CHAPTER XVIII. HOW THE RUSTY KNIGHT LET THE SUN GO DOWN ON HIS WRATH.

On the evening of the last day of the jousts, just as the sun was setting in a blaze of stormy grandeur, tingeing crag and headland and far-off swelling down and beetling cliff with fiery glow, two men were making their way from the steep summit of the high down above the dark fissure in the cliffs where Ralph Lisle had so nearly met his death.

"'Vengeance is mine, I will repay,' saith the Lord," the older and less active figure was saying to his companion.

"Maybe, maybe," said the other testily. "And I never counted much of disputation, but I know this, that even in Holy Writ evil-doers were punished, and made to atone for their wrong-doings."

"But their punishment came not from those who were wronged. 'Evil shall hunt the wicked man,' it is true, but it says not we are to be the instruments of our revenge--and, as I have often-times told thee, there is not the least proof that thou hast received any wrong at his hands."

"Man, man, talk not with me thus!" broke in the other with hot passion. "She loved him or ever she saw me--and she hated me from the time she took me for her lord and master, even if she hated me not from the time of first seeing me; and when a woman hateth one and loveth another, and the one is her husband and the other her--"

"Listen, my son," interrupted the older man in turn, "and thou wilt learn how little thou reckest of all he hath done for thee, in his knightly courtesy and chivalrous forbearance, framing his conduct on the model of the most noble of Christian champions."

"I will not listen, an thou art going to give him, my mortal foe, laud and honour. I have sworn to have his blood, and his blood I will have, or he mine; and he hath given me his word he will meet me," added the speaker, with an evil glitter in his flashing eye. "So say no more, worthy friend; I know my duty, and I will do it. In slaying him, I shall be doing my devoir to my liege lord, my country, and to my own honour. And slay him I will, ere this moon shall have run her last course, for to this end he hath plighted his word as a belted knight."

"My son, I have been a knight, as thou well knowest, and in mine hot youth I also bore a feud against one who, in sooth, had wronged me. I slew him, and albeit there was no question of his evil-doing, yet I rue me of his blood, and in my lonely orisons I implore mercy for my blood-guiltiness. I would fain spare the lonely hours of sorrow and remorse that will await thee, if thou livest,--him, if he slay thee. For the dolour to him will be great; and as I well know his knightly heart and gentle and joyous nature, so--"

"Now beshrew me for a soft-hearted chitling an I hearken to aught more of his laud. If thou hast no more but this to say, I will e'en take my leave, holy father. The sun is set, and I have matters to hasten withal."

"Fare thee well then, my son," answered the old man, with a sigh. "At least be mindful of thy daughter; and if evil betide thee, see that as little as may be befall her, pretty innocent. But fear not. As is my bounden duty, all that I know of thy party, thy plots, and thine hopes is sunk deep in the inmost chambers of my mind, and thou needst not fear that I will bewray thee. I urged but thy duty as a Christian, and minding well the words, 'Blessed are the peace-makers.' Mayhap the time will come soon, sooner than thou or I know, when thou wilt wish thou hadst hearkened to the voice of the Lord, through me, and hadst not hastened thy feet to shed blood. Farewell, my son, and fain would I that I could say, with any hope of its being true, Pax vobiscum!"

So saying, the old man turned away, and took the path, or rather sheep-track, which led over the down behind him. When he had climbed some distance up the steep, wind-shorn slope of brown grass, he paused, and turned to look over the lovely view behind him.

The sun had set, and storm-clouds were working up on the horizon. Above their deep, livid masses a clear, pale yellow sky, flecked with golden and purple patches of wind-torn vapour, told of the change that would shortly come.

The wide-stretching "wine-dark sea" lay far below, as yet still and glassy, its surface only heaving with the long swell which rolled into the Channel, telling of a storm far off in the mysterious deserts of the yet boundless Atlantic.

The roar of the surf, grinding among the rocks on that iron-bound coast, surged up to the giddy height whence the Hermit of St Catherine gazed out to the west and mused on the monotony of earthly passions, their dreary recurrence, and how they are blotted out by death and eternity.

"'Lord, what is man that Thou art mindful of him, or the son of man that Thou so regardest him? Man is but a thing of naught, so soon passeth he away and he is gone.' Ay, truly! but Thy word abideth."

And with a weary sigh the old man once more turned to climb the steep-backed hill.

Meanwhile the other had disappeared over the edge of the cliff. A path scarcely to be made out led down the face of the western wall of the fearful chasm. Tufts of grass, and a few wind-cropped, stunted bushes, gave foothold or hand-grasp to the hardy climber. When he had nearly reached the middle of the chasm, and was but half-way down, he paused and looked about him.

"Ay, ay," he muttered, "'tis all right. They've not come back yet. There's the plank, where it ought to be."

