The Baron Simon de Guerre-À-mort (whose name, considerably transformed by his Saxon neighbours, was familiarly rendered as “Old Grammar”) was an individual who, not to belie the said name, was of a somewhat warlike disposition. His ancestors had come over to these peaceful shores with “Billy the Norman, that very great war-man,” as the old song calls him, and very great war-men had they been also from the time of their first arrival. They warred against the Saxons as long as the latter showed fight; then they warred with their brother barons; then they went to the crusades; afterwards they joined Simon de Montfort in his gallant struggle for English liberties; they had a turn at the Welsh at one time, and took their share in the Scotch wars at another; in short, wherever and whenever opportunity for fighting offered itself, the Guerre-À-mort family or its representative eagerly seized it and rushed into the thickest of the battle as cheerfully as a duck into water. Nor was the Baron Simon one whit behind his ancestors in this respect. On the contrary, he was as ready for war as any of them, and fully maintained the character and traditions of his house.

In the days of which I write it was very much the fashion for great families to indulge in the luxury of hereditary foes, and a feud of long standing between this and that ancient house was such a customary thing that a nobleman who lived peaceably with all his neighbours was regarded as a slow kind of fellow, whose acquaintance was hardly worth having. There were generally wars of greater or less magnitude going on either within England herself or with some foreign enemy, which, one would have imagined, might have furnished sufficient employment to the fighting nobility of the day. This, however, was by no means the case; and though private feuds were sometimes left in abeyance for a time, when something more attractive in the way of battle and bloodshed happened to offer, yet they were never allowed to slumber too long, and were invariably revived as soon as more peaceful times permitted their proprietors to indulge their private feelings and natural love of quarrelling.

The hereditary enemy of Simon de Guerre-À-mort was the house of St. Aunay, which, like his own, had been first known in England after the Battle of Hastings had flooded the country with Norman nobility, and which was at the moment of which we speak represented by Count Horace as the head of its race. It is difficult to say why or wherefore these two families should have been at variance, since there was no apparent reason for such a state of things. Their castles were upon opposite sides of my dear old river, at no great distance, though neither of them within sight of it. Their lands stretched down to my waters, which formed a reasonable and proper boundary, and there was consequently none of that intermingling of field with field or farm with farm which has in all ages proved a fertile source of unpleasantness between neighbouring landed proprietors. Moreover, the two noblemen had never brushed against each other or differed materially upon any public matters. In fact there was no probability of their doing so; for Baron Simon was at this time the wrong side of sixty by several years, whilst Count Horace had not lived half the years which constitute that respectable age. No: it was a good, respectable old family feud, and I verily believe that it was more from family feeling than for any other reason that it was still cherished by both houses.

It was, according to my firm belief, entirely in consequence of their private differences that, when the wars of the Roses broke out, the two Norman noblemen took different sides, the Count of St. Aunay standing forward boldly for the House of York, whilst the Lord of Guerre-À-mort was Lancastrian to the backbone. As the latter was a leader of great repute, and could muster around his standard no inconsiderable number of retainers, he might probably have rendered great service to the cause he had espoused if he had acted with those well-known men who led its armies and managed its councils. But the Baron greatly preferred going his own way and fighting for his own hand and as soon as the country was well into the war, and everybody was harassing and worrying everybody else as much as they could, he determined that by far the best thing he could do to aid Henry of Lancaster was to cross the river and demolish the Castle of St. Aunay. Accordingly, he collected his forces, summoned his vassals and friends from all quarters and prepared for the expedition.

I remember, as well as if it were but yesterday, when the Baron’s army was halted along my banks preparatory to their crossing the river early on the following morning. The old chieftain himself, mounted on his powerful black charger, from whose eyes and nostrils the fire of war seemed to stream forth as he impatiently pawed the ground, rode out upon a hill above his troops, and gazed upon the scene before him. The moon was rising behind the distant hills, the evening was calm and still; but the heavens were cloudy, and strange lights from time to time darted across the sky, as if presaging the days of war and bloodshed which were about to come upon unhappy England. The old Baron was completely armed, and his long, straggling beard fell down upon his horse’s mane before him as he sat erect in his saddle. I saw him elevate his mighty sword and shield, raising each arm on high as he looked with flashing eye and threatening gesture upon the country upon the other side of the river, and then and there he vowed a solemn vow that before he recrossed the Thames the Castle of St. Aunay should be sacked, his pride lowered, and his banner trailed in the dust. On high he shook his weapon as he took the oath, and full well I knew that the proud Norman would not fail to keep it, unless his foeman (who was probably taking an oath of a similar character about the same time) should have strength or cunning enough to prevent its accomplishment.

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But before I proceed any further with my story I am bound to introduce you to a person who, as you will soon perceive, is the main cause and reason why I have any story at all to tell. The Baron de Guerre-À-mort had an only daughter. As, from the beginning of time, it has been the constant habit of maidens similarly circumstanced to fall in love with the person most objectionable to their respected father, Mathilde de Guerre-À-mort formed no exception to this most natural and reasonable rule. As a matter of course, she was desperately attached to Horace de St. Aunay, who, for his part, having fallen head over ears in love with her at their first interview, remained in the same condition with unwearied resolution. How they first came to meet I cannot say. One would have supposed that there would have been difficulties, considering the hostility, existing between the two families; but the young lady’s mother having been dead for many years, she enjoyed more liberty than was common to females of her rank and age in those days, and probably met the Count in some of her country rambles after birds’ nests, violets, or blackberries—three things which all young people who have lived much in the country find more or less attractive at certain seasons of the year. However this may be, it is certain that these two individuals met, took a mutual fancy to each other, and would, in all human probability, have been thought by their friends to have been exactly suited, had it not been for the highly respectable feud of which I have already spoken.

