“Is Black Peter in the Castle?”

  “No, my Lord, he went out yesterday with two men, who returned alone, one grievously wounded, the other half-dead.”

  “Send the one who is able to get about to me.”

  “Yea, my Lord.”

  The man required soon made his appearance, his head enveloped in bandages and his left arm in a sling.

  “Where is Black Peter?” inquired the Baron, without even bestowing a look of pity on the poor creature.

  “I know not, my Lord; I left Peter in the Forest digging a hole in which to hide the body of the young Lord whom we had killed.”

  The Baron’s face became purple; he tried to speak, confused words rushed to his lips; he turned his head away, and signed to the assassin to leave the room. The latter, who wished for nothing better, went out, supporting himself by the wall.

  “Dead!” murmured the Baron, with an indefinable feeling. “Dead!” he repeated; and, pale as death, he continued to stammer in a feeble voice, “Dead! dead!”

  Let us leave Lord Fitz-Alwine a prey to evil conscience, and seek his daughter’s destined husband.

  Sir Tristan had not left the Castle; and indeed his sojourn there was to be prolonged until the end of the week.

  The Baron wished his daughter’s marriage to be celebrated in the Castle Chapel; but Sir Tristan, who feared some sinister attack on his person, preferred to be married openly at Linton Abbey, about a mile from the town of Nottingham.

  “My good friend,” said Lord Fitz-Alwine, in a peremptory tone, when this question was broached, “you are a stubborn fool, for you do not understand either my good faith or your own interests. You must not imagine that my daughter will be overjoyed to be yours, nor that she will walk gladly to the altar. I cannot tell you the reason, but I have a presentiment that at Linton Abbey some great disaster may occur. We are in the neighbourhood of a troop of bandits who, led by an audacious chief, are quite capable of surrounding and plundering us.”

  “I should be escorted by my servants,” replied Sir Tristan; “they are numerous and of tried courage.”

  “As you please,” said the Baron. “If any accident occur, you will only have yourself to blame.”

  “Never be uneasy; I will take the responsibility of the fault upon myself, if it be a fault, my choice of the place for celebrating the wedding.”

  “By the way,” said the Baron, “do not forget, I beg, that on the eve of the happy day you are to give me a million pieces of gold.”

  “The chest containing that amount is in my room, Fitz-Alwine,” said Sir Tristan, fetching a deep sigh, “and it will be carried into your apartment on the day of the wedding.”

  “On the eve,” said the Baron “the eve, so it was agreed.”

  “On the eve, then.”

  With this the old men parted, the one going to pay his court to the Lady Christabel, the other returning to his dreams of greatness.

  At Barnsdale Hall the gloom was profound. Old Sir Guy, his wife and their daughters, passed the hours of the day in mutual consolation and the nights in weeping over the death of poor Will.

  The day after the lad’s miraculous deliverance, the Gamwell family was assembled in the great hall, talking sadly over Will’s strange disappearance, when the joyous sound of a hunting-horn was heard at the gate of the Hall.

  “It is Robin!” cried Marian, rushing to the window.

  “He must be bringing good news,” said Barbara. “Come, dear Maude, hope and courage, William is coming back.”

  “Alas, my sister! may you prove right,” said Maude, weeping.

  “I am right! I am right!” cried Barbara. “Here are Will and Robin with a young man, doubtless a friend of theirs.”

  Maude flew to the door, and Marian, who had recognised her brother (for Allan Clare had only been stunned, and, after lying unconscious for a few hours, was now quite recovered), threw herself, like Maude, into the young men’s outstretched arms. Maude, nearly delirious with joy, would only murmur fondly, “Will! Will! dear Will!” whilst Marian, with her arms around her brother’s neck, was unable to utter a word. We will not attempt to depict the joy of this now happy family, to whom God had sent back safe and sound him they had mourned as lost for ever.

  Laughter soon drove away their tears, and both beloved children were strained to the maternal bosom with the same fond kisses and caresses. Sir Guy gave his blessing to Will and to his son’s deliverer, while Lady Gamwell, radiant with joy, pressed the charming Maude to her heart.

  “Was I not right in maintaining that Robin was bringing good tidings?” said Barbara, kissing Will as she spoke.

  “Of a truth, you were right, dear Barbara,” replied Marian, pressing her brother’s hand.

  “I should like,” said saucy Barbara, “to pretend that Robin was Will, and hug him with all my might.”

  “Such a mode of expressing your gratitude would set us a very bad example, Barbara dear,” laughed Marian; “for we should all feel constrained to imitate you, and poor Robin would succumb beneath the weight of so much happiness.”

  “My death would be an easy one, at any rate. Think you not so, Lady Marian?”

  Marian blushed, and an almost imperceptible smile hovered on Allan Clare’s lips.

