Adversity is the only true touchstone of human worth and integrity. It may require some limited degree of excellence, on certain occasions, to deport ourselves becomingly in a time of prosperity, and the smiles of the highest good fortune sometimes distract and intoxicate. But adversity, with a relentless hand, and a determination that nothing can subdue, probes the heart to the quick, and develops every individual quality of which it is composed.

The apprehension of her father on a charge of murder fell like a thunderbolt on Evaline de Neville. She was, it was true, aware that he was innocent, and that malice only prompted the proceedings that had been taken against him; but, despite of this, she could not conceal from herself, on reflection, that he was in a situation of great peril, and that the very circumstances which would establish his innocence with an impartial person, uncorrupted by the party excitements of the time, would weigh most heavily against him with a jealous and prejudiced government.

Sir Edgar was a Roman Catholic; and that fact alone, though he were ever so orderly, was sufficient to render him an object of suspicion. But his matrimonial connexion with Spain, the great bulwark of the Roman Church, and a power with which Queen Elizabeth was constantly embroiled, made suspicion more active, and afforded a reasonable ground for regarding him with distrust. At a time when the members of the Roman Church were taught, by an authority their religion declared to be infallible, that the Queen of England was no more than an usurper, and that it would be no sin to remove her by assassination, and when the conspiracy which led to the execution of the Queen of Scots was still fresh in remembrance,—at this time, a Roman Catholic accused, however unjustly, of murdering an emissary of the Lord Treasurer, might well apprehend that the scales of justice would not be held very evenly, or his judge be entirely free from enmity or prejudice.

Evaline knew little of the world. Brought up in the seclusion of Neville Grange, the spirit of the time was known to her, in most of its bearings, only by report, and it was only from history that she was acquainted with the depravity of human nature. She knew that, because she was a Roman Catholic, her influence was circumscribed, and the sphere of her action restricted; but, beyond this, she had little personal knowledge of the policy of statesmen, or the injustice of governments. Still she had an idea, if an imperfect one, of the looseness and insecurity of her position, and it was this that now raised in her those fears for her father, which we have sought, in the foregoing remarks, clearly to explain.

But after the first shock of the unexpected calamity had subsided, the whole energies of the fair girl were braced up, in all outward appearance, to but one object—the comfort and support of her father. Within, the struggle continued; the heavy load of grief, with its thrilling apprehensions, which time amplified rather than reduced, still pressed upon her heart; but its rare qualities rallied under the weight, and inspired her with strength and fortitude commensurate with the occasion.

Only in her countenance, among all the inmates of the mansion, could there be seen anything that soothed fear, or excited hope; and though its aspect was but assumed, it soon began to have an effect on the demeanour of others. Her father, whose despondency was chiefly occasioned by his concern for her, seemed to acquire new vigour as he looked on her placid features, and saw that she did not bow before the emergency in despair, but nerved herself to meet, by his side, whatever evil was to befall. He now felt his child was a solace, instead of a source of anxiety; and found relief from sharing with her the burthen of adversity. In a word, he aroused himself from the moody fit which the decision of the two justices had brought upon him, and prepared to meet the issue, whatever it might be, with dignity and fortitude.

The example of their master and youthful mistress was not lost upon the servants, and the faces of the afflicted household, from the steward downwards, shortly wore a lighter appearance, though still a mournful one. Only the Spaniard, Don Felix di Corva, whether from the insensibility of his nature, or the stubbornness of his dejection, was unmoved by the carriage of the chief sufferers; and he became more sullen and reserved every moment. But in the bustle attending the preparations for Sir Edgar’s departure, in company with Evaline and himself, which now engaged the general attention, his demeanour was overlooked, and, consequently, had no influence on the temper or deportment of others.

Evaline herself superintended the arrangements for their journey. These were, through the example of her activity, speedily completed, and the moment of their departure at length arrived.

The vehicle mentioned in the first chapter of this history, in the account of the adventure with the robbers, was drawn up before the steps of the hall-door, and announced to be ready for their reception. Around it was collected a group of Sir Edgar’s tenants, most of whom, besides being bound to him by many obligations, professed the same religion as he did, and, with the jealousy which persecution never fails to excite, considered that he was now suffering for that religion, and, therefore, regarded him with peculiar sympathy. Many of them, too, especially of the poorer sort, had experienced the good offices of Evaline; and the remembrance of distresses that her bounty had mitigated, or of hours of sickness that, either by her personal interposition, or by means less direct, but equally effective, her active sympathy had relieved, gave an additional and deeper interest to the scene that they had come to witness.

