CHAPTER XI.

Who can depict the feelings of Sir Osborne Maurice as he found himself riding on towards that court where, with the ardour of youthful hope, he doubted not to retrieve the fortunes of his family by those qualities which had already acquired for him an honourable fame? Clothed once more in arms, which for five years had been his almost constant dress, far better mounted than when he first set out, supported by the friendship of some of the best and noblest of the land, and furnished with a sum which he had never dreamed of possessing, though but starting for the race, he felt as if he already neared the goal; and looking round upon his four attendants, who were all, as they were termed in that day, especial stout varlets, he almost wished, like a real knight-errant, that some adventure would present itself wherein he might signalise himself for the first time in his native country.

Dame Fortune, however, was coy, and would not favour him in that sort; and after having ridden on for half-an-hour, enjoying almost to intoxication the deep draughts of renewed hope, he brought to his side, by a sign, our friend Longpole, who, now promoted to the dignity of custrel, or shield-bearer, followed with the armed servants of the duke, carrying Sir Osborne's target and spear.

"Tell me, Longpole," said the knight, who had remarked his faithful retainer in busy conversation with his companions, "hast thou discovered why the duke's servants have not his grace's cognizance or bearing, either on the breast or arm?"

"Why, it seems, your worship, that they are three stout fellows who attended the noble duke in the wars, and they are commanded to wait upon your worship till the duke shall have need of them. Each has his quiver and his bow, besides his sword and pike; so if we should chance to meet that wolf Sir Payan, or any of his under-wolves, we may well requite them for the day's board and lodging which your worship had at the manor. We, being five, could well match ten of them; and besides, the little old gentleman in black velvet told me that your worship would be fortunate in all things for two months after you got out; but that after that he could not say, for----"

"What little gentleman in black are you speaking of?" interrupted the knight. "You forget I do not know whom you mean."

"Ay, true, your worship," answered Longpole. "I forgot you were locked up all that while. But you must know that when Sir Payan returned yesterday he brought with him a little gentleman dressed in a black velvet doublet and crimson hose; but so small, so small he would be obliged to stand on tip-toe to look me into a tankard. Well, Sir Payan sent for me, and questioned me a great deal about the young lady who had been in with you; and he thought himself vastly shrewd; for certain he is cunning enough to cheat the devil out of a bed and a supper any day; but I did my best to blind him, and then he asked me for the key, and said he would keep it himself. So I was obliged to give up the only way I had of helping your worship; for I saw by that that Sir Payan suspected me, and would not trust me any more near you, which indeed he did not. Well, he made a speech to the little gentleman, and then left the room; and I suppose I looked at the bottom of my wits, for the little fellow says to me, 'Heartley! there's a window as well as a door.' So I started, first to find he knew my name, and secondly because he knew what I was thinking about. However, I thought there was no use to be angry with a man for picking my pocket of my thoughts without my knowing it; so I took it quietly, and answered, 'I know there is; but how shall I make him understand what he is to do?' 'Tell me what it is,' said he, 'and I will show you how.' So I don't know why, because he might have been a great cheat, but I told him; and thereupon he took a bit of parchment from his pocket, it might be half a skin, and a bit of whitish wax it looked like, out of a bottle, and made as if he wrote upon the parchment; but the more he wrote the less writing I could see. However, he gave me the piece of parchment, and told me to throw it in at the window after dark, with a heap more. I resolved to try, for I began to guess that the little old gentleman was a conjuror; and when I got into the dark, I found that the paper was all shining like a stinking fish; and your lordship knows the rest."

"He is an extraordinary man," said Sir Osborne. "But did you never hear your father speak of Sir Cesar?"

"I have heard my good dad talk about one Sir Cesar," said Longpole, "but I did not know that this was he. If I had I would have thanked him for many a kind turn he did for the two old folks while I was away. But does your worship see those heavy towers standing up over the trees to the left? That is the Benedictine Abbey, just out of Canterbury."

"That is where I am going," replied the knight, "if that be Wilsbourne."

"Wilsbourne or St. Cummin," answered Longpole; "they call it either. The abbot is a good man, they say, which is something to say for an abbot, as days go. Your abbey is a very silent discreet place; 'tis like purgatory, where a man gets quit of his sins without the devil knowing anything about it."

"Nay, nay, you blaspheme the cloister, Longpole," said the knight. "I have heard a great deal spoken against the heads of monasteries; but I cannot help thinking that as most men hate their superiors, some of the monks would be sure to blazon the sins of those above them, if they had so many as people say."

