The prioress bowed her head, saying simply, "I will," and Woodville turned to depart; but the poor girl, who had heard his words, started up, and catching his hand, pressed her lips upon it, then knelt by the pallet again, and seemed to pray.
Without farther words, Woodville quitted the lodge; the porter hurried on to open the gates, and the young gentleman went out with the people who had borne or accompanied the poor old minstrel thither. Just as he had reached the road, however, he heard a voice say, "Richard of Woodville, farewell; and remember!"
He started and turned round; but though it was a female voice that spoke, there were none but men around him; and at the same moment the gate rolled heavily to.
We must return, dear reader, for a short time, to the scenes in which our tale first began, and to the old hall of the good knight of Dunbury. Richard of Woodville and Sir Henry Dacre had been absent for two days upon their journey to another part of Hampshire, where we have shown somewhat of their course; and Sir Philip Beauchamp sat by the fire meditating, while his daughter Isabel, and fair Mary Markham, were seated near, plying busily the needle through the embroidery frame, and not venturing to disturb his reverie even by whispered conversation. From time to time, the old man muttered a few sentences to himself, of which the two ladies could only catch detached fragments, such as, "They must know by this time,--Dacre could not but do so,--I am sure 'tis for that--," and several similar expressions, showing that his mind was running upon the expedition of his nephew and his friend, in regard to the object of which, neither Isabel nor Mary had received any information.
It must not be said, however, that they did not suspect anything; for the insinuations of Sir Simeon of Roydon had been told them; and, though neither weak nor given to fear--a knight's daughter, in a chivalrous age--Isabel could not help looking forward with feelings of awe, and an undefinable sinking of the heart, to the events which were likely to follow. She fully believed that she experienced, and had ever experienced, towards Sir Henry Dacre, but one class of sensations--regard for his high character and noble heart, and pity for the incessant grief and anxiety which her cousin's conduct had brought upon him from his early youth. But such feelings are very treacherous guides, and lead us far beyond the point at which they tell us they will stop. With her, too, they had had every opportunity of so doing, for she trusted to them in full confidence. Hers had been the task, also, of soothing and consoling him under all he had suffered--a dangerous task, indeed, for one young, kind, gentle, and enthusiastic, to undertake towards a man whom she admired and respected. But then, they had known each other from infancy, she thought; they had grown up together like brother and sister, and the tie between them had only been brought nearer by the betrothing of Dacre to her cousin.