The man then climbed down a little further to where a ledge in the cliff allowed a little more room to move. Against the face of the precipice was a somewhat larger bush of stunted thorn. Protruding from underneath its boughs was the end of a plank. The man drew it out. It was long and heavy. With ease, however, it was drawn to the edge of the little platform, and balanced for launching out to rest on the edge of a similar platform in the face of the opposite precipice.

After swinging the plank backwards and forwards two or three times, the man at last darted it violently forwards, and with such vigour and dexterity that it rested some inches on the opposite ledge. He then proceeded to walk steadily across it, and, having reached the further side, he drew the plank over after him. In this way he cut off all access to his standing-place. Behind him were a few bushes; stepping up to the largest of these, he disappeared behind it.

Had any one been observing him, it would have seemed that he had vanished into the face of the cliff, so close did the bush grow, and so bare and beetling did the face of the rock seem.

But behind the bush was a narrow rent in the cliff, wide enough to allow one man to pass through, and opening out inside into a space of sufficient size to accommodate three or four people.

Striking a light with a flint and steel, the man soon kindled a fire, the smoke of which, instead of curling out through the entrance, found its way to the upper air by some other exit.

Having thrown more fuel on the fire, the man sat down on a spar, which looked as if it had come from some wreck, and fell into a deep reverie.

The flickering light fell full upon his face and figure, showing dark, weather-beaten features, marked with deep lines, but bearing evidence of a strong will, high courage, and pride. His frame was very powerful, although the rough dress he wore did little to set it off. But the sinewy hands and strong neck, combined with great breadth of chest, showed a man capable of vast exertion. In spite of the rude dress, there was a certain air and look which told at once of superior position, and any stranger meeting him would at once have addressed him respectfully, in spite of his surroundings and attire.

"And so the hermit bids me lay aside thoughts of revenge," he muttered. "'Tis easy to say that, when he himself confessed that he had taken his revenge. Can I have been mistaken? Did she not run to him? The pretty wanton, having made me her sport, she spread her wings to other lures. But now he shall atone for it. Dead is she? 'Tis all a lie; part of the false fooling of his wanton wit. Traitor hath he been to his party, to his king, and to the cause. But his day is over. Mistrusted by Henry, he will be led away by his own conceit. Abandoned by a subtle and cold-blooded tyrant, he will die on the scaffold, or on the battlefield, sold to France, to secure his master's ends, if he die not by my own hand, as I devoutly pray he may. And as for me? What hath my life been, and what hath been his? Because I have been true to my king and cause, I am disinherited by my father, and am a beggar, a fugitive, and an exile. Because he hath a fair sister, forsooth, he rises into favour, then changes sides when he sees which way the wind blows, abandons his party, and becomes a noble, a high power in the land, and Captain of the Wight. But his day will soon be over. And what hath life left to offer me? My father hath cast me off, my friends are mostly slain, and there are dark rumours of traitorous practices among such as are left. The gold of Henry of Richmond is doing its deadly work. But there's Simon's voice," he broke off, as a loud halloo interrupted his sombre thoughts.

Getting up, he went to the door of the cave. It was now dark, and no objects could be distinguished in the depth of that gloomy chasm. The tide had risen, and the damp mists from the sea mingled with the spray which dashed among the fallen boulders far below. One step, one false move, and the man would have been dashed to pieces on the rocks beneath.

"Sir Knight, art there?" bawled a gruff voice out of the blackness opposite.

"Ay, Simon; I'll place the plank anon."

The wind had now risen a little, and whistled and moaned amid the fissures of the gorge; but above it, or in lulls of the breeze, the knight thought he heard sobs.

"Marry, Simon, whom hast thou there?"

"'Tis the little wench, master. She would come. I found her on the hill yonder coming from Appuldurcombe."

"Why, what's come to her?"

But before the man could answer, a tearful voice called out,--

"Oh, father, they've killed Master Lisle," and then the sobs broke out in uncontrolled emotion.

"Nay, nay, fair daughter, he is well enough; I learnt that much before I left the lists."

The plank having now been safely adjusted, two figures advanced over it, and stepped into the light of the fire, which gleamed in fitful glimmer out of the fissure behind the bush. The childish figure threw itself into the arms of the stalwart gentleman, crying out as she did so,--

"Oh, I am glad! I should have grieved so sadly had aught evil happened to Master Ralph."

"Humph! Sweet wench, thou takest over much thought for the safety of thy young kinsman. But 'tis a brave lad and a true. I grieve he should have suffered harm. But come in. Simon, I have heard news. I would I could get me to France."