"Faith, they are too cunning a set for that," replied Longpole. "They have themselves a proverb, which goes to say, 'Let the world wag, do your own business, and always speak well of the lord abbot; so you shall feed well, and fare well, and sleep, while tolls the matin bell.' But your worship must turn up here, if you are really going to the abbey."

The knight signified that such was certainly his intention; and turning up the lane that led across to the abbey, in about a quarter of an hour he arrived at a little open green, bordered by the high wall that surrounded the gardens. The lodge, forming, as it were, part of the wall itself, stood exactly opposite, looking over the green, with its heavy wooden doors and small loophole windows. To it Longpole rode forward, and rang the bell; and on the appearance of an old stupid-faced porter, the knight demanded to see the lord abbot.

"You can see him at vespers in the church, if you like to go, any day," said the profound janitor, whose matter-of-fact mind comprehended alone the mere meaning of each word.

"But I cannot speak with him at vespers," said the knight. "I have a letter for him from his grace of Buckingham, and must speak with him."

"That is a different case," said the porter; "you said you wanted to see the abbot, not to speak to him. But come in."

"I cannot come in without you open the other gate," said the knight. "How can my horse pass, old man?"

"Light down, then!" said the porter. "I shall not let in horses here, unless it be my lord abbot's mule, be you who you will."

"Then you will take the consequences of not letting me in," replied the knight, "for I shall not light down from my horse till I am in the court."

"Then you will stay out," said the old man, very quietly shutting the door, much to Sir Osborne's indignation and astonishment. For a moment, he balanced whether he should ride on without farther care, or whether he should again make an attempt upon the obdurate porter. A moment, however, determined him to choose the latter course; and catching the bell-rope, he rang a very sufficient peal. Nobody appeared, and angry beyond all patience, the knight again clapped his hand to the rope, muttering, "If you won't hear, old man, others shall;" and pulling for at least five minutes, he made the whole place echo with the din.

He was still engaged in this very sonorous employment, when the door was again opened by the porter, and a monk appeared, dressed simply in the loose black gown of St. Benedict, with the cowl, scapulary, and other vestments of a brother of the order.

"I should think, sir knight," said he, "that you might find some better occupation than in disturbing myself and brethren here, walking in our garden, without offending you or any one."

"My good father," answered Sir Osborne, "it is I who have cause to be angry, rather than any one else. I came here for the purpose of rendering a slight service to my lord abbot, and am bearer of a letter from his grace of Buckingham; and your uncivil porter shuts your gate in my face, because I do not choose to dismount from my horse, and leave my attendants without, though I know not how long it may be convenient for your superior to detain me."

"You have done wrong," said the monk, turning to the porter; "first, in refusing to open the gate, next, in telling me what was false about it. Open the great gates, and admit the knight and his train. I shall remember this in the penance."

The old porter dared not murmur, but he dared very well be slow, and he contrived to be nearly half an hour in the simple operation of drawing the bolts and bars, and opening the gates, which the good monk bore with much greater patience than the knight, who had fondly calculated upon reaching the village of Sithenburn that night, and who saw the day waning fast in useless retardation.

At length, however, the doors unclosed, and he rode into the avenue that led through the gardens to the back of the abbey, the monk preparing to walk beside his horse. A feeling, however, of respect for a certain mildness and dignity in the old man's manner, induced him to dismount; and giving his horse to one of the servants, he entered into conversation with his conductor, while, as they went along, his clanging step and glistening arms called several of the brethren from their meditative sauntering, to gaze at the strange figure of an armed knight within their peaceful walls.

"Surely, father," said Sir Osborne, as they walked on, his mind drawn naturally to such thoughts, "the silent quietude of the scene, and the calm tranquillity of existence which you enjoy here, would more than compensate for all the fleeting unreal pleasures of the world, without even the gratification of those holy thoughts that first call you to this retirement?"

"There are many who feel it so, my son, and I among them," answered the old man; "but yet, do not suppose that human nature can ever purify itself entirely of earthly feelings. Hopes, wishes, and necessities produce passions even here: pettier, it is true, because the sphere is pettier. But, depend upon it, no society can ever be so constructed as to eradicate the evil propensities of man's nature, or even their influence, without entirely circumscribing his communion with his fellows. He must be changed, or solitary: must have no objects to excite, or no passions to be excited: he must be a hermit or a corpse; have a desert or the grave."