The Baron, who had not the remotest idea of the state of the case, grieved and afflicted his daughter beyond measure by the manner in which he abused her lover upon every possible occasion. Mathilde, poor girl, bore it all with exemplary fortitude, although she invariably endeavoured to turn the conversation into more pleasant channels. But when the matter went beyond words, and her father actually commenced to make preparations to invade his enemy’s country and destroy his castle, the agony of the poor young lady can be more easily imagined than described. She came down each morning with eyes red from crying all through the night; she grew daily paler and paler; lost her appetite; could scarcely take her five o’clock tea; sat with her hands before her, doing nothing; and burst out into hysterical fits of sobbing upon the slightest provocation. This sad condition of his daughter troubled the worthy baron not a little, and, naturally attributing it to any and every cause but the right one, he determined to try what change of air would do for her, and accordingly sent her to stay with his sister, who was the superior of a convent in Reading. Here it was his hope that the society of the nuns would cheer the sweet damsel and restore her spirits, whilst the change of air and scenery might benefit her health. There were those, indeed, including her faithful old Saxon nurse Elfreda, who declared that the conversation of nuns was, as a rule, anything but enlivening, and Reading by no means particularly healthy or reinvigorating; but as nobody dared question the Baron’s superior wisdom upon every subject, nothing was said against his plan, and Mathilde de Guerre-À-mort was safely transmitted to and domesticated in the convent just before the expedition against her lover’s castle was undertaken by her respected parent.

Horace de St. Aunay, although he received warning of the coming attack, was by no means in a condition to offer such resistance as he could have wished. The Lancastrians were by far the stronger party in his neighbourhood, and the Baron’s forces greatly outnumbered his own. I need not dwell upon the particulars of the events which followed. The Guerre-À-mort army crossed the river, defeated the levies of St. Aunay in a skirmish on the plain, and drove them in every direction before their victorious advance. Horace de St. Aunay, wounded by an arrow, was reported killed, and it was impossible to rally his people under another leader. The haughty Baron had it all his own way; he plundered the farmyards, raised a bonfire of what he didn’t want to carry away, and made himself as unpleasant as possible to the harmless population, who, naturally and properly enough, no doubt, always have to suffer for the whims and quarrels of the great. He next marched upon the Castle of St. Aunay, but found that it was deserted, and, having by that time had enough of burning and plundering for a time, contented himself with throwing down the big gates, breaking a few windows, and flaunting his own banner over the highest turret. Then, having collected all his booty, he turned homewards, and, having satisfied his private grudge against his neighbour, felt his interest in the Lancastrian cause wonderfully lessened, and began to want his daughter back again.

She, poor girl, had passed by no means a happy time in her convent, where the good nuns devoutly prayed for the Lancastrians, and especially for her worthy father, upon every possible opportunity, and where she never had a chance of hearing any news of her lover, or of saying a kind word for him or any other of his party. At last, one day, the lady superior informed her with an air of triumph that news had come of the defeat of St. Aunay’s people by her father, and that the Count had been killed in the battle. The poor girl turned deadly pale, and swooned away at this intelligence. Fortunately for her, the Lady Superior, being a person of extraordinary intelligence, knew at once that such a result must certainly have been produced by Mathilde’s alarm for her father’s safety, and gratitude for his success. Having therefore taken the usual means to recover her from her fainting fit, the good lady loudly praised her filial affection, and held her up to the rest of the sisterhood as an example worthy of imitation, Mathilde thought it best to receive these compliments without taking any steps to alter the opinion of her worthy relative, but her suspense and anxiety were very great, and all the more so from the fact that the difficulty of obtaining news of an authentic character was so considerable, that in all probability it would be weeks, and perhaps months, before she learned for certain whether her beloved Horace was alive or dead.

Days rolled on—days of miserable uncertainty, which was scarcely removed by a missive from her noble sire, which informed her indeed of the triumph of his arms, but at the same time only casually mentioned that the head of the rival house of St. Aunay had received a blow from which he would never recover. Now, it was obvious that this might be interpreted in two ways—either that the young Count had been grievously wounded in body, or that the fortunes of his house had been seriously injured. The latter was undoubtedly the case; but was the former also true? In this state of things uncertainty became madness, and Mathilde felt herself almost driven to desperation. This, however, being a condition of mind hardly suitable to a Norman lady of rank, she determined not to give way to it, but to take measures to relieve her anxiety. She resolved that she would, if possible, leave the convent and obtain, somehow or other, tidings of the being whom she so tenderly loved. It was not, however, in those days, a very easy thing to leave convents just when you pleased. If you were rich and well born, you could enter these institutions with but little difficulty; but quitting them was a different question altogether. Nor do I believe Mathilde would have accomplished her purpose had she not chanced to have a great friend in a worthy person who carried on the trade of a washerwoman in the town, and was fortunate enough to have secured the convent custom. Being devoted to the Guerre-À-mort family, and especially so to the young Baroness, this worthy woman agreed to smuggle her out of the convent in a large basket of dirty linen, in which pleasant manner she successfully carried out her project.

