The night was as black as ink; not a solitary twinkling star looked out through that wide expanse of shadow, which our great Poet has called the "blanket of the dark;" clouds covered the heaven; the moon had not risen to tinge them even with grey, and the sun had too long set to leave one faint streak of purple upon the edge of the western sky. Trees, houses, villages, fields, and gardens, all lay in one profound obscurity, and even the course of the high-road itself required eyes well-accustomed to night-travelling to be able to distinguish it, as it wandered on through a rich part of Hampshire, amidst alternate woods and meadows. Yet at that murky hour, a traveller on horseback rode forward upon his way, at an easy pace, and with a light heart, if one might judge by the snatches of homely ballads that broke from his lips as he trotted on. These might, indeed, afford a fallacious indication of what was going on within the breast, and in his case they did so; for habit is more our master than we know, and often rules our external demeanour, whenever the spirit is called to take council in the deep chambers within, showing upon the surface, without any effort on our part to hide our thoughts, a very different aspect from that of the mind's business at the moment.

Thus, then, the traveller who there rode along, saluting the ear of night with scraps of old songs, sung in a low, but melodious voice, was as thoughtful, if not as sad, as it was in his nature to be; but yet, as that nature was a cheerful one and all his habits were gay, no sooner were the eyes of the spirit called to the consideration of deeper things, than custom exercised her sway over the animal part, and he gave voice, as we have said, to the old ballads which had cheered his boyhood and his youth.

Whatever were his contemplations, they were interrupted, just as he came to a small stream which crossed the road and then wandered along at its side, by first hearing the quick foot-falls of a horse approaching, and then a loud, but fine voice, exclaiming, "Who goes there?"

"A friend to all true men," replied the traveller; "a foe to all false knaves. 'Merry sings the throstle under the thorn.' Which be you, friend of the highway?"

"Faith, I hardly know," replied the stranger; "every man is a bit of both, I believe. But if you can tell me my way to Winchester, I will give you thanks."

"I want nothing more," answered the first traveller, drawing in his rein. "But Winchester!--Good faith, that is a long way off; and you are going from it, master:" and he endeavoured, as far as the darkness would permit, to gain some knowledge of the stranger's appearance. It seemed that of a young man of good proportions, tall and slim, but with broad shoulders and long arms. He wore no cloak, and his dress fitting tight to his body, as was the fashion of the day, allowed his interlocutor to perceive the unencumbered outline of his figure.

"A long way off!" said the second traveller, as his new acquaintance gazed at him; "that is very unlucky; but all my stars are under that black cloud. What is to be done now, I wonder?"

"What do you want to do?" inquired the first traveller. "Winchester is distant five and twenty miles or more."

"Odds life! I want to find somewhere to lodge me and my horse for a night," replied the other, "at a less distance than twenty-five miles, and yet not quite upon this very spot."

"Why not Andover?" asked his companion; "'tis but six miles, and I am going thither."

"Humph!" said the stranger, in a tone not quite satisfied; "it must be so, if better cannot be found; and yet, my friend, I would fain find some other lodging. Is there no inn hard by, where carriers bait their beasts and fill their bellies, and country-folks carouse on nights of merry-making? or some old hall or goodly castle, where a truckle bed, or one of straw, a nunchion of bread and cheese, and a draught of ale, is not likely to be refused to a traveller with a good coat on his back and long-toed shoes?"

"Oh, ay!" rejoined the first; "of the latter there are many round, but, on my life, it will be difficult to direct you to them. The men of this part have a fondness for crooked ways, and, unless you were the DÆdalus who made them, or had some fair dame to guide you by the clue, you might wander about for as many hours as would take you to Winchester."

"Then Andover it must be, I suppose," answered the other; "though, to say sooth, I may there have to pay for a frolic, the score of which might better be reckoned with other men than myself."

"A frolic!" said his companion; "nothing more, my friend?"

"No, on my life!" replied the other; "a scurvy frolic, such as only a fool would commit; but when a man has nothing else to do, he is sure to fall into folly, and I am idle perforce."

"Well, I'll believe you," answered the first, after a moment's thought; "I have, thank Heaven, the gift of credulity, and believe all that men tell me. Come, I will turn back with you, and guide you to a place of rest, though I shall be well laughed at for my pains."

