Last of the Barons, the — Volume 03 eBook

correspondence with the royal prisoner, and of that suspicious, restless, feverish temperament which never slept when a fear was wakened, a doubt conceived, he had broke from his brother, whose more open valour and less unquiet intellect were ever willing to leave the crown defended but by the gibbet for the detected traitor, the sword for the declared foe; and obtaining Edward’s permission “to inquire further into these strange matters,” he sent at once for the porter who had conveyed the model to the Tower; but that suspicious accomplice was gone.  The sound of the explosion of the engine had no less startled the guard below than the spectators above.  Releasing their hold of their prisoner, they had some taken fairly to their heels, others rushed into the palace to learn what mischief had ensued; and Hugh, with the quick discretion of his north country, had not lost so favourable an opportunity for escape.  There stood the dozing mule at the door below, but the guide was vanished.  More confirmed in his suspicions by this disappearance of Adam’s companion, Richard, giving some preparatory orders to Catesby, turned at once to the room which still held the philosopher and his device.  He closed the door on entering, and his brow was dark and sinister as he approached the musing inmate.  But here we must return to Sibyll.

CHAPTER VIII.

The old woman talks of sorrows, the young woman dreams of love; the
courtier Flies from present power to remembrances of past hopes, and
the world-bettered opens Utopia, with A view of the gibbet for the
silly sage he has seduced into his schemes,—­so, ever and evermore,
runs the world away!

The old lady looked up from her embroidery-frame, as Sibyll sat musing on a stool before her; she scanned the maiden with a wistful and somewhat melancholy eye.

“Fair girl,” she said, breaking a silence that had lasted for some moments, “it seems to me that I have seen thy face before.  Wert thou never in Queen Margaret’s court?”

“In childhood, yes, lady.”

“Do you not remember me, the dame of Longueville?” Sibyll started in surprise, and gazed long before she recognized the features of her hostess; for the dame of Longueville had been still, when Sibyll was a child at the court, renowned for matronly beauty, and the change was greater than the lapse of years could account for.  The lady smiled sadly:  “Yes, you marvel to see me thus bent and faded.  Maiden, I lost my husband at the battle of St. Alban’s, and my three sons in the field of Towton.  My lands and my wealth have been confiscated to enrich new men; and to one of them—­one of the enemies of the only king whom Alice de Longueville will acknowledge—­I owe the food for my board and the roof for my head.  Do you marvel now that I am so changed?”