'Tis not so. Slowly, slowly dies the night,
And with it sinks my soul down from the point
Where late it stood a-tiptoe.—All the Year Round.

Longing for the next evening—the third appointed by the abbot, as the time when he was to meet Murielle again, Sir Patrick Gray sat at the latticed window of his room, gazing listlessly down one of the long and picturesque streets of Bommel, then darkening in the twilight and haze, amid which the lamps were beginning to twinkle in the shops and booths. Seven was tolled from the college bell of the Canonry close by. He started at the sound, and with a glow of pleasure, reflected, that at the same hour to-morrow, he should see and be with her he loved.

While this idea occupied him, the tapster announced a visitor, and Carl Langfanger was introduced. On perceiving a stranger, Sir Patrick experienced some uneasiness, as he believed that his presence in Bommel was unknown to all, save Murielle Douglas and the abbot of Tongland.

In addition to the profits of his wine and beer house, and the little pickings which his secret relations with Count Ludwig enabled him to have, our worthy Carl Langfanger, was ostensibly a farrier and horse doctor, who, by painting and patching up old nags, made them—though the veriest Rosinantes—pass for chargers of spirit and mettle; thus he was so well known at all the hostelries in Bommel, that a short time enabled him to discover the temporary residence of Sir Patrick Gray.

This cunning boor had attired himself in a dark suit of respectable broad-cloth, with a clean white ruff round his neck, and a wooden rosary of portentous size at his right wrist; thus he had all the air of a worthy citizen, though his scrubby black hair was brushed straight down to his small stealthy eyes, and cut off squarely above his long and pendant ears.

"You wish to speak with me?" said Gray, in French.

Langfanger, who had served in several countries, replied readily in the same language: "I have a message to monsieur!"

"From whom?"

"A fair demoiselle," replied Carl, in his most insinuating voice, and a glitter in his cunning eyes.

"Indeed—then carry your message elsewhere—you have come to the wrong quarter, my friend," replied Gray, curtly, as he detected something of the bravo in the air of his visitor.

"But the demoiselle is in distress," urged Carl, with some alarm lest his errand might fail.

"I am not the burgomaster, and knights errant are out of fashion, my friend; but who is she?"

"I know not her name, messire," stammered Carl, who had omitted to inform himself of this rather important particular.

"By whom—and in what manner is she wronged?"

"Mademoiselle said that this ring, which I have the honour to present, would inform monsieur of everything," said Carl, stepping forward.

"This ring," reiterated Gray, becoming suddenly interested and perplexed, on recognizing the trinket he had given to Murielle in other days, at the Three Thorns of the Carlinwark, near Thrave; and he kissed and placed it on his finger, for it was a signal with which he could neither delay nor trifle.

What might this summons portend?

Carl Langfanger, who was smoothing down his obstinate forelock, while estimating the value of the victim's habiliments, replied, that by the safety of his sinful soul, he knew not.

Was she in immediate danger?

He did not know that either; but she seemed in great tribulation.

"You have seen her, then?"

"Within an hour, messire."

"Where—and where does she now await me?"

"Near an auberge—The Forester of Flanders—three miles from Bommel; an auberge of the best character, messire."

"In what direction, my good friend?"

"Ah—I am messire's good friend now!—the way to Ameldroyen."

"Among the forests?" said Gray, with increasing alarm.

"Exactly, messire."

It seemed most unaccountable that Murielle should anticipate the evening fixed by the abbot, and appoint a wayside auberge as a place of meeting; but the presence of her betrothal ring could not be doubted; and she was in danger, or tribulation, as this apparently suave and honest fellow admitted. What lover could linger or doubt?

"You will come, messire?" entreated Carl.

"Come—instantly! my sword and cloak——"

"Nay, messire, I have the honour to mention," said the sleek Carl, "that mademoiselle does not expect you until the cathedral bells have rung the hour of nine, and when the lamps are hung in the spire."

To Gray this information was more perplexing than ever.

"Near the auberge," continued Carl, "is a stone cross, one hundred paces to the right of the road, where a votive lamp burns—there she will meet you."

"Grace guide me!" exclaimed Gray, "what mystery is this? Is not that district a perilous one after nightfall?"

"There are certainly some clerks of St. Nicholas in the woods at times," said Carl, with pretended hesitation.

"What manner of clerks are they?"

"Disbanded Brabanters, who are their own paymasters."

"Robbers, in fact," said Gray, sharply.

"Ay, robbers, and all kinds of wild fellows."

"Come! this is pleasant for one who will be alone."

"Messire shall not be alone," said Carl, "for I shall be there as a guide."

"Thanks and largesse to you, most worthy varlet," said Gray, gratefully, though feeling more and more bewildered. He then put some money into the hands of Carl, who, glad that his mission was over, hurriedly withdrew, and within an hour duly reported his progress to the count of Endhoven, who still remained at the auberge, though Albany and Achanna had returned to the house of the Dyck Graf, to wait the event of the night.

Gray sat in a turmoil of thought after Carl had retired. The idea of a snare never occurred to him. The presence of Murielle's ring lulled every suspicion, if he had one; and he kissed it again and again, for it had been on her finger since that night when first she admitted that he might love her, when the summer moon was wading the fleecy clouds above the Galloway hills that slept in her silver sunshine, which cast the towers of Thrave in sombre shadow on the black waters of the Dee.

As it did not suit the purpose of master Carl Langfanger to have any outrage committed in his auberge—a place on which the officials of the Dyck Graf had more than once cast eyes of suspicion—it had been arranged that Gray should be waylaid at the solitary cross, and there disarmed, mutilated in the horrible manner suggested by the barbarous count of Endhoven, who is recorded to have treated more than one of his prisoners thus, especially, a poor pilgrim from Antwerp and a merchant of Bruges.