Every head was uncovered, and many a blessing, “not loud, but deep,” ejaculated in their behalf, as Sir Edgar and his daughter appeared at the hall-door. Neither of them spoke a word in acknowledgment—their hearts were too full to speak;—but they both looked round kindly on the crowd, and this, in their estimation, was acknowledgment sufficient. They passed hastily to the carriage, followed by Martha Follett; and, stepping in, at once took their seats in that vehicle, and closed the door. Don Felix di Corva, pursuant to a previous arrangement, mounted a saddle-horse, as did the two constables also; and, all being settled, the mournful cavalcade set forward for Exeter.

This was a trying moment to the afflicted inmates of the carriage. It was the moment of separation—the parting from their native home—the crossing of the bourne, as it were, that divided them from the strife and troubles of the wide world. All the comforts and peace of that dear abode, which habit, no less than affection, associated with the blithest impulses of their nature, were now to be exchanged for a prison, and the tranquillity of their past lives for anxiety and sorrow. They were passing from retirement into the world—from security to peril; and their home had never seemed so dear to them, under any former trial or visitation, as at that moment.

Nevertheless, they had a strong support in their mutual sympathy, and a high consolation in religion. The pang was acute at first, but, in the end, it was not without a happy effect; for the sweet feelings that it awakened, by the similarity and harmony of their tone, rendered the parent and his child more one being, and made the terrors of their position seem less hideous and repulsive.

It was not till they had gone some distance on the high-road that Evaline became any way composed. Her mind then turned on a matter which, in the hurry and excitement of the few past hours, she had hardly thought of, but which she now viewed with very serious concern. This was the singular disappearance of Hildebrand Clifford, which she felt, on reflection, had exercised a material influence on the position of her father.

The disappearance of Hildebrand was so exceedingly mysterious, that she could not, by any stretch of conjecture, reasonably account for it. One moment, she thought that he had absented himself but for a few hours, as his horse, which her father had pronounced to be a valuable one, was still at the Grange, and his travelling-case had been found unlocked in his chamber. But would he, under any possible inducement, so far outrage all decorum, as to leave her father’s residence without telling any one that such was his purpose? She was sure, he would not! Either, then, his absence was but temporary, and he would shortly join them again, or he had met with some accident, which, contrary to his inclination, detained him at a distance. Evaline did not entertain this conjecture without a great degree of uneasiness. Indeed, in the first instance, she strove to repel it; but as she felt certain that Hildebrand was incapable of rewarding their hospitality and courtesy with rudeness or contempt, and she could not think of any other excuse for his conduct, the conviction grew upon her, in spite of her earnest wishes for his safety, that he had met with some untoward mishap.

After dwelling on the matter for some little time, she could not refrain from mentioning to her father, in rather a tremulous tone, what was passing in her mind.

“The cavalier who did us such good service, father, has absented himself somewhat mysteriously,” she observed. “I much fear he has encountered some accident.”

“We are hardly warranted, Evaline, in holding him in suspicion,” answered Sir Edgar; “but, I confess, I cannot make his singular disappearance look honourable. But he may, for aught we know, be some paltry adventurer, who hath more knowledge of wars than courtesies, and is better acquainted with the customs of a soldier, which we have seen him fulfil manfully, than the habits of a gentleman.”

“Oh no, father!” cried Evaline, with some eagerness, “thou canst not—I am sure thou wilt not—deliberately say this of him. Whatever he may turn out, he hath always shown a very graceful behaviour, no less as a gentleman than a soldier.”

“Well, I think he has,” rejoined Sir Edgar. “And yet—But what can we think, Evaline?”

“Indeed, I know not,” said Evaline, in an earnest tone.

As she spoke, she felt a trembling hand laid timidly on her arm, and, turning round, her eye fell on Martha Follett.

“If thou art speaking of the stranger-cavalier, my lady,” said Martha, in an under tone, “I think Don Felix knows where he is.”