  “Sir Knight,” said Will, approaching the young man, “you see what an affection Robin hath inspired in my sisters’ hearts; but he well deserves it. In recounting our troubles to you, Robin never told how he had rescued my father from death; he said nothing of his devotion to Winifred and Barbara; he spoke not of his affectionate care that of the best of friends for Maude, my affianced bride. When giving you tidings of Lady Marian, Robin added not, ‘I have watched over her happiness when you were far away; in me she had a faithful friend, a devoted brother.’ He did not...”

  “William, I beseech you,” interrupted Robin, “spare my blushes; for though Lady Marian avers that I cannot blush, my face doth verily feel afire.”

  “My dear Robin,” said Allan, visibly affected, as he wrung the young man by the hand, “I have long been greatly in your debt, and at length I am happy in being able to repay you. It did not need Will’s words to assure me that you had nobly fulfilled the delicate mission confided to you; the loyalty of all your deeds was a sure guarantee of that.”

  “Oh, brother,” said Marian, “if you only knew how good and generous he hath been to us all! If you only knew how praiseworthy his conduct toward me hath been, you would honour him and you would love him as... as...”

  “As thou dost thyself is it not so?” said Allan, with a tender smile.

  “Yea, as I do myself,” replied Marian, her face radiant with a smile of unutterable pride, and her sweet voice tremulous with emotion. “I fear not to openly avow my love for the generous man who hath shared the sorrows of my heart. Robin loves me, dear Allan; his love for me is as deep and hath endured as long as mine for him. My hand is promised to Robin Hood, and we only awaited thy presence to ask of God His holy benediction.”

  “I am ashamed of my selfishness, Marian,” said Allan; “and my shame forces me to admire the more Robin’s gallant behaviour. Thy natural protector was far from thee, and thou didst not deem it fitting to be happy until he returned. Forgive me both for abandoning you so cruelly; Christabel will plead my cause to your tender hearts. Thank you, dear Robin,” added the Knight, “thank you; no words can express to you my sincere gratitude. You love Marian and Marian loves you; I am proud and happy to give you her hand.”

  As he finished speaking, the Knight took his sister’s hand, and with a smile placed it in that of the young man, who, straining Marian to his bursting heart, kissed her passionately. William seemed quite intoxicated with the joy he saw around him, and with the object of suppressing the violence of his emotion, he took Maude round the waist and kissed her neck again and again, uttering some incoherent words and finishing with a triumphant “Hurrah!”

  “We will be married on the same day, won’t we, Robin?” cried Will, joyously, “or rather we will be married to-morrow. Oh no! not to-morrow; it is unlucky to put off till to-morrow what can be done to-day — we will be married to-day. What say you, Maude?”

  The girl laughed.

  “You are in a tremendous hurry,” cried the Knight.

  “A hurry! It is easy for you, Allan, to criticise; but an if, like me, you had been torn from the arms of your beloved when you were on the point of giving her your name, you would not say I was in too great a hurry. Am I not right, Maude?”

  “Yea, William, you are right; but our marriage cannot take place to-day.”

  “Why not? I should like to know, why not?” repeated the lad, impatiently.

  “Because it is necessary for me to leave Barnsdale in a few hours, friend Will,” replied the Knight, “and I must certainly be present at your wedding and at my sister’s. I for my part hope to have the happiness of marrying the Lady Christabel, and our three weddings could then be celebrated on the same day. Wait a little longer, William; in one week from to-day all will be settled to our mutual satisfaction.”

  “Wait another week?” cried Will. “It is impossible!”

  “But, William,” said Robin, “a week is soon gone, and you have a thousand reasons for patience.”

  “Well, I resign myself,” said the young man, dismally. “You are all against me, and I have never a soul to speak up for me. Maude, who of rights should add the eloquence of her sweet voice to mine, remains silent, so I will hold my tongue too. I suppose, Maude, we ought to talk of our future home. Come, let us go round the garden; that ought to take a good two hours at least, and it will be so much subtracted from the eternity of a week.”

  Without awaiting the girl’s consent, Will took her hand, and laughingly led her out under the shady trees of the park.

  A week after the interview between Allan Clare and Lord Fitz-Alwine, the Lady Christabel was alone in her room, seated, or rather crouching, in an armchair. The silken folds of a beautiful white satin dress draped the girl’s cowering form, and a veil of English point covered her blonde tresses. A deathly pallor overspread her delicate and perfect features, her colourless lips were closed, and her large eyes, with their listless look, were fixed in a terrified stare on a door opposite.

  From time to time a large tear rolled down her cheeks, and this tear, a pearl of sorrow, was the only sign of life her enfeebled body gave. Two hours passed in dreadful waiting. Christabel was hardly conscious; her mind, steeped in happy memories of a past beyond recall, regarded with unspeakable horror the approaching sacrifice.

  “He hath forgot me,” wailed the poor girl, suddenly, wringing her hands, whiter than the satin of her dress; “he hath forgot her whom he said he loved, whom alone he loved; he hath forgot his vows he is married to another. Oh, God! have pity on me; my strength fails me, for my heart is broken. I have suffered so much already! For him have I borne bitter words, the loveless looks of the father I should love and respect! For him I bore ill-treatment without complaint, even the sombre solitude of the cloister! I believed in him and he hath deceived me!”

