‘Sir Rowland,’ he said, ’I am not angry with thee that thou art weak and passionate.  But bethink thee—­thou liest in God’s hands a thousandfold more helpless than now thou liest in mine, and like Saul of Tarsus thou wilt find it hard to kick against the pricks.  For the maiden, do as thou wilt, for thou canst not do other than the will of God.  But I thank thee for what thou hast told me, though I doubt it meaneth little better for me than for thee.  Thou hast a kind heart.  I almost love thee, and will when I can.’

He let go his hands, and walked from the room.

‘Canting hypocrite!’ cried sir Rowland in the wrath of impotence, but knew while he said the words that they were false.

And with the words the bitterness of life seized his heart, and his despair shrouded the world in the blackness of darkness.  There was nothing more to live for, and he turned his face to the wall.

CHAPTER LI.

Under the moat.

It was some time ere they discovered that Scudamore was missing from the castle, but there was the hope that he had been taken prisoner; and things were growing so bad within the walls, that there was little leisure for lamentation over individual misfortunes.  Unless some change as entire as unexpected—­for there seemed no chance of any except the king should win over the Scots to take his part —­should occur, it was evident that the enemy must speedily make the assault, nor could there be a doubt of their carrying the place—­an anticipation which, as the inevitable drew nearer, became nothing less than terrible to both household and garrison.  True, their conquerors would be of their own people, but battle and bloodshed and victory, and, worst of all, party-spirit, the marquis knew, destroy not nationality merely, but humanity as well, rousing into full possession the feline beast which has his lair in every man—­in many, it is true, dwindled to the household cat, but in many others a full-sized, only sleepy tiger.  To what was he about to expose his men, not to speak of his ladies and their children!

On the other hand, ever since the balls had been flying about his house, and the stones of it leaving their places to keep them company, the loyalty of the marquis had been rising, and he had thought of his prisoner-king ever with growing tenderness, of his faults with more indulgence, and of the wrongs he had done his family with more magnanimity and forgiveness, so that, for his own part, he would have held out to the very last.

‘And truly were it not better to be well buried under the ruins,’ he would say to himself, looking down with a sigh at his great bulk, which added so much to the dismalness of the prospect of being, in his seventieth year, a prisoner or a wanderer—­the latter a worse fate even than the former.  To be no longer the master of his own great house, of many willing servants, of all ready appliances for