This votive wayside cross had been erected by the eldest son of Reinald, the warlike duke of Gueldres, as a propitiation for his unnatural conduct, in making a captive of his father, who died in 1325.

It stood in a wild and solitary place, among heath and gorse, midway between the highroad which led to the auberge, and the forest that spread along the banks of the Waal. After the gates of Bommel were shut for the night, the vicinity of this cross was a place avoided by all belated people, in consequence of the lawless nature of the district, and of those terrible wolves, whose lair was also the forest.

As the night drew on, Count Ludwig, Carl Langfanger, Gustaf Vlierbeke, and some ten or twelve other outlaws all Brabanciones, and well, but variously armed, issued from the auberge, and repaired to the vicinity of Duke Reinald's Cross, where they concealed themselves in a hollow, close to the path, among some thick willows and alder trees.

"Der Teufel!" grumbled the count, "I hope our lover won't keep us long waiting, for the night breeze that comes from the Waal is cold enough already; so what will it be an hour hence!"

"For that reason I have brought with me, herr count, a jar of Languedoc brandy," said Carl Langfanger.

"Thou art a priceless fellow!" exclaimed the count, with unfeigned ardour, as he took a long draught from the stone bottle, and then passed it round; "and now, Carl, light the brazier—hast got any charcoal?"

"A little sack full; and we have plenty of dead branches hereabout."

"Right! Place it under the bank, where the glow will be hidden by the willows. Set it a-light, I say; 'twill serve to keep us warm, and to heat our branding iron at the same time. Who watches on the roadway?"

"Gustaf Vlierbeke," replied two or three at once.

"Bon! he has the eyes of a mole."

The charcoal, with the addition of some dried branches, was soon glowing in the iron brazier, and it shed an uncertain glow on the patched and parti-coloured garments, the rusty weapons, the pieces of battered armour, the squalid and dirty visages of the ruffians who crouched together, waiting for the coming prey, with watchful ears and stealthy eyes, that had became bloodshot, haggard, and wild in expression, with years of cruelty, lust, debauchery, and rapine; and which brightened only as Carl's long jar of French brandy came round to each in turn.

"Herr Count, there are the lights now, in the cathedral spire," exclaimed Carl, who descended from the top of the grassy bank, whither he had crawled to listen.

"Then the gates of Bommel are being closed; der Teufels braden! where tarries our lover? he should be here by this time!" muttered Ludwig, thrusting the fatal iron deeper in the charcoal, and playing nervously with the haft of his dagger; "is the old mare from the tan-yard ready?"

"All ready for her rider," replied Carl, with a cruel grin; "Gustaf Vlierbeke," he added in a husky whisper, "hear you aught on the roadway?"

"Nothing, but the wind and the tossing leaves."

Mutterings of impatience followed this reply.

"Gustaf has only one eye," said a Brabancione.

"The other was knocked out by the boll of a crossbow at Briel."

"Then, why the devil make him scout?" said a third lurker, in a growling tone.

"Because he has the eye and the quickness of a bloodhound," said the count; "ay, of Souyllard himself. It begins to seem that we shall have a great deal of trouble with this teufel of a Schottlander! Carl could easily have disposed of him at the hostelry, as I did yesterday with the rich pilgrim who was on his way to Strasbourg, and who died, unfortunately, just after sharing with me the contents of his bottle and wallet."

"Died! how?"

"By the severing of the thyroid cartilage."

"What the henckers is that, herr count?"

"The hump in the wind-pipe, where the apple stuck."

"In plain words——"

"Exactly," said the count, passing a finger round his throat, a piece of pantomime which excited the ferocious laughter of his followers; yet they waited with great impatience, and the time seemed to pass the more slowly, that they were without watches or other means of marking it. Gustaf Vlierbeke was withdrawn from the post of scout, and replaced by Carl Langfanger when the lights in the cathedral spire were reduced to two.

"Two lights, der teufel!" exclaimed the count; "they indicate the hour of ten: He must have been warned of our snare, and—hark! what is that?"

"The bay of a wolf, herr count."

"Yes, the moon is rising now, and our charcoal is smouldering fast."

Time passed on slowly; the slower that they waited with fierce impatience, and the night became colder as the stars increased in number and brilliance overhead. Some of the Brabanciones sat idly gnawing their shaggy moustachios; others whiled away the lagging minutes by putting an edge on their swords and daggers, with some of the stones which lay near. It seemed weary work for them at best, for the stone jar was empty now.

At last only one light remained in the great spire of Bommel, and it twinkled like a planet in the distance.

"Eleven!" exclaimed the count, starting to his feet, and, amid muttered oaths of rage and disappointment, they were rising to disperse, when Carl Langfanger crawled back, with tidings that a horseman was coming rapidly along the highway. Again the charcoal was blown up by Gustaf Vlierbeke, who made a bellows of his lungs; again the spur-shaped iron was inserted deeper, teeth were set, fierce eyes sparkled, and weapons were grasped and drawn.

On came the solitary rider—on and on. His horse's hoofs rang louder with every bound as he drew nearer, and all held their breath when he suddenly reined up abreast of the cross, in a little niche of which an oil lamp was flickering in the gusty wind.

"Der teufel—'tis he at last!" said the count, as the rider turned his horse to the right and cautiously approached the cross. Then springing from their ambush, with loud yells of exultation and ferocity, the Brabanciones rushed upon him! His horse's bridle and his stirrups were grasped on both sides; and before a cry could escape his lips, the victim was dragged from his saddle, struck to the earth under a shower of blows, and manacled by a strong cord.

"Light a torch, and drag him into the hollow," cried Count Ludwig, whose order was roughly and promptly obeyed.