“What says the girl?” inquired Sir Edgar.

“’Tis nothing, Sir,” answered Evaline. “She thought my good cousin, Don Felix, might know where our missing guest had gone; but he hath no more knowledge of the matter than ourselves.”

“Yet the girl may speak on some grounds,” observed Sir Edgar. “What meanest thou, Martha?” he added.

“Indeed, Sir, the matter ought to be made known to thee,” answered Martha; “and though I am loth to be thought a tale-bearer, I will even tell it thee myself. And ’tis only myself, I believe, that can tell thee all, though most of the servants know something hath happened.”

“What dost thou mean?” demanded Sir Edgar, with some impatience.

Evaline spoke not; but her eyes, which previously had been turned the other way, were bent anxiously on Martha’s face, and manifested the deepest interest.

“Yesterday, Sir,” said Martha, “in the afternoon, as I was passing down the private walk of the park, I suddenly encountered a somewhat gay-looking cavalier, whom I had never, as far as I remember, seen any time before. I was passing on, when he seized my hand—I must own, not uncivilly—and begged me to take a letter which he gave me, and which was inscribed to Captain Hildebrand, to the cavalier who had rescued my master from the robbers. Before I could well give him any answer, he turned quickly away from me, and was out of sight in a moment.”

“Well,” said Evaline, anxiously.

“When I had recovered myself, my lady,” continued Martha, “I made all the haste I could home, and betook me to the cavalier’s chamber. He was not there, but I had hardly time to lay the letter on the table, and hide me in a neighbouring closet, when his step was on the threshold. He espied the letter straight, and, snatching it up, he tore it open, and seemed to read it over, and over again. This done, he buckled on his sword, and passed out to the park.”

“What hath this to do with Don Felix?” said Sir Edgar.

“Old Adam Green, Sir,” replied Martha, “who fought with thee against the robbers, met the cavalier in the park, and, it seems, observing something strange in his portance, had the curiosity to follow him a while. Presently, as he reports, he saw him come to a stand, when he was joined by a man that Adam took to be the robber who escaped.”

“’Tis impossible!” exclaimed Sir Edgar.

“So I said, Sir,” resumed Martha, “and Adam, now he is sober, says himself he thinks he was mistaken. But at that time, being amazed, he made all the haste he could towards the house, when who should he meet, at the end of the private walk, but Don Felix. He told his lordship what he had seen, or supposed he had seen; and they then turned back together, under Don Felix’s direction, to the spot where the cavaliers had met. There they saw them in deep converse, and, parting presently, they took leave of each other in a most friendly sort, shaking hands cordially. Captain Hildebrand kept his eyes on his friend, according to Adam’s report, till he had passed out of sight, when he turned round, and beheld Don Felix.”

“What then?” inquired Sir Edgar.

“Don Felix, Sir,” continued Martha, “acting on the testimony of Adam, called the captain a spy. Some further words passed, and in the end they fought.”

“Did Felix kill him?” cried Evaline, clasping her hands convulsively together.

“No, lady,” answered Martha; “but the captain had nearly killed Don Felix. He disarmed him; and, giving him back his sword, told him he spared his life, and turned away. He has not been seen since.”

There was a moment’s pause, when Evaline, in an under tone, asked her father if it would not be advisable to stop the carriage, and see if Don Felix really knew what had become of their missing guest. Sir Edgar, however, thought such a step would be extremely unwise, as he felt certain that Don Felix knew no more of the cavalier than was known to themselves, and, by stopping the carriage to confer with him, they would awaken suspicion in the minds of the two constables, who doubtless had directions to watch them closely, without serving or answering any reasonable purpose. But he expressed his determination, with some warmth, to investigate the matter thoroughly on their arrival at Exeter, and to make Don Felix account for his conduct in every individual particular.

This was but poor satisfaction to Evaline, whose generous nature, ever ready to sympathise with the oppressed or the unhappy, was in this case more than usually alive to tender emotions, the suffering party being, in her estimation, the preserver of her life and honour, and a person whom she knew to be possessed of many estimable qualities. Nevertheless, she did not press her proposal on her father, but contented herself, as well as she could, with what he had promised, being assured that he was better qualified to clear up the mystery than she was, and was, moreover, as warmly interested for Hildebrand as herself.