Once free, the question which Mathilde naturally had to consider was, what should she do next? She had forgotten to settle this before leaving her late abode, and yet it was a question which must certainly be settled without delay. The poor washerwoman, who had incurred great peril by assisting the escape of an inmate of a religious house, dared not keep her a moment longer than she could avoid, and there was no one in the town to whom she could trust herself. Under these circumstances she thought that the best thing to be done was to wander forth into the country, and this she accordingly did, having made such alterations in her dress as appeared necessary to prevent her being recognised as something different from the peasant woman for whom she wished to pass. The police were not very efficient in those days, and there were no detectives to speak of, so that she was not likely to be discovered by such agency. Newspapers also had not yet begun, and the advertisement system was unknown; otherwise her escape might have been attended with greater difficulties than was actually the case. As it was, she walked away from Reading without anybody taking the slightest notice of her, and wandered for many miles perfectly unmolested.

At last, as luck would have it, she reached a large farmhouse, and as she had by this time become weary and hungry, she followed her natural instincts, knocked at the door, and asked for victuals and leave to rest herself. It was an old woman who opened the door, whose husband was the occupier of the farm, and being kindly-disposed people, they granted Mathilde’s request, allowed her to sit down in the kitchen, and gave her a bowl of milk and a large piece of brown bread, which she gratefully devoured, and felt much the better for it. Then the old couple began to question her about her condition and ways of life, and when she had invented some tale about having seen better days, and being driven by misfortune to seek a living where she could get it, they expressed great pity, and professed themselves very willing to assist her in any manner within their power. True, they had not much to offer; but the boy who kept the pigs had lately gone off to the wars, and if pig-keeping was not beyond her, why, the place was very much at her service.

Now, if there was anything which Mathilde disliked, it was a pig. The greediness and dirtiness of the animal she deemed objectionable, and extended her dislike to it even when cooked and salted. She never touched roast pork, avoided it all the more when boiled, abhorred sausages, and looked the other way when anybody offered her bacon. But, having no very definite idea as to where she could go to if she left the farm, and thinking that, at all events, it might serve her as a temporary home until something better should turn up, she determined upon accepting the generous offer of the worthy couple, and expressed her gratitude in terms which increased the favourable opinion they had already formed of her manners and character.

That night she slept beneath their hospitable roof, and next morning her duties were pointed out to her, and she wandered forth upon the side of the hill near the farm, in close attendance upon a herd of pigs, to watch whom would be her daily duty. Although Mathilde’s objection to the creatures may have been foolish and unreasonable, it will probably be conceded that the pig is not an animal which the majority of mankind would choose as a special pet or favourite; and to a person nurtured in the luxurious habits of a baronial castle, and trained in the intellectual refinement of conventual life, the occupation of keeping pigs on the side of a hill could hardly ever be congenial. It is, therefore, not surprising that Mathilde found it first monotonous, secondly tiresome, thirdly exceedingly disagreeable. She would sit for hours together, grasping in both hands her pig-driving stick, and musing upon things far removed from considerations of pigs or pork.

At nights she would return to the farmhouse, heavy and dispirited, so that the old farmer and his wife would rally her on her dejected appearance, and declare to each other that she must either be in love, or have committed some offence over which she now brooded with remorse. Yet her youth appeared to contradict the probability of the latter supposition, and she looked them both so straight in the face when she spoke, that the old man remarked that no one who did that could be guilty of anything serious.

Meanwhile, it may be supposed that the Baron was not very well pleased when the news reached him that his daughter had disappeared. He hurried off at once to the convent, and refused for some time to believe that it could really be the case. If he had lived a little later there would have been plenty of people to suggest to him that Mathilde’s disappearance was only an invention of the Lady Superior’s, and that the poor girl was certainly either bricked up alive, or immersed in some dungeon below the convent.

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As it was, however, that age being comparatively ignorant, the Baron was told the simple truth, and actually believed it. His daughter had disappeared, and no one was more distressed thereat than the Lady Superior herself. The discipline of her convent was so good, and the sisterhood were all so much attached to her, that it was with difficulty that she could bring herself to believe that any of them had assisted the runaway to escape; and as to the washerwoman, no thought of her connivance ever entered the Lady Superior’s head. Had it done so, indeed, she would never have believed that a daughter of the noble house of Guerre-À-mort would have so far demeaned herself as to hide in a box of dirty clothes, or wander forth, alone and unattended, into the country. The good Lady, never having admitted the god of love into her well-regulated breast, did not know his powers, which experience has proved to be such as are able to overcome all considerations of rank and dignity, and occasionally to make people do things even more strange and incongruous than hide in dirty-linen boxes or keep pigs on a hill-side.

The Baron was easily convinced that no blame was to be attributed to his saintly relative, but this by no means put an end to his trouble. His daughter had gone, and he had no clue whatever to her place of concealment. Under these circumstances, he determined that the best thing he could do was to consult the powers of magic, who in those days were the substitute for our present Rural Police, and occasionally discharged their functions in a manner equally satisfactory. Those were not days in which witches and warlocks were so common as in earlier ages; but, scattered about the country, there were a goodly number of the creatures; and the Baron had little difficulty in determining whom to consult.

