He had slept but for a short time, when he was suddenly awakened by the
pressure of a hand upon his shoulder; he looked up, and by the dim light
of the fading lamp saw it was Major Wellmore who disturbed his repose.
He started at once from his couch; but the officer seated himself upon
an opposite chair, placed his steeple-crowned and weather-beaten hat on
the floor, and resting his elbows on his knees, and his chin between the
palms of his hands, fixed his keen eyes upon the young Cavalier, who,
when perfectly awake, perceived that his visitor was dressed and armed
as usual.
"Is it morning, sir?" inquired De Guerre, anxious to break the silence.
"No, sir," was the concise reply.
"The whole house sleeps," resumed Walter; "why then are you up and
dressed? and why am I disturbed?"
"You are mistaken, young man. Know you a pretty, demure,
waiting-gentlewoman, called Barbara?"
"Mistress Cecil's attendant?"
"The same:--she has but now left the house, to communicate, I suppose,
with your respectable friends at the Gull's Nest, and devise means for
your escape."
"If so, I am sure I know nothing of the foolish plan."
"I believe you. There is another who slumbers not."
"What, Constantia!--is she ill?" inquired the Cavalier, with an
earnestness that caused something of a smile to visit the firm-set lip
of the hardy soldier.
"No; I know nothing of young ladies' slumbers; I dare say she and her
loquacious friend, Lady Frances, have talked themselves to sleep long
since."
"Lady Frances, I dare say, has," persisted Walter: "light o' lip, light
o' sleep."
"I spoke of neither of the women," said the Major, sternly; "I allude to
Sir Willmott Burrell--he sleeps not."
"By my troth I am glad of it," exclaimed the Cavalier; "right glad am I
that slumber seals not the craven's lids. Would that I were by his side,
with my good steel, and where there could be no interruption; the sun
should never rise upon his bridal morn."
"Ah! you would show your regard for Mistress Cecil, I presume, by
destroying the man she has chosen to be her husband; such is the
Malignant's love!"
"Love, sir! I have not spoken of love. But could Constantia Cecil love a
dastard like this Burrell? Listen!--I thought to tell you--yet, when I
look on you, I cannot--there is that about you which seems at war with
tenderness. Age sits upon your brow as if it were enthroned on
Wisdom--the wisdom learned in a most troubled land--the wisdom that
takes suspicion as its corner stone; yet once, mayhap, blood, warm and
gentle too, flowed in those very veins that time hath wrought to sinews;
and then, sir--then you looked on love and youth with other eyes:--was
it not so?"