There was something in the look of Don Rafaele that made Hildebrand’s very heart quake again. Yet it was but momentary; for no sooner did the Spaniard, in the manner already set forth, meet his glance, than he withdrew his observation, and turned abruptly away. Stepping back through the doorway, he drew the door, which he still held in his hand, close after him, and left the lovers to themselves.

Scarcely had he thus passed into the outer passage, however, when he heard Hildebrand’s step, which he seemed instantly to recognise, approaching within. Thereupon, with anxious eagerness, he looked round for an eligible opening for retreat, and, after a brief pause, passed hesitatingly up the adjoining stairs, in the direction of his chamber.

He had taken but a few steps, when, as he had expected, the library-door was hastily opened, and Hildebrand presented himself in the passage. He caught sight of Don Rafaele on the instant, and, staying only to close the door in his rear, passed on after him. Stepping out quickly, a few paces brought him to the stairs; and there, though Don Rafaele had made no pause, he shortly overtook him.

On thus effecting his purpose, he laid his hand gently on his arm, and turned an anxious glance on his pale face.

“Thou ailest somewhat, my fair Rafaele?” he said. “Prithee what hath moved thee to this most grievous and disconsolate look?”

Don Rafaele, without saying a word, mournfully shook his head, and turned his eyes on the floor.

“The matter?” pursued Hildebrand, anxiously. “Come, now, an’ thou lovest me, tell me the matter.”

“’Tis melancholy!—nought but melancholy!” answered Don Rafaele, with perfect calmness. “The mood visits me oft, and, to speak sooth, hath been mine infirmity, every now and anon, from my early boyhood. Give me leave awhile, and, if I be left to mine own self, I will be better anon.”

“God be with thee!” exclaimed Hildebrand. “Methinks, an’ thou wouldst bear with it, good fellowship were better for thee than solitude. But be it as thou wilt.”

Don Rafaele, with whatever motive, still desired to be left to himself, and Hildebrand pressed his suggestion no further. Dropping his hold of Don Rafaele’s arm, he turned back to the passage, and suffered him to pursue his way to his chamber alone.

Don Rafaele did not linger on his route. Proceeding at a quick pace, he shortly gained his chamber; and with a hasty step, but agitated withal, passed to the interior, and closed and fastened the door behind him.

Whatever might be his ailment, it would seem that his energy, which hitherto had appeared even more than ordinary, was only to last till he had secured himself against intrusion. Scarcely had he turned the key in the door, when a dimness came over his eyes, and a searching and nipping chill, like a rush of cold blood, swept over his brain. As he threw himself into a contiguous chair, he was overtaken by a swoon.

There he sat, helpless and insensible, with no ministering hand to attend on him, for a considerable period. His beauty, his virtue, his tenderness of heart, and his many noble and estimable qualities, which had but to be revealed to be applauded, had raised for him no barrier against the very extreme of loneliness and necessity.

His senses returned, at last. Nevertheless, the mental anguish that had produced his swoon (if its cause really were mental) was clearly still alert; for, when he opened his eyes, a violent shudder shook his whole frame. His cheeks, too, were pale and thought-sick; his lips, colourless; and his large eyes, when they were not turned on the floor (which was most frequently the case), looked wild and desperate.

The sorrow that he laboured under must have been most acute, yet, amidst all the traits of dejection that have been noticed, he wore a look of dogged and stern resolution, which, in one so youthful and prepossessing, it was harrowing to behold. Moreover, he occasionally knitted his arched brows, and once, as the paroxysm worked him deeper, he bit his lips till the blood came.

It was dusk before he was able any way to subdue his bitter passion. Even then, though the amelioration was decided, he manifested some traces of discomposure; and his feelings appeared to be under a forced constraint, rather than actual and certain control. His energies, however, were perfectly restored, and, on rising from his chair, he turned to the chamber-door with a firm step, and so passed out.

He did not pause at the door of the library; but pursued his way, with the same decided step, to the family sitting-room. There, as he had expected, he found Hildebrand and Evaline, together with Sir Edgar, each of whom inquired after his health with unfeigned solicitude. As the evening progressed, they strove their utmost to arouse and inspirit him; and Evaline, in particular, though somewhat confused on his entrance, exerted all her powers to inspire him with hilarity. But though he sought to appear cheerful, his mind was evidently too seriously unhinged, if one may use such a term, to be so easily and promptly soothed; and his present affectation of complacency was even more distressing than his former melancholy. Moreover, he was frequently lost in thought, and there was an apparent excitement in all he did and said, and even in his very aspect, that was quite incompatible with cheerfulness, and subversive of equanimity.