The Witch of Salt Hill was a famous personage in those days. The vicinity of Eton and Slough was at that time a favourite resort of witches, who used to flit about through Windsor Forest at nights, and, I suppose, preferred to have their day-residences not inconveniently remote therefrom. It is not improbable that they would have continued to frequent the neighbourhood down to the present day, but for the establishment of the sacred foundation of Eton College. There, as we know, the Provost and Fellows have, from the very earliest days of the college, been a body of men of singularly holy as well as learned reputation. Their blameless and saintly lives have driven evil far from the locality in which they dwell, and in the days of which I tell their power was already beginning to be felt. It gradually increased until, as I say, all witches and warlocks left the neighbourhood, although one of the last of them is said to have uttered a prophecy that the powers of evil should again return when Eton should be governed by others than her own children; and if what I have lately heard be true—namely, that the ancient government by Provost and Fellows has been superseded, and a new authority instituted, of which a portion is non-Etonian—it may be that the days of witchcraft will return, and the powers of darkness once more inhabit the neighbourhood. All this, however, has nothing to do with my present story.

No sooner had the Baron made up his mind that this was the best course to pursue than he rode off to Salt Hill to consult the celebrated witch whom I have mentioned. He found her with very little trouble, principally from knowing exactly where to look for her, which it is always well to ascertain, if you can, before you go in search of any one whom you wish to find. There was a very large thorn-tree, growing near a spring at the side of a hill, close to which a species of rude cottage had been built into the hill, so that it had the appearance of being—and perhaps was—the way by which those who had the right, and the will to do so, could enter into the bowels of the earth. When the witch chose to come forth, she sat under the thorn-tree; at other times, those who sought her had to approach the door of the cottage, and strive to attract her attention in the best way they could.

When the Baron arrived near the place, with some dozen of retainers, he left his horse with the latter at a short distance from the spot, and walked up to the spring alone. The witch was not to be seen outside, so the anxious father strode up to the cottage, and would have knocked at the door, only there did not happen to be any. The place was built of huge stones, and the entrance was through a large hole, left open as if for a door, which had never been put up. It was as dark as pitch when you looked in, and the Baron, fearless as he was, felt a kind of unpleasant sensation stealing over him as he stood opposite the hole. However, he had come on business which could not be delayed; so, after a moment’s hesitation, he shouted out at the top of his voice, “Halloa! is any one within?” and waited for a reply. As none came, the Baron presently tried again, saying, in an equally loud voice, “I am come to consult the wise woman of Salt Hill. Is it here she dwells?” Still no answer came from within, and the haughty Norman stamped impatiently on the ground, chafing at the delay which his imperious spirit could have ill brooked at any time, but which was more than ever galling at the present moment, when his anxiety about his daughter had thrown him into a state of feverish irritation and excitement. He doubted as to the next step which he should take, and was just considering whether he had omitted any form which ought to have been observed in approaching such a person as a witch, when a voice suddenly spoke from within the cottage, saying, in a somewhat gruff voice—

Now the Baron was little accustomed to be addressed so unceremoniously, or to be asked his name in this manner, so his first impulse was to refuse to reply, or at least to rebuke the speaker for the incivility of the question. However, as he had come on important business, and was really desirous of obtaining information as to his beloved daughter, a moment’s reflection convinced him that it would be an act of folly on his part to fly into a passion about a trifle, or to stand upon ceremony with a power which might be able to assist him, and willing to do so or not according to his own behaviour. So he made up his mind to tell his name and errand at once, and was about to do so, when, even whilst he hesitated, the voice spoke again:—

At this unexpected mention of his own name, the Baron started back, but immediately recovering himself, he spoke in as reverential a tone as he could manage to find for the occasion. “Since thou knowest who I am, good dame,” said he, “mine errand is very likely also known to thee. I want my beloved daughter, who has disappeared from the convent at Reading, and can nowhere be found. If thou canst find her for me and restore her to mine arms, I will grudge thee no reward that my castle can give.”

At these words a low sigh proceeded from the interior of the cottage, as if the offer of a bribe had given pain to its virtuous inmate, or the Baron’s request had been of an unexpected and afflicting character. However, after a few moments’ pause, the same voice again spoke:—

As the voice uttered these strange and not altogether consoling words, the Baron stroked his beard, pulled his moustache, and racked his brains in the vain endeavour to bring to mind any lover with whom it was at all likely that his daughter should have eloped. The idea of her eloping at all was unpleasant; but those were strange times, and he knew well enough that such things had happened before, and would not improbably happen again. The puzzle to him was as to the happy-individual upon whom Mathilde could possibly have placed her affections. He thought of all their acquaintances, turning over in his mind the circumstances under which his child had met them, and, one after the other, he rejected the possibility of any one of them being the favoured individual. There was Baron Eau-de-vie, who lived within calling distance, but his habits of intemperance put him at once out of the question; then the lord of Burnham was a worthy man, but being past eighty, and totally blind, was scarcely likely to have become the object of a maiden’s affection; these and various others he thought over, and remained musing for a short time before he spoke again.

