Page:Once a Week Volume 7.djvu/313

. 6, 1862.] Alphonso (enchanted to hear from the seneschal on entering the castle that the Baron de Valentin, who had always opposed his suit, had died a year ago, so that now all obstacles seemed cleared from his path) was playing the agreeable to the best of his abilities, and being besides very hungry, he was exceedingly busy in disposing of the good things before him.

Having finished the first plateful, he turned to the priest, saying:

“Reverend father, I will trouble you for a little more of that pasty—there were nothing but bones—”

Here he was interrupted by a groan from Amandamine, who sank back in her chair.

“My love, my fair one, what is it?” asked the knight.

“I forgot, I forgot!” gasped she. “My father’s bones. Oh, Alphonso, I can never be thine.”

“Why not, my adored one?”

“Because—because,” sobbed the maiden, “because of my father’s bones.”

“Because of your fa—ther’s bones!” exclaimed the almost petrified knight. “Father Eustace, is that delicate mind tottering on the throne of reason? Is my beloved one destraught?”

The priest shook his grey head, and replied, “Alas! Sir Knight, she has good cause for all her sorrow.”

“Yes,” shrieked our heroine, “I have, I have. My father’s bones—my father’s—”

But here her feelings overpowered her, and she sank on the ground in strong convulsions. In vain the distracted lover bent over her; in vain the priest sprinkled water on her pure, pale brow. At last they summoned the maidens, and she was carried from the hall, leaving the knight alone, and in a most uncomfortable frame of mind.

Soon, however, they brought word to him that the Lady A. was better, and prayed that the noble Comte de St. Ernancourt would be easy about her, as she was almost recovered. Hubert, the old seneschal, who brought this message, asked if he might show him to his room.

“Yes—no, I would fain see Father Eustace,” said St. Ernancourt, who was naturally anxious to find out the mystery.

“You cannot see him to-night,” replied the old man, “his reverence has just been summoned to attend the dying bed of one of my lady’s vassals, and will not be at home till the morn.”

“Lead the way then,” growled the comte; but when arrived in his room his curiosity overcame his dignity, and he asked, “Hubert, what is the matter—what is all this mystery?”

“Ask me not, my lord count,” replied Hubert in a low, agonised tone; “I would fain neither speak nor even think of aught that happens here, my attachment to my young lady alone inducing me to stay in this—” But feeling that he had already said too much, he tried to leave the apartment.

“Stay, old man; tell me more!”

“I will not,” firmly replied the old retainer. “I pray heaven, Sir Knight, that you may rest in peace, and wish you a good-night.” Then shaking his head ominously, Hubert left the room, muttering, but so as the knight heard him, “Don’t he wish he may get it.”

“ this,—very,” thought the knight, when left to himself. “I expected opposition from the baron himself, but, somehow or other, when dead, he seems a far more formidable antagonist. What does it all mean? Is Amandamine always going to have these hysterical fits? if so I shall have a jolly life of it. That old dotard, too, seemed even to hint at my night’s rest being disturbed, and did not even deign to say what by.”

The knight proceeded to take a minute survey of his apartment, looked under the bed, peeped into the old oaken presses, probed with his sword any bits of the old tapestry which looked suggestive of concealed doors, and finally opened the casement and looked out on the night. It was a gloomy prospect, and almost startling at first: the window hung over a sheer precipice which went deep down some three or four hundred feet to the banks of the river beneath, so that even when the moon shone brightest you could scarce penetrate the black darkness beneath.

“Hum,” muttered the knight, “no foe can assail me from without, and within I will take care to make all secure.”

He closed the lattice, securely fastened and barricaded the doors, and slowly uncased himself from his heavy armour, his lighter garments having been so saturated with the heavy rain, that he had been compelled to sit down to supper without putting on the dress-coat of the period. By the way, what a nuisance dressing and undressing must have been in the good old days; instead of slipping off a Lincoln and Bennett at a moment’s notice, it took a gentleman an age to doff his steel “tile,” and heaven knows how long for his other clothes.

Our poor knight puffed and panted, when at last he was emancipated from his heavy attire, and then he addressed himself to his devotions, which were soon accomplished, for he did but take from his neck a golden chain, to which was suspended a small bag embroidered by the fair hands of Amandamine herself in former happy days, and which contained the pickled tip of St. Alphonso’s nose. Then muttering a few prayers to this holy relic, he put out his light and jumped into bed. The expiring fire flickered and glanced most disagreeably, bringing out all sorts of queer shapes in the faded tapestry and on the blood-red hangings of the ancient—and truth to tell—stuffy bed. For long he could not sleep, and lay listening to the storm which raged with greater fury than ever. It was an awful night,—the frequent gusts of wind and the loud peals of thunder, while the vivid flashes of lightning, which, as the fire died down, played incessantly around the chamber, threw a lurid glare on all the surrounding objects, and served to make the after darkness more terrific,—the awful silence being, perchance, succeeded by the noise as of cataracts of water plashing against the walls, and then again the thunder, and so on.

The knight was very weary, and at last, despite the noise, was beginning to feel drowsy, when—lo! a sound—quite distinct from all the other sounds