It was dark by the time they arrived at Exeter. This made the prison, at all times a gloomy edifice, look more terrible and forbidding than it was; and hope seemed to pause before the grim and relentless frown of its portal.

A loud knock, inflicted by one of the constables, brought forth the gaoler, and caused him to open the well-secured gate. Sir Edgar and Evaline, leaving Martha in the carriage, then alighted, and, accompanied by Don Felix, and Adam Green, his valet, and attended by the two constables, passed to the interior of the prison.

An apartment was quickly prepared for Sir Edgar’s reception. Evaline could not repress a tear as she surveyed it, yet the gaoler, no less from a respect which he had for Sir Edgar’s rank, than from a conviction that he would be liberally remunerated for any kindness he might show him, had really taken some pains to set it in order, and had made it as comfortable as circumstances would permit.

The air struck coldly on the delicate frame of Sir Edgar, but he would not suffer Evaline, who saw its effect upon him, and sought to pass the night with him in the prison, to remain with him more than a few moments, but entreated her to leave him to himself till the morning, and endeavour to obtain some repose. A mounted servant had been despatched, immediately on their arrival in Exeter, to engage for her a suitable lodging, and this had been secured, and was now, by his report, ready for her reception. Evaline would fain have stayed with her father a short time further, but he so urged her to retire, that she was obliged, however reluctantly, to accede to his wishes. Before she retired, however, she reminded Sir Edgar of the promise he had made her, during their progress to Exeter, that he would strictly question Don Felix concerning the disappearance of Hildebrand Clifford; and begged that he would do so without delay.

“Fear not but I will, dear,” whispered her father in reply; “though I have no hope, from all we have heard, that he knows more of the cavalier than we do. But good night! and God, in his goodness, bless and protect you, my darling!”

Evaline would not trust herself to speak; but she pressed her pale lips, cold and trembling as they were, on her father’s cheek, and broke hastily away.

She had never parted from him this way before; and in the cold, dark night, to pass out of that gloomy prison, and leave him within, was a severe and terrible trial. As she took her seat in the carriage, it rose before her in its blackest colours, and, unable any longer to restrain her feelings, she buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.

She continued to weep till the carriage drew up at the door of her hostel; for Martha, though sympathising with her most cordially, was too deeply moved herself to offer consolation to another, and could only show her sympathy by her tears. Nevertheless, she did not suffer her distress, deep as it was, to render her forgetful of her duty, or to make her neglect those little attentions which were called for by the occasion, no less than the custom of her office. As the carriage-door was opened, she assisted her mistress to alight, and, following her into the house, attended her to her chamber. Having helped her to undress, she bade her a sincere good-night, and retired.

Hope has a powerful influence over young hearts, and, in the development of this influence, often manifests a more sterling excellence than we are apt to suppose. It is hope—often, indeed, founded on the dictates of piety, or the whispers of reason, but still hope—hope that we may yet, with all our afflictions, rely for aid on the presiding hand of Providence, or that we may find circumstances more supportable than we had thought—it is still hope, in whatever form, that lends the soothing balm to every sorrow, and the first breath of buoyancy to every sinking heart.

When her attendant had retired, and Evaline was left wholly to herself, she opened her heart to Him who could appreciate its excellence: and she rose from her knees with a humble reliance on His mercy, and submission to His will, that took from the blast of misfortune more than half its edge. As she pressed her fair cheek to her pillow, she thought of the many great blessings which, notwithstanding the sorrow of her present situation, she still owed to the bountiful hand of the Almighty; she remembered that she was yet possessed of health, station, perfectness of body and mind, and a liberal fortune; and out of the pious remembrance of the benefits she had received from Heaven, and which, though they might appear slight to some, really comprehended the chief objects of human desire, arose a hope of brighter days, and a promise of renewed enjoyment. The emotion awakened by her grateful sense of the favours of Providence, though of the very gentlest kind, called into action the best and noblest feelings of her heart, and these supported her under the affliction of the day, and nerved her with fortitude to meet the morrow.