Then it came into his head that perhaps it was all false after all, and the witch was either chaffing him, or knew nothing about it at all, and was making a guess at a solution of his difficulty, which, however likely to be correct as regarded the generality of young ladies, was most improbable with respect to a damsel of high degree, so well and carefully brought up as he considered his child to have been. As this thought struck him, he spoke out aloud at once. “What meanest thou?” he cried. “Men will woo, and girls will have lovers, as we all know full well; but to suppose that the young Baroness of Guerre-À-mort would fly from her convent with any lover that ever was born is an error and an insult to boot. Trifle not with me, then, whoever thou art, but tell me truly, an thou knowest, what has really become of my daughter?”

A low laugh issued from the cottage as the same voice replied to this appeal with the following words:—

This reply was by no means more satisfactory to the Baron than the first had been, and he saw that there was evidently but little information to be obtained from the Witch of Salt Hill. Turning away, therefore, with a moody air, he rejoined his servants, mounted his steed, and returned to his castle, very much disgusted with his want of success. Scarcely had he left the place before the head of an old woman peered forth from the entrance of the cottage, and presently the whole figure followed. It was that of an aged crone, clad in a long grey cloak, with a strange head-covering of handkerchiefs twined in the form of a turban, from which a few grey locks escaped and fluttered in the wind around the venerable head. She held in her hand a strong staff, upon which she leaned, whilst she carefully looked right and left to make sure that her visitors had all departed. As soon as she had convinced herself of this fact, she turned round again to the entrance of the cottage and called in a low voice—“It is quite safe; come forth, my lord, come forth!” Upon this there was a movement inside the place, and there presently stepped forth a young man, the pallor of whose handsome countenance betokened recent illness, and who supported himself upon a stout oaken staff. Had the Baron stood where he had been standing but a few minutes before, he would scarcely have departed so easily, for in this individual he would have seen the hereditary enemy of his house standing close beside him.

In truth, Brother Rhine, the witch of Salt Hill had been, somehow or other, greatly indebted to the St. Aunay family; and after Count Horace had been wounded in his skirmish with the Baron, he had found a secure retreat in her abode at Salt Hill. There, carefully nursed, and perhaps doctored by some wondrous charms of which mortals who do not happen to be witches know nothing, the young nobleman had rapidly recovered from the effects of his wound. The country, however, was still so much under the control of the Lancastrian party, that Count Horace deemed it his wisest plan to remain for some time in concealment, especially since he found that the report of his death had evidently so far softened the Baron that he had not pursued his work of devastation as he probably would have done if he had believed that the head of the house of St. Aunay was still alive and likely to take the field against him upon a favourable opportunity. This, then, was the reason of the Count’s being in the cottage of the witch upon the very day of the Baron’s visit, and as soon as the latter had departed, the wise woman began to discuss the subject of his daughter and her supposed elopement. Whether or not her arts had enabled her to discover the direction of Mathilde’s flight, and her present place of abode, is a question we need hardly pause to ask. It is very likely that her statement to the Baron had been little more than a shrewd guess that if a young lady fled secretly from a convent, there was in all probability a gentleman in the case, in which surmise she was certainly not far wrong. But if she had known where Mathilde was she certainly would not have disclosed it to the anxious father whilst St. Aunay was close by, nor indeed under any circumstances without the consent of the latter. He had informed her fully of the true state of the case between the young Baroness and himself, and after the Baron had gone off, eagerly inquired of her as to where the fair lady was really to be found.

Now witches, although exceedingly wise, cannot tell more than they know, and are not obliged to tell all that they do know, except under extraordinary circumstances, therefore the witch of Salt Hill thought it best to assume a very grave and solemn air, and mysteriously assured her friend that all would be right, and that he would know everything that ought to be known as soon as the proper time for knowing it had arrived. This assurance was scarcely satisfactory to the young man, who pressed hard for an answer which should at least give him some indication of the course which he had better pursue in order to obtain tidings of the lost one. No such answer, however, could he obtain; and all that the old dame would tell him was to “keep his heart up,” and to “have patience”—two pieces of advice which are excellent in themselves, but little calculated to allay the impatience of a young man who has lost his sweetheart and wants to find her as soon as possible. Patience the young Count found it impossible to have, and, finding himself very much better the next day, he determined to set out and see what he could accomplish by his own exertions.

It was a lovely morning, and as St. Aunay walked through the fields, he felt new life rising in his’ veins, and his whole being seemed reinvigorated by the bright sun and fresh air. He walked for miles without any very definite idea as to where he was going or what he should do, in which it will be observed he strongly resembled the condition of his beloved Mathilde. Still, disguised in the garb of a peasant, he wandered on, and towards evening reached no other place than the very farm at which the young Baroness was employed as a pig-keeper. Nor was this his only piece of good fortune, for, as luck would have it, he came upon the fair damsel herself, disconsolately sitting by the side of her pigs, and wishing herself anywhere else. This wish, as may easily be imagined, was immediately changed when she found that the strange peasant who approached was no other than her own Horace. She flew into his arms with the smallest possible delay, and he was forthwith able satisfactorily to explain to her that he was by no means dead, and almost entirely recovered from his wound.

The prospects of the two lovers did not, however, seem particularly bright even after they had thus met; and after a long discussion they could hardly make up their minds what would be the best course to pursue. Mathilde had the greatest objection to returning home, where she should hear nothing but abuse of her Horace and his family, not improbably coupled with reproaches directed against herself for having quitted the convent. To return to the latter was out of the question, and equally so to accompany the Count, who had no home to which he could take her. The only conclusion, therefore, at which they found themselves able to arrive was that the lady had better continue her pig-keeping at least for a time, and that they should both wait patiently until better days. This arrangement though not exactly pleasant to either of them, seemed most expedient upon the whole, and having finally come to the determination that such was the case, they took an affectionate leave of each other, and again separated.