"'Tis a bad account of human nature," said the knight. "I had fancied that such feelings as you speak of were unknown here: that, at all events, religious sentiments would correct and overcome them."

"They do correct, my son, though they cannot overcome them," said the monk. "I spoke of monastic life merely as a human institution; and even in that respect we are likely to meet with more tranquillity within such walls as these than perhaps anywhere else, because the persons who adopt such a state from choice are generally those of a calm and placid disposition, and religion easily effects the rest. But there are others, driven by disappointment, by satiety, by caprice, by fear, by remorse, by even pride; and urged by bad feelings from the first, those bad feelings accompany them still, and act as a leaven amongst those with whom they are thus forced to consort. Even when it is but sorrow that, weaning from worldly pleasure, brings a brother here, often the sorrow leaves him, and the taste for the world returns, when an irrevocable vow has torn him from it for ever; or else, if his grief lasts, it becomes a black and brooding melancholy, as different from true religion as even the mad gaiety of the thoughtless crowd. There was a youth here, not long ago, who was wont to call the matin bell the knell of broken hearts. Others, again, circumscribed in the range of their feelings, become irascible from the very restraint, and vent their irritability on all around them."

"But example in the superior does much," said the knight; "and I have heard that your lord abbot----"

"Whether you are about to praise or blame," said the monk, "stop! I am the abbot. If it were praise you were about to speak I could not hear it silently; if 'twere blame, I would fain save you the pain of uttering to my own ears what many doubtless say behind my back."

"Indeed, my lord abbot," answered the knight, "I had nothing to speak but praise; and had it been blame, I would sooner have said it to yourself than to one of your monks. But to the business which brings me hither. His grace the Duke of Buckingham, by this letter, commends him to your lordship; and knowing that I purpose journeying to the court, he has desired me to conduct, and protect with my best power, a young lady, whose name I forget, till I have rendered her safely to her royal mistress, Queen Katherine."

"I thank you for the trouble you have already taken, my son. We will in to the scriptorium," said the abbot; "and when I have perused his grace's letter, will have the lady informed that you are here."

Although that art was rapidly advancing which soon after entirely superseded the necessity of manual transcription for multiplying books, yet the scriptorium, or copying-room, was still not only to be found, but was also still employed for its original purpose, in almost every abbey or monastery of consequence. In that of the Benedictines of Wilsbourne, it was a large oblong chamber, vaulted with low Gothic arches, and divided into various small compartments by skreens of carved oak. Each of these possessed its table and writing apparatus; and in more than one, when Sir Osborne entered, was to be seen a monk copying some borrowed manuscript for the use of the abbey. The approach of the abbot, whose manners seemed to possess a great deal of primeval simplicity, did not in the least derange the copyists in their occupation; and it is probable that, when unengaged in the immediate ministry of his office, he did not exact that ceremonious reverence to which the mitred abbot was by rank entitled.

In politeness, as in everything else, there are of course various shades of difference very perceptible to observation, yet hardly tangible by language: thus, when the abbot had read the Duke of Buckingham's letter, the character which it gave of Sir Osborne caused a very discernible change to take place in his manner, though in what it consisted it would be difficult to say. He had always been polite, but his politeness became warmer: when he spoke it was with a smile; and, in short, it was evidently an alteration in his mind, from the mere feeling of general benevolence which inhabits every good bosom, to the sort of individual kindness which can only follow some degree of acquaintance. He expressed much gratification at the idea of Lady Katrine Bulmer having the advantage of the knight's escort, more especially, he said, as the news from Rochester became worse and worse. But Sir Osborne, he continued, had better speak with the lady herself, when they could form such arrangements as might be found convenient; for Lady Katrine had a good deal of the light caprice of youth, and loved to follow her own fantasies. He then sent some directions to the prior concerning matters of discipline, and gave orders that the attendants of Sir Osborne should be brought to the hospitaler, whose peculiar charge it was to entertain guests and strangers; and this being done, he led the way towards that part of the abbey which contained the sisters of the order, preceded by a monk bearing a large key.

