh the picture by one other gaze.” But the lady appeared not; and
he became vexed, and even fretful, notwithstanding all his resolution
to the contrary.
“Hepborne, my friend,” said Sir John Assueton, “why shouldst thou
afflict thyself, and peak and pine for a silly girl? A knight of thy
prowess in the field may have a thousand baubles as fair for the mere
picking up; let it not irk thee that this trifle is beyond thy reach.
Trust me, women are dangerous flowers to pluck, and have less of the
rose about them than of the thorn.”
“Pshaw!” replied Hepborne, “thou knowest not what it is to love.”
“No, thank my good stars,” answered Assueton, “I do not, and I hope I
shall never be so besotted; it makes a fool of a man. There, for
instance, thou art raving about a damosel, of whose face thou hast seen
so little that wert thou to meet her elsewhere thou couldst never tell
her from another.”
“It is indeed true, Assueton,” replied Hepborne, “that I have seen but
too little of her face; but I have seen enough of it to know that it is
the face of an angel.”
In such converse as this did they spend the day until the evening’s
banquet. Then Sir Walter exhibited the same hospitality towards his
guests that had characterised him the night before; but he seemed to be
less in spirits, nay, he was even sometimes peevish. Hepborne, too,
being restless and unhappy, mirth and hilarity were altogether less
prevalent at the upper end of the festal board than they had been the
previous evening. The minstrel, however, was not forgotten, and was
treated with the same personal attention as formerly; but he sang and
played without eliciting more than an ordinary meed of applause. At
last he struck some peculiarly powerful chords on the instrument, and
as Hepborne turned his head towards him, in common with others, at the
sound, old Adam caught his eye, and looking significantly, began to
pour forth the following irregular and unpremeditated verse:—
’Twas thus that a minstrel address’d a young knight,
Who was love-lorn, despairing, and wan with despite,
What, Sir Knight, canst thou gain by these heart-rending sighs?
The hero ne’er pines, but his destiny tries,
And pushes his fate with his lance in the rest,
Whether love or renown be his glorious quest.
Let not those who droop for Love
Fly in grief to wild Despair,
She, wither’d witch, can ne’er remove
The cruel unkindness of the fair.
Then with the gladd’ning ray
Of Hope’s bright star to cheer thee,
Do thou still press thy way,
Nor let obstructions fear thee.
True love will even bear
A hasty moment’s slighting,
And boldly will it dare,
Nor ever fear benighting.
’Twill often and again
Return, though ill entreated;
’Twill blaze beneath the rain;
Though frozen, ’twill be heated.
When least thy thoughts are turn’d on joy,
The smiling bliss is nigh;
No happiness without alloy
Beneath the radiant sky.
But haste to-night, to meet thy love
Upon the Castle-wall;
Thou know’st not what thy heart may prove,
What joy may thee befal.
These seemingly unmeaning verses passed unnoticed by all at table
except by Hepborne, on whom they made a strong impression. He was
particularly struck by the concluding stanza, containing an invitation
which he could not help believing was meant to apply to himself. He
resolved to visit the ramparts as soon as he could escape from the
banquet. This he found it no very difficult matter to accomplish, for
Sir Walter was abstracted, and evidently depressed with something that
weighed on his spirits; so, taking advantage of this circumstance,
Hepborne rose to retire at an early hour. His friend followed him, and,
when left to the secresy of their own apartments—
“Assueton,” said Sir Patrick, “didst thou remark the glance, full of
meaning, which the minstrel threw on me to-night? or didst thou note
the purport of his ditty?”
“As for his glances,” replied Sir John, “I noticed nothing particular
in them; your bards are in use to throw such around them, to collect
their barren harvest of paltry praise; and as for his verses, or rather
his rhymes, I thought them silly enow in conscience. But thou knowest I
do rarely listen when love or its follies are the theme.”
“But I saw, and I listened,” replied Hepborne. “By St. Denis, they
carried hints to me that I shall not neglect. I go to take the air on
the ramparts, and hope to meet the angelic Eleanore de Selby there.”
“Art thou mad?” said Assueton. “What can old Adam have looked or said
that can induce thee to go on such a fool’s errand? Thou hast but
fancied; thy blind passion hath deceived thee.”
“I shall at least put his fancied hints to the proof,” said Hepborne,
“though I should watch all night.”