From that day Mathilde passed several months of weary suspense, being quite unable to content herself with the unusual pastime of looking after pigs, although she found some consolation in reading and writing—two accomplishments in which she had become tolerably perfect during her stay in the convent. Books, however, were, not in those days what they now are, and those young ladies who depend for their literary amusement upon circulating libraries and sensation novels, may thank the good fortune which decreed that they should come into the world some few centuries later than the days I speak of. Mathilde had one vast book of curious manuscript, which she had discovered in the farmhouse, and which was her constant companion. I am not sure as to the subjects of which it treated, but as it was probably of monkish compilation, it is most likely that it dealt either with the lives of saints or the theories of cookery, which were two subjects much in favour with the Eccelesiastical fraternities of that day. Whatever it was however, Mathilde made it the subject of her constant study, and varied her amusement by the use of the quill pens which she manufactured, from the good farmer’s geese. You must not ask me questions, Brother Rhine, as to the manner in which she obtained paper and ink. None of these particulars have ever been handed down, and I have never cared to inquire. I can only say that in a certain noble family a huge scroll, covered with curious writing, has been long preserved, which tradition attributes to the ancestress who once kept pigs on that. Berkshire hill-side; and if the tradition is not strictly true, I would merely observe that it is just as provable as many another, upon the veracity of which the scoffer has never ventured to cast a doubt.

During this time the Baron de Guerre-À-mort was not sitting idly at home. He made every inquiry for his daughter, and was exceedingly vexed at his total want of success in discovering where she was. It is likely enough that he would have found her if she had been further off or more carefully concealed. But it may be observed as a rule which obtains pretty generally, that the things which are immediately under our noses escape our observation more than those which require a careful search. A hare sometimes squats-securely in the middle of a ploughed field whilst the sportsman is seeking her in the thick wood; the nest of the grey thrush, built in the bare cleft of a laurel-tree, often escapes the eye of the school-boy more easily than the nest more carefully hidden in the thick bushes; or, to take another comparison an elderly gentleman sometimes makes entirely ineffectual search for the spectacles which he has pushed up from his nose to his forehead, whereas, had they been hidden among papers, or left in some unusual place, he would quickly have discovered them. So it was, at any rate, that the Baron sought far and wide for his daughter without success, whilst she, poor girl, was keeping pigs on the hill-side all the time, a very few miles distant from the castle of her respected parent.

The good man, however, found that before long he had other business to attend to than the agreeable occupation of daughter-hunting. The fortunes of the two great parties in the state underwent a considerable change. Instead of being any longer in the ascendant, the Lancastrians experienced heavy reverses, and those who had espoused the cause of the House of York gained ground continually on every side. In those times it was not so easy to change one’s politics or one’s party as has been the case in some later periods of the history of this country, especially if one had supported one’s opinions by the carrying of fire and sword into the territory of one’s opponents. Therefore the old Baron, who, as we have seen, had adopted this old-fashioned method of proceeding, would have found it somewhat difficult to change sides even if he had wished to do so. Nothing, however, could have been further from his intention. He believed the cause of the House of Lancaster to be just and right, and even if he had thought otherwise, I do not believe that he would ever have deserted a cause which he had once thoroughly espoused. So he remained loyal to the Lancastrian standard, and was as ready to fight for it in adversity as he had ever been when it seemed likely to triumph. The consequences, however, were not likely to be agreeable.

The Yorkists were daily gathering strength, and so devoted an adherent of the rival house could hardly escape their kind attention. Moreover, those who had seen their own homes despoiled by the Baron’s invasion were not unmindful of their oppressor when the opportunity for revenge appeared to present itself. So it came about that the Baron’s position was somewhat precarious. Some of his outlying farms were plundered; his retainers, when caught singly or in small numbers, were insulted and rudely treated, and threats of something worse likely to happen occasionally reached his ears. As yet, however, no armed body of Yorkists had appeared in the neighbourhood, and the strength of his castle, as well as the number and devotion of his followers, rendered the Baron de Guerre-À-mort tolerably secure against any attack save one from a powerful and well-organized force. Still he could see the storm lowering in the distance, and gathering in strength sufficient to give him cause for uneasiness. At last it seemed ready to burst. Small bands of Yorkists had been reported as hovering about various places in the vicinity of the castle, and rumour now had it that these bands were likely to be united at Reading under the command of some leader of note, who would forthwith proceed to march through Berkshire and Buckinghamshire, putting down all those who still dared to uphold the falling fortunes of the House of Lancaster.

Up to this time the Baron had remained within his castle walls, gloomily watching the signs of the times, and only taking precautions to preserve the efficiency of his troops by constant drill, and to protect his fortress and people against possible attack. But as soon as the above-mentioned rumours became well authenticated, he bethought himself that some more active steps should be taken. If the enemy should once concentrate his forces at Reading, he would probably carry all before him, and resistance would be doubly difficult, if not impossible. But if such concentration could be prevented, and the various bodies of Yorkists, who were said to be scattered over the face of the country, could be attacked and routed in detail, the tide might even yet be turned, and the drooping flag of Lancaster be once more raised as high as ever. Animated by such thoughts as these, and determined, if possible, to carry out the plan which appeared to him, and which probably was, the best under the circumstances, the Baron summoned his men, and leaving a small detachment to guard the castle, sallied forth with the intention of cutting off the advance of the Yorkists upon Reading.