Separated throughout by a wall of massy masonry, no communication existed between the two portions of the building, except by a small iron door, the key of which always remained with the abbot, and by some underground communications, as it was whispered, the knowledge of which was confined also to his bosom. Of these subterranean chambers many dark tales of cruelty and unheard-of penances were told as having happened in former ages, when monastic sway had its full ascendant; but even their very existence was now doubtful; and when any one mentioned them before the abbot he only smiled, as a man will do at the tales of wonder that amaze a child. However that may be, the way by which he led the young knight to the female side of the monastery was simply through the cloisters; and having arrived at the door of communication, he took the key from the bearer, unlocked it himself, and making the knight pass into the cloister on the other side, he locked the door and rejoined him.

The place in which they now were was a gloomy arcade, surrounding a small square court, in the centre of which appeared a statue of Scholastica, the sister of Saint Benedict; and several almost childish ornaments evinced the pious designs of the good sisters to decorate their patroness. But, notwithstanding all their efforts, it was a dreary spot. The pointed arches of the cloister resting upon pillars of scarce a foot in height; the thick embellishments of stone-work forming almost what heralds would call a bordure fleurée round the archways; together with the towering height of the buildings round about, took away the scanty light that found its way into deep recesses of the double aisle, and buried all the second or inner row of arches in profound shadow.

Another small door appeared on the left of the abbot, who still held the key in his hand; but stopping, he pointed along the cloister to the right, and said, "My son, I must here leave you, for I go to my sister's apartment, to have the lady called to the grate, and no layman must pass here; but if you follow that arcade round the court till you see a passage leading again towards the light (you cannot miss your way), you will come to the convent court, as it is called, and exactly opposite you will find a door which leads to the grate. There I will rejoin you."

The knight followed the lord abbot's direction; and proceeding round the first side of the square, was turning into the second, when he thought he saw the flutter of a white garment in the shadowy part of the inner aisle. "It is some nun," thought he: but a moment's reflection brought to his mind that the habit of the Benedictines was always black; and it may be that curiosity made him take a step or two somewhat faster than he did before.

"Open the door, and make haste, Geraldine," said a female voice, in a low tone, but one that, nevertheless, reverberated by the arches, reached the knight's ears quite distinctly enough for him to hear the lady proceed.

"He must be on horseback, I think, by the quickness of his pace and the clanking of his hoofs. Cannot you open it? Run across the court, then, silly wench, quick! or Gogmagog will have you;" and with a light laugh, the lady of the white robe darted out from the archway, and tripped gracefully across the court, with her long veil flowing back from her head as she ran, and showing fully the beautiful brown hair with which it was mingled, and the beautiful sunny face which it was meant to hide, but which, fully conscious of its own loveliness, was now turned with a somewhat playful, somewhat inquisitive, somewhat coquettish glance, towards the knight.

Following close behind her was a pretty young woman, dressed as a servant-maid, who ran on without looking to the right or left, and who, probably being really frightened, almost tumbled over her mistress, not perceiving that she slackened her pace as she reached the other side of the court. It thus happened that she trod on the young lady's foot, who uttered a slight cry, and leaned upon the servant for support.

As may be imagined, Sir Osborne was by her side in a moment, expressing his hopes that she was not hurt, and tendering his services with knightly gallantry; but the lady suddenly drew herself up, made him a low curtsey, and stiffly thanking him for his attention, walked slowly to the door by which the abbot had entered.

Not very well pleased with the reception his politeness had met, the knight proceeded on his way, and easily found the passage which the abbot had described, leading, as he had been told into the larger court, exactly opposite the door by which visitors were usually admitted. This door, as usual, stood open; and mounting the steps, Sir Osborne proceeded on into a small room beyond, separated from the parlour by a carved oak partition, in the centre of which was placed the trellis-work of gilded iron called the grate.

Nobody appearing on the other side, Sir Osborne cast himself upon the bench with which one side of the room was furnished, and waited patiently for the appearance of the lady, abandoning now, of necessity, the idea of proceeding farther that night. After having waited for a few minutes, a light step met his ear; and without much surprise, for he had already guessed what was the fact, he saw the same lady approach the grate whom he had met in the court. Rising thereupon from his seat, he advanced to the partition, and bowed low, as if to a person he had never seen. The lady, on her part, made him a low curtsey, and both remained silent.

"I am here," said the knight, after a long pause, "to receive the commands of Lady Katrine Bulmer, if I have now the honour of speaking to her?"

"My name is Bulmer, sir knight," replied the lady, "and eke Katrine, and some folks call me lady, and some mistress; but by what my lord abbot and my lady abbess just tell me, it seems that I am to receive your commands rather than you to receive mine."

"Very far from it, madam," said the knight; "you have but to express your wishes, and they shall be obeyed."

