CHAPTER IV.

Not two hours after that conversation, Lord Arthur Talbot came rapidly towards the house which the general, now encamped at some distance from his fortress, occupied. It was a large house near the camp. Surrounded by an enclosure of tall trees, and high walls, this house stood, and in its old weed-filled garden, the witless lady sometimes wandered. Some of the windows of the house opened down to the grounds, and to a wide terrace.

Arthur reached the wall, soon clambered to the top, and was just dropping to the ground when a sentinel espied him and fired. But he missed his aim, and the next moment the lord was on the grounds of the house.

“Safe,” he muttered thankfully, and looking about him he thought how sweet it was to see the house and garden once again, to see his dear native land, which he quitted three months before to save a queen, who was now in safety and comparatively happy. What joy he thought it would be to tell his Elvira the glorious truth--that he had saved a queen from death--and had restored a mother to her children. His heart beat as he thought of her joy when he had told his tale, and proved his honor and his love for her. He was loyal too, even though a royalist, and had never thought of bearing arms against his country.

As he moved hesitatingly towards the house, the lost lady passed the open windows, singing a ballad her lover had taught her.

He started, and turned towards the spot whence came the welcome sound.

So gently he began singing the ballad. Nay--he sang it quite through, and yet no answer was made.

As he concluded, there were heard the sounds of steps near him. He fled into the shadow of some friendly trees, as his beating heart told him of the coming of the puritans.

Nearer and nearer came the sound. Surely, ’twas a picket of soldiers. They passed on, and their steps were lost in the distance. He stood again beneath the windows, and once more chanted the ballad she so loved.

She came to one of the casements--slowly--slowly--dreamily.

“It has ceased--the loved wind, which sings his song.”

She stepped through the open window on to the terrace.

“Ah, my Arthur, where art thou?”

“Here, dearest, by thy side--at thy feet.”

“Thou! is’t thou?” And she put her arms about him. “Thou dost not deceive me?”

“I deceive thee! never, Elvira.”

“I tremble; why? Is misfortune near?”

“No--no; be joyful. Love smiles beneficently upon us.”

“How--how long is it since I saw thee?”

“Three weary months.”

“No, no; three centuries of sighs and agony. And have I not called to thee--Arthur--Arthur--return!”

“But she was in danger, and I saved her.”

“And--and thou lovdst her?”

“I?--her?”

“Is she not thy wife?”

“Nay--”

“Nay, but _is_ she?”

“I love her whom I have ever loved--whom I shall love till death is with me--and ’tis _thee_.”

“Ah! then he did _not_ love her. Then I will love him better than ever--better than ever. Yet tell me, if thou didst not love her, why didst thou follow her?”

“Her life was in danger.”

“Whose life, love? Whose?”

“The queen’s; she was the queen.”

“The queen!”

“A moment more, and she would have been doomed to the scaffold.”

“Then--then thou dost love me?”

“Art thou not in my arms? Doth not my heart tell thee how I love thee? I would rather die than part from thee. Each waking moment since we parted I have thought of Elvira, and dreamt of her each minute that I slept; and when I was on the sea, I said my love was as boundless as the waves.”

“I am dying with joy--dying; and yet--yet I am afraid; I am quite afraid. Put your hand upon my heart. Now, _doth_ it beat?”

As she laid his hand upon her breast, there was heard the sound of a drum-roll. Immediately it destroyed the partial sense with which she had been blessed while speaking to her lover.

“Hark!” she said, hurriedly and terribly, “I know the sound, but now I fear it no longer. Yes, I tore her veil from off her head, and trampled on it. I did--I did. And--and thou wilt not leave me?”

“Great powers?” he cried, looking into her dreamy eyes; and in a great whirl of fear, he fell back from her.

There came floating on the air the exchange of the watchword, “England and Cromwell.”

“Come,” he said, moving towards the house: “let us go in.”

Then she was seized with a violent paroxysm. Calling out that he wished to leave her--to go back to her for whom she had been deserted. She poured forth shriek upon shriek till the air was all astir.

Alarmed at the sudden discovery he had made, he tried to fly from her, but she clung to him--still shrieking that he would leave her, and that he was going to the woman with whom he had fled.

“Be silent.”

“He would fly me--”

“Oh--be silent.”

“Help--help--for pity’s sake!”

“Ah!”

Then came the alarmed puritans, running in from all sides. From the house--from the garden--over the walls they streamed--nearer and nearer, till they surrounded the lover and his mad bride.

While he, all his fear merged in overwhelming sorrow, stood gazing at her who was then his ruin; for had she not called his dread enemies about him?

Amongst the rest came Captain Richard Forth. And as he saw his enemy in his power--his enemy wearing his sword, and come secretly in the night-time from the puritan camp--he saw he was unworthy to live, and he cried, “The ungodly shall perish from off the face of the earth. Thou hast crept to death, Arthur Talbot; thou hast crept here to death!”

The dreadful word made a dreadful impression on the lady. She trembled violently, pressed her hands about her head, and uttered the word over and over again. Was this the great terror that might save her? The learned doctor had said a sudden joy or terror might restore her.

“Arthur,” she cried at last, in a tone far different from that in which she had spoken to him but a minute since, and fell upon his breast. She was saved! So he had returned to restore her to reason, and she--she had destroyed him.

Even in the one word, “Arthur,” she betrayed him.

“Arthur Talbot,” they cried aloud; and each man drew his breath hard, and grasped his sword.

“Let the unrighteous perish; let no hand be stretched forth to save him.”

Said the captain, “Thou art brave enough not to fear death, Arthur Talbot. Be prepared--thou art of the camp of the lost--thou shalt surely die.”

“He die? and have I caused his death? I who love him better than I love my life?”

The stern puritan, as he watched the effect of his hasty speech upon the poor lady’s countenance, was sorry he had spoken.

Said the puritans among themselves--“Behold a judgment. Is he not delivered into our hands? Then he must surely die!”

“Fear not,” said the lost man to his destroyer--she whom he loved so well. “Fear not, death is easy to the brave, and I am brave, or thou wouldst have never loved me.”

The captain and the colonel looked hesitatingly one at the other, and then at the cavalier. The puritans murmured and cried aloud.

“What! shall not the sword fall when the Lord hath bidden it to destroy?”

“I have killed him, I have killed him,” she exclaimed, now miserably sane.

“Fear not, my own Elvira.”

Again the puritans cried out--

“Wherefore shall we not destroy the enemy?”

Suddenly a trumpet sounded.

A moment, and the face of the colonel was full of joy, and yet wet with new-born tears. The message was a pardon signed by Cromwell, for all cavaliers who should lay down arms before the action.

Said Lord Arthur Talbot. “I have never borne arms against the nation. I have belonged to no camp. I have arrived in England but this evening, and came hither from the vessel.”

The puritans forgot themselves, for they gave a shout of joy.

And even the bitter Captain Richard Forth was heartily glad to find that Arthur Talbot’s blood had not been shed.

So the young bridegroom did not die, and the bride did not therefore destroy him, and his marriage at last took place, sanctified by the glorious truth that he, the bridegroom, had saved a human life. Not only the life of a queen, but the life of a loving mother.

LA FIGLIA DEL REGGIMENTO. (DONIZETTI.)

THE DAUGHTER OF THE REGIMENT.