It is difficult, however, for one body of men, unless greatly superior in numbers, position, and generalship, to act with success against four or five, and so it happened that before he had been many days in the field the Baron de Guerre-À-mort found that he had before him a task beyond his powers. A detachment of Yorkists was marching from Oxford, whilst at the same moment another party moved from Windsor; and from the direction of Basingstoke in one quarter, and Marlborough in another, a third and fourth body converged towards the same point. It will be easily understood that the Baron now ran no inconsiderable risk in his daring attempt. In the first place, he was by no means certain that his army was more numerous than any one of the Yorkist parties; and in the second, if he should engage and defeat one, he might have another on his flank before he was by any means ready to renew the combat. Prudence, therefore, would have seemed to dictate a retreat, unless indeed he could be sure of encountering his various enemies at the place and moment of his own choosing.

Such was the state of things on one lovely day in June, when Mathilde was engaged in her usual employment, which day by day grew more irksome to her as time wore on. She was seated under a tree, shading herself from the rays of the summer sun, her pen held listlessly in her hand, her scroll and book by her side, whilst she mused on the past, made plans for the future, and forgot the present, after the custom of persons when pretty comfortably seated and rather sleepily inclined. A distant noise aroused her from her reverie after a time, and as it drew nearer and nearer she knew but too well that she heard the shouts of men engaged in battle, and that one of those struggles was taking place which at that time, alas! were but too common in unhappy England.

From the tree under which she was seated she commanded an extensive view over the plain below, and ere long she was able to discern the contending forces as they issued from a pass between the hills, one party being apparently driven before the other. In the plain they rallied, and a desperate combat appeared to be going on; then, whilst the wave of men surged to and fro, horse and foot apparently mingled in an undistinguishable mass, a third body appeared upon the scene, marching round the base of one of the hills, and joining themselves to those who had first emerged from the pass. For a time all was confusion and clamour, and, amid the dust and din, Mathilde could make out nothing as to the exact character of the combatants. Presently, however, a light breeze lifted the dust, and she had a clearer view of the sight before her eyes. The reinforcements which had just arrived had at once altered the fortunes of the battle, and the party which had at first driven its opponents victoriously before it was now evidently giving way. It needed no second glance to tell which was the winning side, for the banner of the white rose floated on high, and triumphant shouts of “A York! a York!” rent the air.

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Baffled and beaten, the Lancastrians vainly endeavoured to hold together; slowly but surely they gave way before the pressure of superior numbers, and it was evident that the question was now only between an orderly retreat and an utter rout. Straining her eyes to the utmost, Mathilde beheld at the head of the retreating party a tall and martial figure which she recognised but too clearly. Conspicuous among the throng by his height and noble bearing, and carrying him right gallantly even when matters were going so decidedly against him, the noble old Baron little knew whose eyes were fixed upon him with eager and agonized gaze.

At that moment I doubt whether Mathilde had a thought even for the lover for whose sake she had suffered so much; her father, the fond parent who had nurtured her from earliest infancy, upon whose knees she had sat and prattled, whose eyes had never lighted on her save with glances of tender love, whose conduct towards her had been one continued indulgence from the first hour of her recollection,—the father, moreover, whom she had selfishly left to live alone and bear his solitary lot in the world without his idolised child—that father was now in peril of his life, and probably about to perish before the very eyes of his ungrateful daughter. There she saw him, the brave old man, sitting upon his charger as if he were part of the animal, dealing blows right and left with the strength and vigour of a far younger man, parrying strokes aimed with right good will at his devoted head, and ever and anon shielding from attack some wounded follower, and covering the retreat of some retiring friends. And whilst the battle raged furiously around him, ever and anon the old man raised his war-cry aloud, “A Guerre-À-mort! a Guerre-À-mort!” and at each cry it seemed as if a new spirit animated his yielding troops, and with fresh energy they rallied and made head against the superior forces of their opponents. But the fight was too unequal to last. That had happened which might have been anticipated. The Baron had attacked and partially routed a Yorkist band, when another party, directed by the shouts of battle, had hastened from their line of march and arrived in time to take part in the fray, and to throw a great preponderance of numbers on the side of the cause for which they fought.

The Baron strove in vain to perform an impossibility, and to convert defeat into victory. His men fell fast by his side, and he was soon left almost alone, surrounded by the triumphant enemy. Mathilde could bear the sight no longer, and, covering her face with her hands, burst into a flood of tears. But even thus the suspense was too terrible to bear. Presently, she lifted her eyes, and beheld the Lancastrians scattering in headlong flight, pursued by the triumphant partisans of the House of York. But where, oh! where was her father? She had not far to look. The old horse she knew so well lay dead upon the plain, but around him were clustered a group of men, evidently still engaged in some fierce conflict. In another moment they fell back, and she perceived a figure recumbent upon the ground, whilst a second figure stood over it, not to destroy, but to guard it from the blows of others. Could she—was it possible that she could—be mistaken? No: it was as she thought and hoped—her own Horace standing over the prostrate body of her father, was guarding his hereditary enemy from the destroying Yorkists.