"There now!" cried the lady, with an air of mock admiration; "sir knight, you are the flower of courtesy! Then you do not positively insist on my getting up at five to-morrow morning to set out, as my lord abbot informed me? A thing I never did in my life, and which, please God, I never will do!"

"I insisted upon nothing, madam," answered the knight, "I only informed my lord abbot that it would be more convenient to me to depart as speedily as possible; and I ventured to hint that if you knew of how much importance it might be for me to arrive at the court soon, you would gratify me by using all the despatch which you might with convenience to yourself."

"Then it is of importance to you?" demanded the lady; "that changes the case. Name the hour, sir knight, and you shall find me ready. But you know not what a good horsewoman I am; I can make long journeys and quick ones."

"Not less than two days will suffice, I fear," said the knight; "the first day we may halt at Gravesend."

"Halt!" exclaimed the lady, laughing, and turning to her woman, who stood at a little distance behind, "do you hear that? Halt! He talks to me as if I were a soldier. Tell me, Geraldine, is it possible that I look like a pikeman?"

"Not any way like a soldier," replied the knight, sufficiently amused with her liveliness and beauty to forget her pertness; "not any way like a soldier, unless it be one of heaven's host."

"Gracious heaven!" cried the lady, "he says pretty things. Only think of a man in armour being witty! But really, sir knight, it frightens me to see you all wrapped up in horrid steel. Can it possibly be that these Rochester shipwrights are so outrageous as to require a belted knight with lance in rest for the escort of a simple girl like me?"

"Men are wont to guard great treasures with even superfluous care," replied Sir Osborne. The lady made him a very profound curtsey, and he proceeded: "This was most probably the lord abbot's reason for sending to request some escort from the Duke of Buckingham; for though I hear of some riot or tumult at Rochester, I cannot suppose it very serious. However, all I know is this, that the right reverend father did send while I was there jousting in the park; and understanding that I was about to proceed to London, his grace resigned to me the honour of conducting you safely thither."

"What, then! you are not one of the duke's own knights?" exclaimed Lady Katrine.

"I am no one's knight," replied Sir Osborne with a smile, "except it be the king's and yours, if such you will allow me to be."

"Oh, that I will!" answered the lady. "I should like a tame knight above anything; but in troth, I have spoken to you somewhat too lightly, sir." She proceeded more gravely: "From what my lord uncle abbot told me, I judged the duke had sent me one of his household knights,^[6] men who, having forty pounds a year, have been forced to receive a slap on the shoulder for the sake of the herald's fee; and then, having nought to do that may become the sir, they pin themselves to the skirts of some great man's robe, to do both knightly and unknightly service."

"Such am not I, fair lady," replied Sir Osborne, a little piqued that she could even have supposed so. "I took my knighthood in the battle-plain, from the sword of a great monarch; and so long as I live my service shall never be given but to my lady, my king, or my God!"

"Nay, nay, do not look so fierce, man in armour," answered Lady Katrine, relapsing into her merriment. "Both from your manner and your mien, I should have judged differently, if I had thought but for a moment; but do not you see, I never think? I take a thing for granted, and then go on acting upon it as if it were really true. But, as I said, you shall be my knight, and before we reach the court I doubt not I shall have a task to give you, and a guerdon for your pains, if the good folks of Rochester do not cut our throats in the mean while. But what hour did you say, sir knight, for setting out? for here my poor wenches have to make quick preparations of all my habits."

"I have named no hour," replied Sir Osborne; "but if you will do me the honour to let me know when you are ready tomorrow, my horses shall stand saddled from six in the morning."

"But how am I to let you know?" demanded the lady, "unless I take hold of the bell-rope, and ring matins on the convent bell; and then all the good souls will wink their eyes, and think the sun has turned lie-a-bed. Dear heart! sir knight, you do not suppose that the monks and the nuns come running in and out between the two sides of the abbey, like the busy little ants in their wonderful small cities? No, no, no! none comes in here but my lord abbot and an old confessor or two, so deafened with the long catalogue of worldly sins that they would not hear my errand, much less do it. But now I think of it, there is a good lay sister; her I will bribe with a silver piece to risk purgatory by going round to the front gate of the abbey, and telling the monk when I am ready. And now, good sir knight, I must go back to my lord abbot, and fall down upon my knees and beg pardon; for I left him so offended that he would not come down with me, because I was pert about going early. Farewell! Judge not harshly of me till to-morrow; perhaps then I may give you cause; who knows?"