She rose early in the morning, after a sound and refreshing sleep; and having, with the aid of Martha, fulfilled a brief toilet, hastened to join her father. She found him alone, and, like herself, more cheerful than on the previous night. There was even a smile on his lip as he pressed her in his arms; and they sat down to their morning meal, which showed no lack of provision, with some savour of contentment.

But Evaline had something at heart that prevented her from eating. She forbore speaking for a time, hoping that her father would mention the subject: but at last, unable to restrain her impatience, or, to speak more correctly, her anxiety, she broke the silence.

“Didst thou put Felix to the question, father?” she inquired.

“I did,” answered Sir Edgar, “but gleaned no more from him, in answer to my inquiries, than we knew before. He cannot even conjecture how the cavalier hath disappeared.”

“I do fear me, Sir, he is a revengeful man,” said Evaline, hesitatingly.

“No, no, thou wrongest him,” replied Sir Edgar. “’Tis true, he hath taken a dislike to the cavalier; but ’tis because he thinks, all things regarded together, that he is one of the Government spies. And thou knowest, Evaline, the country is overrun with these folk.”

“I’ll be sworn he is no spy, Sir,” said Evaline, earnestly. “But where is Felix now?”

“At my desire, he has ridden over to the Grange,” answered Sir Edgar, “with the view of making every possible inquiry for the cavalier, wherever there is any chance, from the little we know of him, of obtaining the least information. Old Adam was to have gone with him; but I have, on reflection, sent him on to London, to bear the tidings of my arrest to Master Gilbert, the attorney.”

“The cavalier may have returned to the Grange, when Felix arrives there,” remarked Evaline. “He cannot—I am sure, he cannot be a spy.”

“Indeed, I think with thee, Evaline,” said Sir Edgar. “I begin to fear he hath met with some mischance.”

Though Evaline had feared the same thing over and over again, her father’s utterance of these words, whether because they took her by surprise, or because of the confirmation which they afforded to her worst and least welcome expectations, shot a thrill of the keenest anguish through her anxious bosom. That one who, at the imminent risk of his own life, had preserved the lives of herself and her father, and afterwards so nobly spared that of her cousin—who was so courageous, so high-minded, and so engaging—so admirably endowed both in person and heart—should, as it were, under their roof, incur the least possible hurt, was certainly sufficient to stir and agitate the deepest springs of her nature. If it had been herself, or even her father, who was far dearer to her than herself, that had received some severe personal injury, she could not have been more concerned than she was for him. The longer she thought of it, and the more she perplexed herself with conjectures on his fate, the more deeply and painfully interesting did the subject become; and, for the first time in her life, she felt time a burthen, and wished to anticipate the morrow.

The day passed heavily on, and the evening, like the darkness it foretokened, “drew its slow length along.” Yet there were no tidings of Don Felix. The hour at which the parent and his child must separate, and which had all day appeared so remote and tardy, now seemed to approach too quickly: Martha and two male servants had already come to escort Evaline to her hostel; and still—still there was no intelligence from the Spaniard. Evaline felt her heart beat more anxiously, when the clatter of horses’ feet, which the stillness of the night reverberated from the hard road without, struck distinctly on her ear. Before she could make any remark on the circumstance, the horses were drawn up beneath the chamber-window, and a loud knock was inflicted on the gaol-door.

“’Tis Felix!” cried Evaline, starting up.

“Be patient, dear,” said Sir Edgar, twining his arm round her slender waist. “Thou art too anxious. Thou tremblest like an aspen.”

Evaline made no reply: she did not seek even to release her waist, by which her emotion had been betrayed, from her father’s clasp; but, in this position, waited whatever intelligence might be about to be communicated.

She was not kept long in suspense. In a few minutes, the chamber-door was opened; and the gaoler, with a show of great deference, introduced two cavaliers. One of these, who was rather the taller of the two, Evaline recognised as the person who had been associated, in his capacity of magistrate, with the vindictive Shedlock, in the inquiry which had terminated in the committal of her father to prison; but the other was so closely muffled in a capacious riding-cloak, that she could not even conjecture, from any point in his appearance, who he could be. As the gaoler retired, however, and left them by their four selves, he threw back his cloak, and revealed the features of Hildebrand Clifford.