  A convulsive sob escaped her, and the tears gushed from her eyes. A light tap at the door aroused her from her painful thoughts.

  “Come in,” she said in a stifled voice.

  The door opened, and the wrinkled face of Sir Tristan appeared before the eyes of the unhappy girl.

  “Sweet lady of our Prithee,” said the old man, with a leer, which he fondly imagined was an enchanting smile, “the hour departure is about to strike. Allow me to offer you my arm; the escort awaits us, and we shall soon be the happiest couple in England.”

  “My Lord,” stammered Christabel, “I cannot go downstairs.”

  “How say you, dear love you cannot go downstairs? I do not well understand; you are quite ready, and they wait for us. Come, give me your dear, dainty hand.”

  “Sir Tristan,” replied Christabel, as she rose with burning eyes and trembling lips, “hear me, I beseech you, and if there be a spark of pity in you, you will save the poor girl, who thus implores you, from this terrible ceremony.”

  “Terrible ceremony!” repeated Sir Tristan, in astonishment. “What means this, my Lady? I do not comprehend you.”

  “Spare me the pain of an explanation,” Christabel answered, with a sob, “and I will bless you, Sir, and ever remember you in my prayers.”

  “You appear agitated, my pretty dove,” said the old man in honeyed accents. “Calm yourself, my love, and this evening, or to-morrow, if you prefer it, you shall make your little confidences to me. At present we have no time to lose, but when we are married it will be different; we shall have plenty of leisure, and I will listen to you from morn till eve.”

  “In the name of pity, Sir, hear me now. If my father hath deceived you, I will not buoy you up with false hopes. My Lord, I do not love you; my heart is given to a young Lord who was my childhood’s earliest friend. At the very moment when I am about to bestow my hand upon you, I am thinking of him. I love him, my Lord, I love him, and my whole soul is his, and his alone.”

  “You will soon forget this young man, fair lady. Once my wife, believe me, you will think of him no more.”

  “Never shall I forget him; his image is indelibly graven on my heart.”

  “At your age we think we shall love for ever, my dear love; then time creeps on and effaces in his march the tenderly cherished image. But come, we will speak of all this another time, and I will help you to set the hope of the future betwixt the past and the present.”

  “You have no pity, Sir?”

  “I love you, Christabel.”

  “God have pity on me!” sighed the poor girl.

  “God will certainly have pity,” said the old man, taking Christabel’s hand. “He will send you resignation and oblivion.”

  Sir Tristan kissed the cold hand in his with a respect mingled with tenderness and sympathy.

  “You will be happy, fair lady,” he said.

  Christabel smiled sadly.

  “I shall die,” she thought to herself.

  At Linton Abbey great preparations were being made for the wedding of the Lady Christabel and old Sir Tristan.

  Ever since daybreak the Chapel had been hung with magnificent hangings, and sweet-smelling flowers diffused the most fragrant perfumes throughout the sanctuary. The Bishop of Hereford, who was to perform the marriage ceremony, stood at the Church door, with Monks in white vestments around him, awaiting the nuptial procession. Shortly before the arrival of Sir Tristan and the Lady Christabel, a man bearing in his hand a small harp presented himself before the Bishop.

  “My Lord,” said the new-comer, making respectful genuflexion, “are you not about to celebrate a High Mass in honour of the bride and bridegroom?”

  “Yea, friend, I am,” returned the Bishop. “But why dost thou ask?”

  “My Lord,” answered the stranger, “I am the best harpist in France or England, and usually in much request at all feasts. Having heard of the intended marriage betwixt the rich Sir Tristan and Baron Fitz-Alwine’s only daughter, I am come to offer his Lordship my services.”

  “An thy talent match thy vanity and assurance, thou art welcome.”

  “I thank you, my Lord.”

  “The sound of the harp pleaseth me much,” the Bishop continued, “and I should love to hear thee play before the wedding party arriveth.”

  “My Lord,” replied the stranger, haughtily, drawing the folds of his long cloak around him with a majestic air, “an I were a wandering minstrel, like those you are wont to hear, I would fall in with your wishes; but I play only at stated seasons and in suitable places. By-and-by I hope to give you complete satisfaction.”

  “Insolent varlet,” replied the Bishop, in an angry voice, “I command thee to play to me this very instant.”

  “I will not touch a string until the escort arrive,” said the stranger, imperturbably; “but when it doth come, you will hear sounds which will astonish you. Of that rest assured.”

  “We shall be able to judge of thy merits,” replied the Bishop, “for here they come.”

  The stranger stepped back a few paces, while the Bishop advanced to meet the procession.

  As she was about to enter the Church, Christabel turned half fainting to Baron Fitz-Alwine.