Thus saying, she tripped lightly away with a gay saucy toss of the head, like a spoiled child, too sure of pleasing to be heedful about doing so. As she turned away, the maid advanced to the grate, and informed Sir Osborne that the lord abbot would meet him at the place where they had parted, upon which information the knight retrod his steps to the little court of the cloisters, where he found the abbot pacing up and down, with a grave and thoughtful countenance.

"I am afraid, Sir Osborne Maurice," said he, as the knight approached, "that the young lady you have just left has not demeaned herself as I could have wished, towards you; for she left me in one of those flighty moods which I had good hope would have been cured by her stay in the convent."

"She expected to find you still with the lady abbess," said Sir Osborne, avoiding the immediate subject of the abbot's inquiry; "and went with the intention of suing for pardon of your lordship, having given you, she said, some offence."

"I am glad to hear it, with all my heart!" said the monk; "for then she is penitent, which is all that God requires of us, and all that we can require of others. Indeed her heart is good; and though she commits many a fault, yet she repents the moment after, and would fain amend it. But come, sir knight! Though our own rules are strict, we must show our hospitality to strangers; and I hope our refectioner has taken care to remember that you will partake the fare of my table to-night. But first you had better seek your chamber, and disencumber yourself of this armour, which, though very splendid, must be very heavy. Ho! brother Francis, tell the hospitaller to come hither and conduct the knight to his apartment."

While this short conversation was taking place, the abbot had led Sir Osborne back into the cloisters on the male side of the building; and proceeding slowly along towards the wing in which was the scriptorium, and other apartments of general use, they were soon met by the hospitaller, who led the knight to a neat small chamber, furnished with a bed, a crucifix, and a missal. Here the worthy officer of the convent essayed with inexpert hands to disengage the various pieces of the harness, speaking all the while, and asking a thousand idle questions with true monastic volubility, without giving Sir Osborne either time to hear or to reply.

"Stay, stay!" said the knight at length, as the old man endeavoured to unbuckle the cuissards; "you cannot do it, my good father; and besides, it is an unworthy task for such a holy man as you."

"Not in the least, my son, not in the least!" replied the monk. "But, as I was saying, I dare say you have heard how the lord mayor and his men went to Hogsden Lane, especially if you have been lately in London; or have you been down in Cornwall, allaying the Cornish tumultuaries? A-well, a-well! it is very odd I cannot get that buckle out; though, perhaps, my son, you can tell me whether the prior of Gloucester has embraced the mitigated rule instead of the severe; and indeed the mitigated is severe enough: four days' fast in the week! If the Duke of Buckingham were to send us another fat buck, as he did last year: but I forget, it is not the season. Alack, alack! all things have their times and seasons, and truly I am of the season of old age; though, God help us all! I believe I must call your shield-bearer, for I cannot get the buckle out."

"Do so, my good father," said the knight, glad enough to get rid of him; "and bid him bring my casque hither."

Accordingly, our friend Longpole was soon brought to Sir Osborne's chamber, and by his aid the knight easily freed himself from that beautiful armour, which we, who are in the secret of all men's minds, may look upon as in a great degree a present from the Duke of Buckingham, although Sir Osborne himself did not begin to suspect that the just and the prizes had been entirely given to furnish him with money and arms, till the lapse of two or three days allowed calm consideration to show him the events in their true colours.

After once more admiring for a moment or two the beauty of the suit, and having given directions for its being carefully cleansed of all damp that it might have acquired on the road, he descended to the table of the lord abbot, which he found handsomely provided for his entertainment.

To the wine, however, and the costly viands with which it was spread, the abbot himself did little justice, observing almost the rigid abstinence of an ascetic; but to compensate for his want of good fellowship, the prior and sub-prior, who shared the same table, found themselves called upon to press the stranger to his food, and to lead the way.

CHAPTER XII.

In profound silence will we pass over Sir Osborne's farther entertainment at the abbey; as well as how Longpole contrived to make himself merry, even in the heart of a monastery; together with sundry other circumstances, which might be highly interesting to that class of pains-taking readers who love everything that is particular and orderly, and would fain make an historian not only tell the truth, but the whole truth, even to the colour of his heroine's garters. For such curious points, however, we refer them to the scrupulously exact Vonderbrugius, who expends the greater part of the next chapter upon the description of a flea-hunt, which Longpole got up in his truckle-bed in the monastery; and who describes the various hops of the minute vampire, together with all that Longpole said on the occasion, as well as the running down, the taking, and the manner of the death, with laudable industry and perseverance. But for the sake of that foolish multitude who interest themselves in the fate and adventures of the hero, rather than in the minor details, we will pass over the whole of the next night much in the same manner as Sir Osborne, who, sound asleep, let it fleet by in silence undisturbed.