Both Evaline and Sir Edgar gave a slight start; but their surprise, though greater than can well be imagined, was quickly lost in the excess of their joy. Evaline, who was the first to recover herself, could hardly place a check on her feelings, and was almost impelled to spring to Hildebrand’s side, and reveal her pleasure in the warmth of her welcome. But she refrained from this procedure, though she could not repress a sweet and modest blush, bright as the feelings it expressed, which the excitement had called from her heart, and which secretly reproached her for her eagerness and impetuosity.

But Hildebrand needed not words to assure him he was welcome. He saw at a glance, not only that he was welcome, but that his presence afforded his two friends the very highest pleasure. He paused but a moment, and then, with a smile on his lips, stepped gracefully forward, and presented his left hand to Sir Edgar, and his right to Evaline.

“We meet in a gloomy place,” was all he said.

“God’s will be done!” said Sir Edgar, bowing his head.

“Hadst thou but told this gentleman, my good and honoured friend, that the hand that brought thee to such a pass was Hildebrand Clifford’s,” resumed Hildebrand, “thou hadst been safe in Neville Grange, Sir Edgar. But, never care, Sir: all will go well now.”

“I knew neither his name, nor thine, my friend,” answered Sir Edgar, pressing his hand.

“Mine I have told thee,” said Hildebrand. “This worthy cavalier is Sir Walter Raleigh.”

At these words, both Sir Edgar and Evaline, in spite of the conflicting feelings by which they were agitated, turned a glance of earnest curiosity on the face of Hildebrand’s companion; and, by the respect manifested in their looks, showed that fame had truly reported to them, in common with the world at large, the honourable reputation of that distinguished name. And the man whom suspicion had regarded as a paltry adventurer, or insinuated to be a spy, with whom no person of character could safely associate, was the friend and companion of Sir Walter Raleigh—one of the chief luminaries of the age. A glow of pride suffused itself over Evaline’s cheek, as if she had received a personal honour, apart from the share in the passing scene, in such a vindication of Hildebrand; and when Sir Walter advanced to accost her, she made a step forward to meet him, and presented him her hand unasked.

“Things cannot but go well,” said Sir Walter, pressing her hand in his, “with so noble a lady, and so honourable a knight.”

“Will there be much delay, Sir?” asked Evaline, anxiously.

“Will there be any?” said Sir Edgar.

“It may be all arranged to-morrow,” answered Sir Walter. “Our friend here has, in the presence of two credible witnesses, made oath to a statement in my hands, which quite clears up the whole affair. But should there be any impediment in respect to Master Shedlock, who, I fear me, bears thee no good will, I will undertake to overrule it, and set thee at large on mine own responsibility. Furthermore, I will lay a true report of the matter before the Lord-Treasurer, and put a stop to all farther proceedings.”

“Oh, thank you! thank you!” murmured Evaline.

Sir Edgar, in more courtly terms, but with the same deep feeling, also expressed his grateful sense of Sir Walter’s kindness, and his concurrence in his arrangements. But both his and Evaline’s joy, in its full extent, was but short-lived; for they now found that their intercourse with Hildebrand had no sooner been re-established, than it was, by an unhappy necessity, to be again interrupted. They learned that he was to set out on the following morning for Carolina, with an expedition which, as was shown in the preceding chapter, had been fitted out by Sir Walter Raleigh, and only waited the presence of Hildebrand, who was its commander, to make sail. Evaline, in particular, was deeply affected by this intelligence, but she manifested her concern only in her looks; for her voice was too much agitated, and her heart too full, under the pressure of so great a trial, to give her feelings utterance.

Nor was Sir Edgar unmoved by the information. To a man in his situation, the taking away of any support, however slender, left a vacuity, which could not but have a material and decided influence on his fortune. Still, as neither Hildebrand nor Sir Walter thought that there would be any difficulty in procuring his immediate enlargement, and it was stated that the expedition had, from a variety of causes, already been delayed so long, that only its immediate despatch could prevent its being utterly frustrated, he refrained from uttering all he really felt, and restricted his expressions of regret to the ordinary limits.