While father and daughter were talking together, the serving-man, who was the same rough fisherman who had spoken to Bowerman after the tourney was over the evening before, had lighted a torch, and was spreading a simple meal on the top of a chest, which served for a table. There was the same strange mixture of gorgeousness and squalor in the appointments of the repast as in the food itself. A richly-chased silver flagon contained wine, which, from its fragrance and colour, seemed the very choicest Burgundy. Coarse bread flanked an enamelled bowl of Limoges ware which held the butter, stale and rancid from the time it had been there. A meat pasty was served in a pewter dish, while a richly-chased knife was ill assorted with a wooden trencher.

After they had eaten, the knight and his varlet talked earnestly for some time. The young girl sat apart. After putting away the remains of the supper, and washing up the things, she sat down on a chest near the fire, and seem to pay no heed to the conversation of the others.

She was a pretty child, with long dark-brown hair, which waved and strayed from under her little close-fitting red cap. Her large soft brown eyes had a wistful expression in them, and her flexible mouth, which usually was parted in merry smiles, or arch fun, was now pursed up in grave thought. Her face was sunburnt, and her dress simple and patched.

Suddenly her attention was caught by hearing her father mention a name she knew.

"Oh, father!" she broke in, unable to master her suspicions, and her impulsive indignation overcoming her habitual awe of her father, "I hope they will catch that Bowerman. What a base caitiff, to stab his friend so foully!"

"Marry, little wench, who told thee to speak?" said her father, stroking the glossy hair.

The child was always in much awe of her father, and nothing but the hot impulse of her anger would have made her burst out as she had done.

She now hung her head a little lower, but looking up shyly after a moment, she said, in a soft, winning tone,--

"But, father, think of it! You are noble, and would never injure your foe save in fair fight and face to face. How I wish all this fighting was over, and there were no such things as foes. Oh dear," she sighed, "I am so tired of it all!"

"Tush, child, you should not have come away from Appuldurcombe: the sisters should not let you roam like this."

"'Twasn't their fault, father; I stole out to help John see to the cows, and then I thought I would come on over here and see you."

"But, by St George, thou must not play these pranks, little wench. Thou hast had too much freedom by far. No marvel," he broke off, with a fierce look of anger, "when thou hast been left to bring thyself up, with only such care as I can give thee."

"But, father, thou dost not like that Bowerman?"

"Marry, wench, what is that to thee? He is a friend to the cause, and, though young, is useful, and may be more so. How know I whether he gave the stroke or not? Wait till thou knowest before thou judgest."

"Ay, but I know full well," added the girl, under her breath, not, however, daring to speak her thoughts aloud.

At this moment a noise was heard outside.

They all kept quite still, and the fisherman dropped a sail across the entrance, so as to prevent the firelight being seen outside.

The noise was repeated. It sounded like a groan.

"Go, Simon, see what it is," said the knight.

The man passed outside; the other two listened.

A groan, as of some one in pain, could be distinctly heard, and then a few half-uttered words.

"Who can it be, father?" whispered the girl, drawing closer to her father.

She was not a timid child, but the strange sounds in that gloomy chasm recalled the tales she had heard of the place being haunted.

"'Tis the plaint of some one in dolour," said her father.

"Simon, ask who it is."

The moaning ceased as the seaman's voice resounded in the echoing chasm.

"'Tis a water-sprite, my lord, that's what it be," said the man, coming in.

"Tush, man! 'tis some one in pain, who hath fallen over the cliff maybe. Stay with the child while I go and see."

Taking the torch in his hand, the knight went to the entrance, the girl and seaman following him close.

It was a weird scene, as the lurid light of the flickering torch shone on the wall of rock opposite, while the inky blackness of the gorge, yawning at their very feet, caused a shudder to pass through the child as she thought how near they all were to a fearful death.

"Holy saints!" a faint voice gasped, in awe-struck accents; "are these spirits or fiends? and have I fallen to the bottomless pit?"

"'Tis as I thought," said the knight. "'Tis some poor wight fallen down, and, by some marvel, he hath lighted on the only ledge that could save him. 'Tis the hand of Providence hath saved him from rolling into that black pit." Then he added, in a louder tone,--"Art hurt, man? Canst stand upon thy feet? Who art thou?"

No answer came. All was silent as the grave.

"Put the plank over, Simon; I will go see who it is."

In a few moments the plank was put across.

"Oh, father, take care! Maybe 'tis a trap to catch thee!" cried the girl in terror.

"May be, my lord, 'tis even so," added the seaman; "best let me go."

"Nay, man, nay; hold the torch while I step across."

So saying, the knight handed the light to his attendant, and, drawing his sword, stept warily over the plank.

The other two remained in breathless silence.

"Hold the torch higher," called the knight.

Again there was deathly silence.

"Father! father! what is it?" called the girl.

"I know not; I can see naught--ay, but I can! Why, my fair master, what mayest thou be doing here?" added the knight, addressing some one.

Then he called out in a relieved tone,--

"Come here, Simon; 'tis Master Bowerman, and he hath swooned away."