Aye, so it was indeed, Brother Rhine, nor was this the first nor the last instance where love has proved stronger than hate in this curious world, and where chivalrous and valiant men have respected in others the bravery which they so well knew how to practise themselves. St. Aunay was the commander of the Yorkist party who had turned the tide of that day’s battle. Recognising his ancient foe, he would no doubt have sought him out with every intention of then and there taking his revenge for the past, had it not been for the special reasons which induced him to adopt a contrary course of proceeding. He watched, with an admiration which it was impossible to withhold, the gallant behaviour of the old nobleman when fighting against fearful odds. He refrained from interference whilst it could do no good; but when he saw the Baron’s horse slain by the thrust of a pike, and its rider thrown upon the ground, he rushed forward to protect the fallen leader from those who would otherwise very speedily have disposed of him after a ruthless fashion. It was no easy or pleasant task; for the soldiery were excited by the stubborn resistance of the old Baron, and St. Aunay had to strike, strongly and fiercely, before he could rescue his foe from his own friends. He succeeded, however, and, in a few moments, the Baron, who had been partially stunned, as well by his fall, as by several blows by no means of a light character, which he had received in spite of St. Aunay’s efforts for his preservation, rose from the ground without having sustained any such vital injury as had recently appeared to be almost inevitable. Bitter, however, were his feelings when he discovered to whom it was that he owed his life; for so deeply had the family feud become engraven upon his heart, that it is almost doubtful whether he would not have preferred death, to escape therefrom by means of the aid of a St. Aunay.

There was no time, however, for much to be said on either side. The Yorkists were pursuing their flying foes, and but few were left around the two noblemen, when from the hill-side, but a short distance off, they beheld a female figure hurrying towards them with eager gestures and evident excitement. Both recognised her at the same moment—both hastened to meet her—and in a brief space of time Mathilde was once more folded to her father’s heart. Horace de St. Aunay could have wished that another breast had been the resting-place, but could hardly have expected it under the peculiar circumstances. He waited patiently, therefore (having no other reasonable alternative), until the father and daughter had indulged their natural affection for each other, and had entered upon certain mutual explanations, which appeared upon the whole to be satisfactory. Then the Baron turned to him, and for some time was unable to utter a word. The struggle was severe in his heart between his natural affection for his child and his cherished hatred for the foe of his house. But, luckily for all parties, the former prevailed.

The Baron was no fool, and probably felt that if Mathilde had run away once to look for her lover, it was exceedingly likely that she might do it again. Moreover, the Lancastrian cause was now in that condition that those who still upheld it would ere long have nothing else to uphold, and, whatever might become of himself, the old Baron had no desire to see his beloved daughter dispossessed of her patrimony, and possibly driven from house and home, or reduced to that employment as a necessity which she had recently adopted as a temporary—though most uncongenial—occupation.

So, like a sensible man, he allowed his reason and common sense to overcome his prejudice, and gave his consent to his daughter’s marriage with the Count of St. Aunay. He could not have done a wiser thing. The Count’s influence with the winning party in the state was naturally considerable, and was efficiently exercised in favour of his father-in-law, who was allowed to retain his castle and property, when others, less fortunate in their daughters’ marriages, lost both on account of their political opinions.

Horace and Mathilde were speedily united, and, as old story-books usually say, “they lived very happily all the rest of their lives.” It will also be doubtless satisfactory to you to know that none of the convent authorities ever discovered that the old washerwoman had had anything whatever to do with the disappearance of the young Baroness; that the farmer and his wife were liberally rewarded for their kindness to the latter; and that the followers and believers in the Witch of Salt Hill had a higher opinion than ever of her supernatural powers, since it had so plainly been proved that it was, as she had said, on account of a lover that the Baron’s daughter had left the convent. And this is the way that there came a happy termination to “The Family Feud.”

Father Thames here paused, and took a deep draught of ale; whilst he was engaged with which, his brother of the Rhine calmly and gravely put to him the singular question: “And what became of the pigs, Brother Thames?”

The potentate of our English river hastily put down his glass, choked violently as he did so, and then answered with a laugh, “Confound your jokes, Brother Rhine, you made my liquor go the wrong way, which is a very unpleasant thing, let me tell you. But, after all, the rebuke was deserved, for my cross-questioning you so closely after your last legend. I own that legends are things which should be received with much faith and no questions, or the beauty of them is lost at once.”

“I quite agree with you,” responded he of the Rhine, “and it was with the object of bringing you to express your concurrence in this view that I asked the remarkably stupid question about the pigs. There are some people who always want to know a great deal more than is good for them, and who insist upon asking what became of each and every character of whom mention has been made in a legend. This is simply ridiculous, and very disagreeable to the teller of the story, who is obliged to introduce many minor characters into his tale, in order to fill up gaps, and illustrate the position of the principal personages, but who cannot be expected to know the final history and eventual fate of them all. Since, then, you agree with me, Brother Thames, I shall ask you to be good enough to listen to my next legend with a sincere determination to believe it if you can, and in any case to demand no explanation of circumstances which may seem strange, or with regard to persons who may appear to be unusual in name or character, or in both the two together.”

“I promise to do as you wish,” replied Father Thames to this request, upon which the other commenced at once as follows:—