“Then I wish thee a pleasant moonlight promenade,” said Assueton. “I’ll
to my couch. To-morrow, I presume, we shall cross the Tweed, and yede
us into Scotland. By St. Andrew, I would gladly meet again with those
well-known faces whose smiles once reflected the happiness of my
boyhood!”
“Go to-morrow!” exclaimed Hepborne, as if their so speedy departure was
far from being agreeable in the contemplation; “surely thou wilt stay,
Assueton, if thou seest that thy so doing may further my happiness?”
“Nay,” replied Assueton, “thou needst hardly fear that I will scruple
to sacrifice my own wishes to thy happiness, Hepborne; but I confess I
would that my happiness depended on some more stirring cause, and one
in which we both could join.”
Here the friends parted. Hepborne, wrapped up in a cloak, stole gently
down stairs, and slipping unperceived from the keep, bent his steps
towards that part of the ramparts where he had formerly seen the lady.
To his inexpressible joy, he saw the minstrel already on the spot.
There were two ladies in company with the old man. As Sir Patrick
passed near the base of the tower under which he and his friend had
concealed themselves the night before, a huge figure began to rear
itself from under it, throwing a shadow half-way across the court-yard.
It looked as if the tower itself were in motion. He stood undaunted to
observe it, as it gradually arose storey over storey. It was the
Ancient Fenwick. His enormous face looked downwards upon Hepborne, and
his red cinder-like eyes glared upon him as he sputtered out some
unintelligible sounds from the corners of his mouth, and then moved
away like a walking monument.
Whilst Hepborne’s attention was occupied in observing the retreat of
the monster, who seemed to have secreted himself there for no good
purpose, the minstrel, and the two ladies who were with him, had
already walked down the rampart until they were lost within the shade
of a projecting building. He began to fear that they were gone, but he
soon saw one of them, whom he believed to be the attendant, emerge from
the shadow and retire by a short way to the keep, whilst the other
returned along the wall with the minstrel. As they stopped to converse,
the lady leaned on one of the engines of war. A breeze from the Tweed
threw back the hood of her mantle, and Hepborne could no longer doubt
it was the Lady Eleanore de Selby he saw. Her long and beautiful hair
streamed down, but she hastily arranged it with her fingers, and then
came onwards with Adam of Gordon. Sir Patrick flew to the rampart and
sprang on the wall. The lady was alarmed at first by his sudden
appearance, but perceiving immediately that it was Sir Patrick
Hepborne, she received him graciously yet modestly.
“The soft and perfumed air of this beauteous night,” said Hepborne,
“and yonder lovely moon, lady, tempted me forth awhile; but what bliss
is mine that I should thus meet with her who, in softness, sweetness,
and beauty, doth excel the Queen of Night herself!”
“Sir Patrick Hepborne, thou art at thy fustian again,” replied the lady
seriously. “This high-flown phrase of thine, well suited though it may
have been to the pampered ears of Parisian damsels, sorteth but ill
with plainness such as mine. Meseems,” continued she somewhat more
playfully, “meseems as if the moon were thy favourite theme. Pray
Heaven that head may be right furnished, the which hath the unstable
planet so often at work within it.”
“And if I am mad, as thy words would imply,” said Hepborne, smiling,
“’tis thou, lady, who must answer for my frenzy; for since I first saw
thee last night, I have thought and dreamt of thee alone.”
“Nay, Sir Knight,” said the lady, blushing, “methinks it savours of a
more constitutional madness to be so affected by so short a meeting. We
were but some few minutes together, if I err not.”
“Ay, lady,” said Adam of Gordon, significantly; “but love will work
miracles like this.”
“’Tis indeed true,” said the lady, with a sigh; and then, as if
recollecting herself, she added, “I have indeed heard of such sudden
affections.”
“Ay,” said Sir Patrick, “and that fair falcon of thine! Depardieux, I
begin to believe that he was Cupid himself in disguise, for ever sith I
gave the traitor lodgment in my bosom, it hath been affected with the
sweet torment the urchin Love is wont to inflict. My heart’s disease
began with thy hawk’s ensayning.”
“Nay, then, much as I love him,” said the lady, “yet should I hardly
have purchased his health, I wot, at the price of that of the gallant
knight who did so feelingly redeem it.”
“Heaven’s blessings on thee for thy charity, lady,” exclaimed Hepborne;
“yet should I rejoice in my disease were it to awaken thy sympathy, so
that thou mightest yield me the healing leechcraft that beameth from
those eyes.”