His horses, however, were scarcely saddled, and his four attendants prepared, the next morning, than he was informed that the Lady Katrine Bulmer was ready to depart; and proceeding on foot to the great gates of the abbey, which fronted the high road, on the other side from that on which he had entered, he found her already mounted on a beautiful Spanish jennet, with her two women and a man, also on horseback. By her side stood the abbot, with whom she had now made her peace, and who, kindly welcoming Sir Osborne, led him to the young lady.

"Sir knight," said he, "I give you a precious charge in this my dead sister's child; and I give her wholly to your charge, with the most perfect confidence, sure that you will guide her kindly and safely to her journey's end. And now, God bless you and speed you, my child!" he continued, turning to the young lady; "and believe me, Kate, there is no one in the wide world more anxious for your happiness than your poor uncle."

"I know it, I know it, dear uncle!" answered the lady; "and though I be whimsical and capricious, do not think your Katrine does not love you too." A bright drop rose in her eye, and crying "Farewell! farewell!" she made her jennet dart forward, to conceal the emotion she could not repress.

The knight sprang on his horse, bade farewell to the abbot, and galloped after Lady Katrine, who drew in her rein for no one, but rode on as fast as her steed would go. However, notwithstanding her jennet's speed, Sir Osborne was soon by her side; but seeing a tear upon her cheek, he made no remark, and turning round, held up his hand for the rest to come up, and busied himself in giving orders for the arrangement of their march, directing the two women, with Lady Katrine's man, and Longpole, to keep immediately behind, while the three attendants given him by the duke concluded the array. The young lady's tears were soon dispersed, and she turned laughing to her women, who came up out of breath with the rapidity of their course.

"Well, Geraldine," she cried, "shall I go on as quick? Should I not make an excellent knight at a just, Sir Osborne? Oh! I could furnish my course with the best of you. I mind me to try the very next justs that are given."

"Where would you find the man," said Sir Osborne, "to point a lance at so fair a breast, unless it be Cupid's shaft?"

"Ah, Sir Osborne Maurice!" answered the lady, "you men jest when you say such things; but you know not sometimes what women feel. But trust me that same Cupid's shaft that you scoff at, because it never wounds you deeply, sometimes lodges in a woman's breast, and rankling there will pale her cheek, and drain her heart of every better hope."

The lady spoke so earnestly that Sir Osborne was surprised, and perhaps looked it; for instantly catching the expression of his eye, Lady Katrine coloured, and then breaking out into one of her own gay laughs, she answered his glance as if it had been expressed in speech, "You are mistaken! quite mistaken!" said she, "I never thought of myself. Nay, my knight, do not look incredulous; my heart is too light a one to be so touched. It skims like a swallow o'er the surface of all it sees, and the boy archer spends his shafts in vain; its swift flight mocks his slow aim. But to convince you, when I spoke," she proceeded in a lower voice, "I alluded to that poor girl, Geraldine, who rides behind. Her lover was a soldier, who, when Tournay was delivered to the French, was left without employment; and after having won the simple wench's heart, and promised her a world of fine things, he went as an adventurer to Flanders, vowing that he would get some scribe to write to her of his welfare, and that as soon as he had made sufficient, what with pay and booty they would be married; but eighteen months have gone, and never a word."

"What was his name?" asked the knight; "I would wish much to hear."

"Hal Williamson, I think she calls him," said the lady: "but it matters little; the poor girl has nigh broke her heart for the unfaithful traitor."

"You do him wrong," said the knight; "indeed, lady, you do him wrong. The poor fellow you speak of joined himself to my company at Lisle, and died in the very last skirmish before the death of the late emperor. With some money and arms, that I expect transmitted by the first Flemish ship, there is also a packet, I fancy, for your maid, for I forget the address. From it she will learn that he was not faithless to her, together with the worse news of his death."