Thus he remained till the hour arrived for retiring to rest. Then, having procured a light from one of the servants, he bade his friends a hasty good-night, and passed back to his chamber.

His discomposure was greatly augmented when he reached that apartment. Having set the light down on his toilet-table, he proceeded to pace the floor, from one end of the chamber to the other, with a hurried step, and with his hands clasped tightly over his brow. His thoughts seemed to rise so rapidly, and in such disorderly array, that he could not bend himself to consider them, but became lost in perplexity and distraction. After a time—but not before a good hour had elapsed—he came to a pause, and, if one might form a conclusion from his altered manner, made an effort to collect himself. As he did so, he suddenly looked up; and a contiguous toilet-glass, which was standing right before him, and which the light on the table served to illuminate, presented to his eye the melancholy reflection of his aspect.

A spasm passed over his face as he viewed this spectacle; and certainly, compared with his usual appearance, or even that which he wore but recently, it was touching in the extreme. There was not a line of colour in any one feature, and the unnatural lustre of his large full eyes, staring with horror, imparted to the pallor and despairing look of his complexion a terrible and appalling distinctness.

He cast but one glance at the glass, when he turned away; and again, though with a slower step, and a look which, if no less wild, was not so bewildered as his recent one, proceeded to pace the chamber.

After he had thus perambulated the apartment for some time, he stepped once more, at a slow and deliberate pace, towards the toilet-table, and drew from a sheath at his side a small stiletto. On drawing it fully forth, he held its point to one of his fingers, as though he would ascertain, by this searching and personal experiment, whether it were any way defective. His inspection appeared to satisfy him of its perfectness; and, with a trembling hand, he replaced it in its sheath.

A quiver suffused his lips as he was turning away from the table, and he paused once more. But his hesitation, if such it were, was but momentary, and, almost as he came to a stand, he caught up the light from the table, and turned resolutely towards the chamber-door.

Still bearing the light, he cautiously opened the door, and looked out. No one was in sight; and from the stillness which prevailed, and which was unbroken by the least sound, he rightly conjectured that all the inmates of the mansion were now locked in sleep. On arriving at this conclusion, he stepped out into the passage, and proceeded, with a quick but noiseless tread, down a contiguous flight of stairs, where a broad landing opened to another flight. He halted on the landing, and, holding up the light, turned his eye on a neighbouring door, which led from the landing to an inner chamber. The chamber was Evaline’s.

The cavalier gazed on the door for a full minute, when, with a tremulous hand, he set down the light, and softly stepped close up to the door. Raising his hand, he cautiously lifted the latch; and the door, which he had expected to find locked, yielded to his pressure, and admitted him to the chamber.

Right opposite to the door was a casement, through which, though it was partly veiled by a curtain, the moon could be distinguished, and thus sufficient light prevailed to reveal every object in the room. On discerning this, Don Rafaele, though he had left his light on the landing, turned quickly round, and, previous to taking any further step, softly closed the door. He was now in comparative darkness, but the objects of the room were still visible, and, when he turned round from the door, he glanced over them all separately, and then stepped lightly towards the bed.

The deep breathing of its occupant assured him that she was asleep before he drew back the drapery. As he did draw the drapery back, the moonlight—for it was on the same side of the chamber with the casement—spread itself out before him, and revealed to him the sleeper’s face.

He cast but one hasty look at her scarcely distinguishable features. Then, with breathless eagerness, he silently drew down the bedclothes, and raised his dagger over her bosom.

END OF VOL. II.

London: Henry Richards, Brydges-street, Covent-garden.

Transcriber’s Notes:

Created Table of Contents to facilitate eBook navigation.

Obvious punctuation errors corrected.

Period spelling retained, but apparent printing errors corrected.

Changed “crid” to “cried” on page 62. (cried Sir Walter Raleigh)

Changed “returnd” to “returned” on page 78. (returned Bernard)

Added missing “h” to “hope” on page 96. (with confidence and hope)

Changed “progess” changed to “progress” on page 102. (During his progress to the palace)

Changed “scarely” to “scarcely” on page on 113. (They had scarcely begun to make good way)

Changed “happnd” to “happened” on page 116. (In the name of God, what hath happened?)

Changed “succesive” to “successive” on page 123. (For three successive days)

Added missing “n” to “begun” on page 277. (had begun to fear thee lost)