"Oh, father, they've killed Master Lisle," and then the sobs broke out
in uncontrolled emotion.
"Nay, nay, fair daughter, he is well enough; I learnt that much before I
left the lists."
The plank having now been safely adjusted, two figures advanced over it,
and stepped into the light of the fire, which gleamed in fitful glimmer
out of the fissure behind the bush. The childish figure threw itself
into the arms of the stalwart gentleman, crying out as she did so,--
"Oh, I am glad! I should have grieved so sadly had aught evil happened
to Master Ralph."
"Humph! Sweet wench, thou takest over much thought for the safety of
thy young kinsman. But 'tis a brave lad and a true. I grieve he should
have suffered harm. But come in. Simon, I have heard news. I would I
could get me to France."
While father and daughter were talking together, the serving-man, who
was the same rough fisherman who had spoken to Bowerman after the
tourney was over the evening before, had lighted a torch, and was
spreading a simple meal on the top of a chest, which served for a table.
There was the same strange mixture of gorgeousness and squalor in the
appointments of the repast as in the food itself. A richly-chased
silver flagon contained wine, which, from its fragrance and colour,
seemed the very choicest Burgundy. Coarse bread flanked an enamelled
bowl of Limoges ware which held the butter, stale and rancid from the
time it had been there. A meat pasty was served in a pewter dish, while
a richly-chased knife was ill assorted with a wooden trencher.
After they had eaten, the knight and his varlet talked earnestly for
some time. The young girl sat apart. After putting away the remains of
the supper, and washing up the things, she sat down on a chest near the
fire, and seem to pay no heed to the conversation of the others.
She was a pretty child, with long dark-brown hair, which waved and
strayed from under her little close-fitting red cap. Her large soft
brown eyes had a wistful expression in them, and her flexible mouth,
which usually was parted in merry smiles, or arch fun, was now pursed up
in grave thought. Her face was sunburnt, and her dress simple and
patched.
Suddenly her attention was caught by hearing her father mention a name
she knew.
"Oh, father!" she broke in, unable to master her suspicions, and her
impulsive indignation overcoming her habitual awe of her father, "I hope
they will catch that Bowerman. What a base caitiff, to stab his friend
so foully!"
"Marry, little wench, who told thee to speak?" said her father, stroking
the glossy hair.
The child was always in much awe of her father, and nothing but the hot
impulse of her anger would have made her burst out as she had done.
She now hung her head a little lower, but looking up shyly after a
moment, she said, in a soft, winning tone,--
"But, father, think of it! You are noble, and would never injure your
foe save in fair fight and face to face. How I wish all this fighting
was over, and there were no such things as foes. Oh dear," she sighed,
"I am so tired of it all!"
"Tush, child, you should not have come away from Appuldurcombe: the
sisters should not let you roam like this."
"'Twasn't their fault, father; I stole out to help John see to the cows,
and then I thought I would come on over here and see you."
"But, by St George, thou must not play these pranks, little wench. Thou
hast had too much freedom by far. No marvel," he broke off, with a
fierce look of anger, "when thou hast been left to bring thyself up,
with only such care as I can give thee."
"But, father, thou dost not like that Bowerman?"
"Marry, wench, what is that to thee? He is a friend to the cause, and,
though young, is useful, and may be more so. How know I whether he gave
the stroke or not? Wait till thou knowest before thou judgest."
"Ay, but I know full well," added the girl, under her breath, not,
however, daring to speak her thoughts aloud.
At this moment a noise was heard outside.
They all kept quite still, and the fisherman dropped a sail across the
entrance, so as to prevent the firelight being seen outside.
The noise was repeated. It sounded like a groan.
"Go, Simon, see what it is," said the knight.
The man passed outside; the other two listened.
A groan, as of some one in pain, could be distinctly heard, and then a
few half-uttered words.
"Who can it be, father?" whispered the girl, drawing closer to her
father.
She was not a timid child, but the strange sounds in that gloomy chasm
recalled the tales she had heard of the place being haunted.
"'Tis the plaint of some one in dolour," said her father.
"Simon, ask who it is."
The moaning ceased as the seaman's voice resounded in the echoing chasm.
"'Tis a water-sprite, my lord, that's what it be," said the man, coming
in.
"Tush, man! 'tis some one in pain, who hath fallen over the cliff maybe.
Stay with the child while I go and see."
Taking the torch in his hand, the knight went to the entrance, the girl
and seaman following him close.
It was a weird scene, as the lurid light of the flickering torch shone
on the wall of rock opposite, while the inky blackness of the gorge,
yawning at their very feet, caused a shudder to pass through the child
as she thought how near they all were to a fearful death.
"Holy saints!" a faint voice gasped, in awe-struck accents; "are these
spirits or fiends? and have I fallen to the bottomless pit?"
"'Tis as I thought," said the knight. "'Tis some poor wight fallen
down, and, by some marvel, he hath lighted on the only ledge that could
save him. 'Tis the hand of Providence hath saved him from rolling into
that black pit." Then he added, in a louder tone,--"Art hurt, man?
Canst stand upon thy feet? Who art thou?"
No answer came. All was silent as the grave.
"Put the plank over, Simon; I will go see who it is."
In a few moments the plank was put across.
"Oh, father, take care! Maybe 'tis a trap to catch thee!" cried the
girl in terror.
"May be, my lord, 'tis even so," added the seaman; "best let me go."
"Nay, man, nay; hold the torch while I step across."
So saying, the knight handed the light to his attendant, and, drawing
his sword, stept warily over the plank.
The other two remained in breathless silence.
"Hold the torch higher," called the knight.
Again there was deathly silence.
"Father! father! what is it?" called the girl.
"I know not; I can see naught--ay, but I can! Why, my fair master, what
mayest thou be doing here?" added the knight, addressing some one.