“Verily, my youth doth lack experience in all such healing skill,” said
the lady.
“Nay, ’tis a mystery most easily learned by the young,” replied
Hepborne. “Thou dost possess the power to assuage, if not to heal, my
wound,” added he tenderly. “Let me but be enlisted among the humblest
of the captives whom thine eyes hath made subject to thy will; and
albeit thy heart may be already given to another, spurn not the
adoration of one whose sole wish is to live within the sphere of thy
cheering influence, and to die in thy defence.”
“In truth, Sir Knight, these eyes have been guiltless of any such
tyranny as thou wouldst charge them withal,” replied the lady,
artlessly; “at least they have never wilfully so tyrannized. As for my
heart, it hath never known warmer feeling than that which doth bind me
to him to whom I owe the duty of a daughter.”
“Then is thy heart unenthralled,” cried Hepborne in an ecstacy, in the
transport of which he threw himself on one knee before her who had
produced it. “Refuse not, then, to accept my services as thy true and
faithful knight. All I ask is, but to be allowed to devote my lance to
thy service. Reject not these my vows. Cheer me with but one ray of
hope, to nerve this arm to the doing of deeds worthy of the knight who
calleth himself thy slave. I swear——”
“Swear not too rashly, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with a deep sigh,
and with more of seriousness than she had yet displayed, “to one such
as me, to one so obscure——”
“Obscure, lady!” cried Hepborne, interrupting her; “Hath not high
Heaven stamped thee with that celestial face and form to place thee far
above all reckonings of paltry pedigree? What, then, is that obscurity
which may have dimmed the birth of so fair a star? What——”
“Nay,” said the lady, interrupting him with an air of uncommon dignity
and animation, “obscure though mine origin may be, Sir Patrick, yet do
I feel within me that which doth tell me that I might match with
princes.”
“Lady, I well know thy high and justly-grounded pretensions,” said
Hepborne, in a subdued tone; “yet scorn not mine humble devotion.”
“I scorn thee not, Sir Knight,” said the lady, with combined modesty
and feeling, and again sighing deeply; “it would indeed ill become me
to scorn any one, far less such as thee; nor is my heart insensible to
the courtesy thou hast been pleased to show to one who——”
“Thanks, thanks, most peerless of thy sex,” cried Hepborne, gazing with
ecstacy in her face, that burned with blushes even under the cold light
of the moon.
“But in truth it beseemeth me not to stand talking idly with thee thus,
Sir Knight,” said the lady, suddenly breaking off; “I must hie me to my
chamber.”
“Oh, stay, sweet lady, stay—one moment stay!” cried Hepborne; “rob me
not of thy presence until thou hast left me the cheering prospect of
meeting thee to-morrow.”
“I hope Sir Walter hath induced thee and thy friend to tarry some
longer space in Norham; if so, it will pleasure me to meet thee again,”
said the lady, with a trembling voice.
“Then trust me I go not from Norham, betide me what may,” cried Sir
Patrick, energetically. “But tell me, lady, I entreat thee, when these
eyes may be again blest with thy presence; give me hope, the which is
now the food I feed on.”
“Nay, in sooth, I can enter into no arrangements,” said the lady, with
yet greater agitation; “but,” said she, starting away, “I have tarried
here too long; in truth, Sir Patrick Hepborne, I must be gone; may the
Holy Virgin be with thee, Sir Knight!”
“And may thou be guarded by kindred spirits like thyself!” cried Sir
Patrick, earnestly clasping his hands, and following her with his eyes
as she hastily retreated with old Adam.
Sir Patrick took several turns on the walls, giving way to the rapture
which this meeting had occasioned him, and then hastened to regain his
apartment, where he laid himself down not to repose, but to muse on the
events of the evening.
“The minstrel was right,” thought he; “the good Adam’s prophecy did not
deceive me. She admitted that her heart was free, and she confessed, as
far as maiden modesty might permit her, that she is not altogether
without an interest in me. She was pleased with the idea of our farther
stay at Norham; and in her confusion she betrayed, that to meet me
again would give her pleasure. And she shall meet me again—ay, and
again; mine excellent Assueton’s patience must e’en bear some days’
longer trial, for go, at least, I shall not. Days, did I say? ha! but
let events determine.” With such happy reflections, and yielding to a
train of the most pleasing anticipation, he amused himself till he fell
asleep.