The cause of Hildebrand’s mysterious disappearance, which had afforded ground for so much suspicion and conjecture, was explained to the knight and his daughter by Sir Walter. From that explanation, they learned that it was not his fault, as had seemed but too apparent, that he had quitted the Grange without the common ceremony of leave-taking, but rather his misfortune. A vindictive personal enemy, to whom he offered some legal obstruction, had hired two ruffians to kidnap him; and in the execution of this project, he had been waylaid on the evening of his disappearance, and carried off. The place in which he was detained, however, had accidentally been discovered by Sir Walter, and he had enabled him to effect his escape, and thus, for the time, to frustrate and overthrow the design of his enemy.

By the time the explanation was fully rendered, the night was, almost without the perception of the four mutual friends, pretty far advanced, and it became necessary to resolve on parting. After taking leave of Sir Edgar, Sir Walter and Hildebrand proposed that they should not part with Evaline till they had seen her to her hostel; and their proposal, as the hour was very late, and she felt diffident of trusting herself abroad with only her two servants, was gratefully embraced by Evaline, and concurred in by Sir Edgar. All things being arranged, therefore, they set out, in company with Evaline’s attendants, in this order.

When the party reached the street, Sir Walter fell a pace or two in the rear, and left Hildebrand and Evaline, who were foremost, to walk on by themselves. This he did, no doubt, with the best possible intentions, but it had not the effect he looked for on his two young friends. It made Evaline uneasy, though she knew not why; and Hildebrand, who had the moment before wished for such an occasion, was confused, and knew not how to turn it to account. Thus several minutes elapsed; and it was not till they arrived in sight of the hostel, and Evaline had remarked that they must soon part, that he could any way collect himself.

“Dear lady,” he then said, taking up the hand that hung through his arm, “we part directly, and, it may be, for a long interval. May I think that thou wilt sometime bear me in remembrance?”

“I were ungrateful, Sir, ever to forget thee,” said Evaline, with some emotion.

“No, no, but most generous to bear me in memory,” answered Hildebrand. “Howbeit, we are to part. Sir Edgar, methinks, has now no cause to fear, and will be set at liberty to-morrow. But the course of human affairs is uneven, and cannot be relied on. If, therefore, thou hast ever occasion for a ready friend, who can do for thee more than thou wouldst be disposed to think, let this billet—” here he drew a sealed packet from his vest—“be conveyed to the direction on its cover, and such a one will be enlisted in thy service.”

Evaline, with the hand which she had at liberty, accepted the proffered packet, but did not make any observation. Hildebrand could not refrain from pressing her hand, which, led away by his feelings, he still held in his, and he fancied that the pressure was returned. But if it were, it was done so slightly, and with such excessive gentleness, that it could hardly be felt, and could not be regarded as any response.

At length they arrived at the hostel-door, and the light which hung in the hall, falling on Evaline’s face, showed Hildebrand that she was in tears. But, at this moment, they were joined by Sir Walter, and, in a few words they both took leave of Evaline, and turned to retire.

They passed to the end of the street in silence. There, as they were turning into the street beyond, they encountered a squadron of troopers, and they were obliged to press against the wall—for there was no causeway to the street—in order that they might have room to pass. The troopers were not long in passing, and our two friends, having the thoroughfare again open, then resumed their progress.

Meantime, the troop of horse, headed by a person in the garb of a civilian, passed leisurely down the High-street, and proceeded towards the city-gaol. On arriving thither, they drew up in its front; and the civilian aforementioned, dismounting from his horse, inflicted a loud and authoritative knock on the gate.

Sir Edgar de Neville was at this moment preparing to retire to rest. Hearing a body of horse drawn up beneath his casement, however, and a knock that made the glass ring, as if it would leap out of its crazy leaden frame, inflicted on the gate, he came to a pause. As he did so, a foreboding that the incident was some way connected with himself, in reference to the crime he was charged with, insensibly stole over him, and he waited the issue with the most intense anxiety.

At last he heard some heavy steps on the adjacent stairs. The next moment, the door of his chamber was pushed open, and a tall, sharp-visaged man, habited in a suit of deep brown, and attended by three soldiers, passed in. Advancing a few paces, he held out a folded paper to Sir Edgar; and the latter, making a step forward, took it from him, and drew it open. It was a warrant from Francis Walsingham, Secretary of State, ordering him to be removed to the gaol of Newgate, in London.