The outlaw, soon after his enlargement, finding that the cause he had espoused was hopeless, and that matters were at the last extremity in his own fate, and that of his unhappy country,—­fearful, too, of drawing the innocent Constance and her father into the deep vortex of his own ruin,—­made all haste to the capital, where, through the powerful interest excited in his behalf, aided by his well-known valour and the influence he was known to possess amongst his countrymen, he received a free pardon from the Queen.

Yet his thoughts lingered on the remembrance of her to whose heroic and confiding spirit he owed his safety.  Never had his proud bosom been so enthralled.  Though nurtured in camps, amid the din of arms, and the shout of the battle, yet his knowledge of the female heart was almost intuitive.  He had loved more than once, but in every case the attachment ended unhappily, terminating either by the death of the object or by some calamity his own evil fate had unavoidably brought upon its victim.  Though fearful the same operation of his destiny would ensue, and that misery and misfortune would still follow the current of his affections, yet he resolved to behold once more the maiden he loved with an ardour almost surpassing his own belief.

One cold dull morning, towards the wane of the year, when the heavy drops lay long on the rank herbage; no sunbeam yet loitering through the damp chill atmosphere, but the sky one wide and unvarying expanse—­a sea of cloud—­here and there a black scud passing over, like a dim bark sweeping across the bosom of that “waveless deep,” a stranger stood by a low wicket near the mansion of Grislehurst.  He looked wistfully at the gloomy windows, unlighted by a single reflection from without, like the rayless night of his own soul:—­they were mostly closed.  A mysterious and unusual stillness prevailed.  The brown leaves fluttered about, unswept from the dreary avenues.  Decayed branches obstructed the paths; and every object wore a look of wretchedness and dilapidation.  The only sign of occupancy and life was one grey wreath of smoke, curling heavily from its vent, as if oppressed with the gloom by which it was surrounded.  The melancholy note of the redbreast was the only living sound, as the bird came hopping towards him with its usual air of familiarity and respect.  Enveloped in a military cloak, and in his cap a dark feather drooping gently over his proud features, the stranger slowly approached the house:  a side-door stood partly open.  He entered.  A narrow passage led into the hall.  No embers brightened the huge chimney.  The table showed no relics of the feast,—­no tokens of the past night’s revel.  The deer’s antlers still hung over the master’s place at the board, but the oaken chair was gone.  Dust and desertion had played strange antics in these “high places.”  The busy spider had wreathed her dingy festoons in mockery over the pomp she degraded.

He listened, but there was no sound, save the last faint echo of his footstep.  Turning towards the staircase, a beautiful spaniel, a sort of privileged favourite of Constance, came, with a deep growl, as if to warn away the intruder.  But the sagacious animal suddenly fawned upon him, and with a low whine ascended the stairs, looking back wistfully, as though inviting him to follow.