"Not for an act of generous courtesy, surely," said the stranger, quitting the half-jesting tone in which he had hitherto spoken. "If they laugh at you for that, I care not to lodge with them, and will not put your kindness to the test, for I should look for a cold reception."

"Nay, nay, 'tis not for that, they will laugh," rejoined the other, "and perhaps it may jump with my humour to go back, too. If you have committed a folly in a frolic to-night, I have committed one in anger. Come with me, therefore, and, as we go, give me some name by which to call you when we arrive, that I may not have to throw you into my uncle's hall as a keeper with a dead deer; and, moreover, before we go, give me your word that we have no frolics here, for I would not, for much, that any one I brought, should move the old knight's heart with aught but pleasure."

"There is my hand, good youth," replied the stranger, following, as the other turned his horse; "and I never break my word, whatever men say of me, though they tell strange tales. As for my name, people call me Hal of Hadnock; it will do as well as another."

"For the nonce," added his companion, understanding well that it was assumed; "but it matters not. Let us ride on, and the gate shall soon be opened to you; for I do think they will be glad to see me back again, though I may not perchance stay long.

"You seem learned for a countryman," said the traveller, riding on by his side; "but, perchance, I am speaking to a clerk?"

"Good faith, no," replied the first wayfarer; "more soldier than clerk, Hal of Hadnock; as old Robert of Langland says, 'I cannot perfectly my Paternoster, as the priest it singeth, but I can rhyme of Robin Hode and Randof Earl of Chester.' I have cheered my boyhood with many a song and my youth with many a ballad. When lying in the field upon the marches of Wales, I have wiled away many a cold night with the--

or,

and then in the cold blasts of March, I ever found comfort in--

"And good reason, too," said Hal of Hadnock; "I do the same, i'faith; and when wintry winds are blowing, I think ever, that a warmer day may come and all be bright again. Were it not for that, indeed, I might well be cold-hearted."

"Fie, never flinch!" cried his gay companion; "there is but one thing on earth should make a bold man coldhearted."

"And what may that be?" asked the other; "to lose his dinner?"

"No, good life!" exclaimed the first,--"to lose his lady's love."

"Ay, is it there the saddle galls?" said Hal of Hadnock.

"Faith, not a whit," answered his fellow-traveller; "if it did, I should leave off singing. You are wrong in your guess, Master Hal. I may lose my lady, but not my lady's love, or I am much mistaken; and while that stays with me I will both sing and hope."

"'Tis the best comfort," replied Hal of Hadnock, "and generally brings success. But what am I to call you, fair sir? for it mars one's speech to have no name for a companion."

"Now, were not my uncle's house within three miles," said the other, "I would pay you in your own coin, and bid you call me Dick of Andover; for I am fond of secrets, and keep them faithfully, except when they are likely to be found out; but such being the case now, you must call me Richard of Woodville, if you would have my friends know you mean a poor squire who has ever sought the places where hard blows are plenty; but who missed his spurs at Bramham Moor by being sent by his good friend Sir Thomas Rokeby to bear tidings of Northumberland's incursion to the King. I would fain have staid and carried news of the victory; but, good sooth, Sir Thomas said he could trust me to tell the truth clearly as well as fight, and that, though he could trust the others to fight, he could not find one who would not make the matter either more or less to the King, than it really was. See what bad luck it is to be a plain-spoken fellow."

"Good luck as well as bad," replied Hal of Hadnock; and in such conversation they pursued their way, riding not quite so fast as either had been doing when first they met, and slackening their pace to a walk, when, about half a mile farther forward, they quitted the high road and took to the narrow lanes of the country, which, as the reader may easily conceive, were not quite as good for travelling in those days, as even at present, when in truth they are often bad enough. They soon issued forth, however, upon a more open track, where the river again ran along by the roadside, sheltered here and there by copses which occasionally rose from the very brink; and, just as they regained it, the moon appearing over the low banks that fell crossing each other over its course, poured, from beneath the fringe of heavy clouds that canopied the sky above, her full pale light upon the whole extent of the stream. There was something fine but melancholy in the sight, grave and even grand; and though there were none of those large objects which seem generally necessary to produce the sublime, there was a feeling of vastness given by the broad expanse of shadow overhead, and the long line of glistening brightness below, broken by the thick black masses of brushwood that here and there bent over the flat surface of the water.