"Better! a thousand times better!" cried Lady Katrine, energetically. "If I had a lover, I would a thousand times rather know that he was dead, than that he was unfaithful. For the first, I could but weep all my life, and mourn him with the mourning of the heart; but for the last, there would be still bitterer drops in the cup of my sorrow. I would mourn him as dead to me. I would mourn him as dead to honour; and I should reproach myself for having believed a traitor, almost as much as for being one."

"So!" said the knight, with a smile, "this is the heart that defies Cupid's shaft: that is too light and volatile to be hit by his purblind aim!"

"Now you are stupid!" said she, pettishly. "Now you are just what I always fancied a man in armour. Why, I should have thought, that while your custrel carries your steel cap, you might have comprehended better, and seen that the very reason why my heart is so giddy and so light is because it is resolved not to be so wounded by the shaft it fears."

"Then it does fear?" said Sir Osborne.

"Pshaw!" cried Lady Katrine. "Geraldine, come up, and deliver me from him: he is worse than the Rochester rioters."

In such light talk passed they their journey, Sir Osborne Maurice sometimes pleased, sometimes vexed with his gay companion, but upon the whole, amused, and in some degree dazzled. For her part, whatever might be her more serious feelings, the lady found the knight quite handsome and agreeable enough to be worthy a little coquetry. Perhaps it might be nothing but those little flirting airs by which many a fair lady thinks herself fully justified in exciting attention, with that sort of thirst for admiration which is not content unless it be continually fresh and active. Now, with her glove drawn off her fair graceful hand, she would push back the thick curls from her face; now adjust the long folds of her riding-dress; now pat the glossy neck of her pampered jennet, which, bending down its head and shaking the bit, would seem proud of her caresses; and then she would smile, and ask Sir Osborne if he did not think a horse the most beautiful creature in nature.

At length they approached the little town of Sittenbourne, famous even then for a good inn, where, had the party not been plagued with that unromantic thing called hunger, they must have stopped to refresh their horses, amongst which the one that carried the baggage of Lady Katrine, being heavily laden, required at least two hours' repose.

The inn was built by the side of the road, though sunk two or three feet below it, with a row of eight old elms shadowing its respectable-looking front, which, with its small windows and red brick complexion, resembled a good deal the face of a well-doing citizen, with his minute dark eyes half swallowed up by his rosy cheeks. From its position, the steps by which entrance was obtained, so far from ascending, according to modern usage, descended into a little passage, from which a door swinging by means of a pulley, a string, and a large stone, conducted into the inn parlour.

Here, when Lady Katrine had entered, while the knight gave orders for preparing a noon meal in some degree suitable to the lady's rank, she amused herself in examining all the quaint carving of the old oak panelling; and having studied every rose in the borders, and every head upon the corbels, she dropped into a chair, crying out--"Oh dear! oh dear! what shall I do in the mean while? Bridget, girl, bring me my broidery out of the horse-basket. I feel industrious; but make haste, for fear the fit should leave me."

"Bless your ladyship!" replied the servant, "the broidery is at the bottom of all the things in the pannier. It will take an hour or more to get at it; that it will."

"Then give me what is at the top, whatever it is," said the lady; "quick! quick! quick! or I shall be asleep."

Bridget ran out, according to her lady's command, and returned in a moment with a cithern or mandolin, which was a favourite instrument among the ladies of the day, and placing it in Lady Katrine's hand, she cried, "Oh, dear lady, do sing that song about the knight and the damsel!"

"No, I won't," answered her mistress; "it will make the man in armour yawn. Sir knight," she continued, holding up the instrument, "do you know what that is?"

"It seems to me no very great problem," replied Sir Osborne, turning from some orders he was giving to Longpole; "it is a cithern, is it not?"

"He would fain have said, 'A thing that some fools play upon, and other fools listen to,'" cried Lady Katrine: "make no excuse, Sir Osborne; I saw it in your face. I'm sure you meant it."

"Nay, indeed, fair lady," replied the knight, "it is an instrument much used at the court of Burgundy, where my days have lately been spent. We were wont to hold it as a shame not to play on some instrument, and I know not a sweeter aid to the voice than the cithern."

"Oh, then you play and sing! I am sure you do," cried the giddy girl. "Sir Osborne Maurice, good knight and true, come into court, pull off your gauntlets, and sing me a song."

"I will truly," answered the knight, "after I have heard your ladyship, though I am but a poor singer.'"

"Well, well!" cried Lady Katrine, "I'll lead the way; and if you are a true knight, you will follow."

So saying, she ran her fingers lightly over the strings, and sang.