"This is fine," said Hal of Hadnock; "I love such night scenes with the solitary moon and the deep woods and the gleaming river--ay, even the dark clouds themselves. They are to me like a king's fate, where so many heavy things brood over him, so many black and impenetrable things surround him, and where yet often a clear yet cold effulgence pours upon his way, grander and calmer than the warmer and gayer beams that fall upon the course of ordinary men."

His companion turned and gazed at him for a moment by the moonlight, but made no observation, till the other continued, pointing with his hand, "What is that drifting on the water? Surely 'tis a man's head!"

"An otter with a trout in his mouth, speeding to his hole," replied Richard of Woodville; "he will not be long in sight.--See! he is gone. All things fly from man. We have established our character for butchery with the brute creation; and they wisely avoid the slaughter-house of our presence."

"I thought it was something human, living or dead," replied Hal of Hadnock. "Methinks it were a likely spot for a man to rid himself of his enemy, and give the carrion to the waters; or for a love-lorn damsel to bury griefs and memories beneath the sleepy shining of the moonlight stream. The Leucadian promontory was an awful leap, and bold as well as sad must have been the heart to take it; but here, timid despair might creep quietly into the soft closing wave, and find a more peaceful death-bed than the slow decay of a broken-heart."

"Sad thoughts, sir, sad thoughts," replied Richard of Woodville; "and yet you seemed merry enough just now."

"Ay, the fit comes upon me as it will, comrade," replied the other; "and, good faith, I strive not to prevent it. I amuse myself with my own humours, standing, as it were, without myself, and looking inward like a spectator at a tournay--now laughing at all I see, now ready to weep; and yet for the world I would not stop the scene, were it in my power to cast down my warder at the keenest point of strife, and say, 'Pause! no more!' Sometimes there lives not a merrier heart on this side the sea, and sometimes not a sadder within the waters. At one time I could laugh like a clown at a fair, and at others would make ballads to the little stars, full of sad homilies."

"Not so, I," rejoined Richard of Woodville. "I strive for an equal mind. I would fain be always light-hearted; and though, when I am crossed, I may be hot and hasty, ready to strive with others or myself, yet, in good truth, I soon learn to bear with all things, and to endure the ills that fall to my portion, as lightly as may be. Man's a beast of burden, and must carry his pack-saddle; so it is better to do it quietly than to kick under the load. Out upon those who go seeking for sorrows, a sort of commodity they may find at their own door! One whines over man's ingratitude; another takes to heart the scorn of the great; another broods over his merit neglected, and his good deeds forgotten; but, were they wise, and did good without thought of thanks--were they high of heart, and knew themselves as great in their inmost soul as the greatest in the land--were they bright in mind, and found pleasure in the mind's exercise--they would both merit more and repine less, ay, and be surer of their due in the end."

"By my life, you said you were no clerk, Richard of Woodville," cried his companion, "and here you have preached me a sermon, fit to banish moon-sick melancholy from the land. But say, good youth, is yonder light looking out of your uncle's hall window--there, far on the other side of the stream?"

"No, no," answered Woodville; "ride after it, and see how far it will lead you. You will soon find yourself neck deep in the swamp. 'Tis a Will-o'-the-wisp. My uncle's house lies on before, beyond the village of Abbot's Ann, just a quarter of a mile from the Abbey; so, as the one brother owns the hall, and the other rules the monastery, they can aid and countenance each other, whether it be at a merrymaking or a broil. Then, too, as the good Abbot is as meek as an ewe in a May morning, and Sir Philip is as fiery as the sun in June, the one can tame the other's wrath, or work up his courage, as the case may be--but here we see the first houses, and lights in the window, too. Why, how now! Dame Julien has not gone to bed--but, I forgot, there is a glutton mass to-morrow, and, as the reeve's wife, she must be cooking capons, truly. But, hark! there is a sound of a cithern, and some one singing. Good faith, they are making merry by their fireside, though curfew has tolled long since. Well, Heaven send all good men a cheerful evening, and a happy hearth! Perhaps they have some poor minstrel within, and are keeping up his heart with kindness; for Julien is a bountiful dame, and the reeve, though somewhat hard upon the young knaves, is no way pinched when there is a sad face at his door. Well, fair sir, we shall soon be home. A pleasant place is home; ay, it is a pleasant place, and, when far away, we think of it always. God help the man who has no home! and let all good Christians befriend him, for he has need."

Although Hal of Hadnock made no farther observations upon his companion's mood and character, there was something therein that struck and pleased him greatly; and he was no mean judge of his fellow-men, for he had mingled with many of every class and degree. Quick and ready in discovering, by small traits, the secrets of that complicated mystery, the human heart, he saw, even in the love of music and poetry, in a man habituated to camps and fields of battle, a higher and finer mind than the common society of the day afforded; for it must not be thought, that either in the knight or the knight's son, of our old friend Chaucer, the poet gave an accurate picture of the gentry of the age. That there were such is not to be doubted--but they were few; and the generality of the nobles and gentlemen of those times were sadly illiterate and rude. The occasional words Richard of Woodville let drop, too, regarding his own scheme of home philosophy, showed, his companion thought, a strength and rigour of character which might be serviceable to others as well as himself, in any good and honourable cause; and Hal of Hadnock, as they rode on, said to himself, "I will see more of this man."

After passing through the little village, and issuing out again into the open country, they saw, by the light of the moon, now rising higher, and dispersing the clouds as she advanced, a high isolated hill standing out, detached from all the woods and scattered hedge-rows round. At a little distance from its base, upon the left, appeared the tall pinnacles and tower of an abbey and a church, cutting dark against the lustrous sky behind; and, partly hidden by the trees on the right, partly rising above them, were seen the bold lines of another building, in a sterner style of architecture.

"That is your uncle's dwelling, I suppose?" said Hal of Hadnock, pointing on with his hand. "Shall we find any one up? It is hard upon ten o'clock."

"Oh, no fear," replied Richard of Woodville. "Good Sir Philip Beauchamp sits late in the hall. He will not take his white head to the pillow for an hour or two; and the ladies like well to keep him company. Here, to the left, is a shorter way through the wood; but look to your horse's footing, for the woodmen were busy this morning, and may have left branches about."

In less than five minutes more they were before the embattled gates of one of those old English dwellings, half castle, half house, which denoted the owner to be a man of station and consideration--just a step below, in fortune or rank, those mighty barons who sheltered themselves from the storms of a factious and lawless epoch, in fortresses filled with an army of retainers and dependants. As they approached, Richard of Woodville raised his voice and called aloud,

"Tim Morris! Tim Morris!" He waited a moment, singing to himself the two verses he had repeated before--

and then added, "But it will be different now, I fancy; for honest Tim is as deaf as a miller, and his boy is sound asleep, I suspect. Tim Morris, I say!--He will keep us here all night:--Tim Morris!--How now, old sluggard!" he continued, as the ancient porter rolled back the gate; "were you snoring in your wicker-chair, that you make us dance attendance, as you do the country folk of a Monday morning?"

"'Tis fit they should learn to dance the Morris dance, as they call it, Master Dick," answered the porter, laughing, and holding up his lantern. "God yield ye, sir! I thought you were gone for the night, and I was stripping off my jerkin."

"Is Simeon of Roydon gone, then?" asked Woodville.

"Nay, sir, he stays all night," answered the porter. "Here, boy! here, knave! turn thee out, and run across the court to take the horses."

A sleepy boy, with senses yet but half awake, crept out from the door, and followed Richard of Woodville and his companion, as they rode across the small space that separated the gate from the Hall itself. There, at a flight of steps, leading to a portal which might well have served a church, they dismounted; and, advancing before his fellow-traveller, Richard of Woodville raised the heavy bar of hammered iron, which served for a latch, and entered the hall, singing aloud--

As he spoke he pushed back the door for Hal of Hadnock to enter, and a scene was presented to his companion's sight which deserves rather to begin than end a chapter.