It was late in the evening of the same day of which we have just been speaking, when Ella Brune returned to her hostelry. She had gone back to thank fair Mary Markham for her kindness, intending only to stay for a few moments; but her new friend detained her till the sun was near his setting, and then only let her depart under the escort of Hugh of Clatford and another yeoman, after extracting a promise from her that she would return on the following morning, after the sad ceremony of her grandsire's funeral was over. And now Ella sat in her lonely little chamber, with the tears filling her bright eyes, which seemed fixed upon a spot of sunshine on the opposite wall of the court, but, in reality, saw nothing, or, at least, conveyed no impression to the mind. Why was it Ella wept? To say truth, Ella herself could not, or would not tell. It was, perhaps, the crowding upon her of many sad sensations, the torrent swelled by many smaller rills, which caused those tears; and yet there was one predominant feeling--one that she wished not to acknowledge even to her own heart. What can I call it? How shall I explain it? It was not disappointment; for, as I have said before, she did not, she had never hoped. No, the best term for it is, love without hope; and oh! what a bitter thing that is!

During the whole of that morning she had had no time to dwell upon it; she had been occupied while she remained with Mary Markham in struggling against her own sensations--not examining them. But now she paused and pondered: in solitude and in silence, she gave way to bitter thought; but it was not with the weak and wavering irresolution of a feeble mind. On the contrary, though the anguish would have its tear, she regarded her present fate and future conduct with the firm and energetic purposes of a heart inured to suffer and to decide. Her mind rested upon Richard of Woodville, upon his kindness, his generosity, his chivalrous protection of her who had never met with such protection before; and the first strong determination of her mind expressed itself, in the words she murmured to herself, "I will repay it!"

Then, again, she asked herself, "Why should I feel shame, or fear, or hesitation now, at the thought of following him through the world--of watching for the hour, for the moment, when God may grant me the grace to serve him? He loves another, and is loved by another! He can never be anything to me, but the friend who stood forward to help me in the hour of need. What has sex, or station, to do with it? Why should I care more than if I were a man? and how often do the meanest, by watchful love, find an opportunity to deliver or to support the highest and the mightiest! Why should I think of what men may say or believe? True in my own heart, and conscious of my truth, I may well laugh at suspicion, which follows such as I am, whatever course they take. How often have I been thought a ribald and a losel, when I have guarded my words, and looks, and actions, most carefully! and now I will dare to do boldly what my heart tells me, knowing that it is right. Yet, poor thing," she added, after a moment, "thou art beggar enough, I fear! thou must husband thy little store well. Let me see; I will count my treasure. There are the fifty half nobles sent me by the King, and those my dear protector gave me. Now for the little store of the poor old man;" and, drawing a key from her bosom, she crossed the room to where, upon a window-seat, there stood a small oaken coffer, containing her apparel and that of the poor old minstrel. After opening the box, and taking out one or two instruments of music which lay at the top, she thrust her hand further down, and brought forth a small leathern pouch, fastened by a thong bound round it several times. It cost her some trouble to unloose it; but at length she spread out the mouth, and poured the contents upon the top of the clothes in the coffer. She had expected to see nothing but silver and copper; but amongst the rest were several pieces of gold; and besides these, was a piece of parchment, tied up, with some writing upon it, and a gold ring, set with a large precious stone. The former she examined closely, and read the words with some difficulty; for they were written by no very practised hand, in rough and scattered characters. She made it out at length, however, to be merely "My Ella's dowry;" and a tear fell upon it as she read. She thought that the handwriting was her father's.

She then looked at the ring, and saw by its lustre that it must be of some value; but a strip of leather which was sewn round the gold caught her eye, and she found it, too, traced with some rude characters. They only expressed a date, however, which was 21 July, 1403, and what it meant she knew not. Opening the parchment packet, she then proceeded to examine of what her little dowry consisted; and, to her surprise and joy, she found forty broad pieces of gold. "Nay," she exclaimed, "this is, indeed, wealth; why, I am endowed like a knight's daughter." And well might she say so; for when we remember the difference between the value of gold in that day and at present, the amount she now possessed,--what with the sum she had just found, and the penalty imposed by the King on Simeon of Roydon,--was equal to some six or seven hundred pounds.

"I shall have enough to follow him for ten years," said Ella Brune, gazing on the gold, "without being a charge to any one; and then there may still remain sufficient to gain me admission to a nunnery. But I will lay it by carefully:" and placing all the gold she had, except the few pieces that had been loose in the pouch, into the parchment which had contained her dowry, she tied it up again carefully, and restored it to its place.

"Yet I will be avaricious," she said. "I will disencumber myself of everything I do not want, and change it into coin.--Shall I sell this ring? No; it may mean something I do not know. 'Tis easily carried, and might create suspicion if I disposed of it here. Perhaps my cousin at Peronne can tell me more about it. How shall I sell the other things? Nay, I will ask the hostess to do it for me. She will think of her own payment, and will do it well!"

After carefully putting back the ring and the money, she opened the door of the room, and called down the stairs, "Hostess, hostess! Mistress Trenchard!"

"Coming, coming, little maid," said the good dame, from below. "Do not be in haste; I am with you in a minute;" and, after keeping Ella waiting for a short time, more to make herself of importance than because she had anything else to do, she came panting up the stairs, closed the door, and seated herself on the side of the low bed.

"Well, my poor Ella," she said, "what want you with me? Yours is a sad case, indeed, poor thing. My husband and I both said, when you and poor old Murdock Brune went away to foreign lands, leaving your own good country behind you, that harm would come of it."

"And yet he died in England," replied Ella, with a sigh; "but what you say is very true, hostess; no good has come of it; and we returned poorer than we went--I have wherewithal to pay my score," she added, seeing a slight cloud come over good Mistress Trenchard's face; "but yet I shall want more for my necessity; and I would fain ask you a great favour."

"What is that?" asked the hostess, somewhat drily.

"It is simply, that you would sell for me a good many of these things that I do not want," answered Ella. "Here are several instruments of music, which I know cost much, and must produce something."

"Oh, that I will, right willingly!" replied the hostess; "and 'tis but right and fitting that you should trust such matters to one who is accustomed to buy and sell, than to do it yourself, who know nothing of trade, God wot. I will have them to Westcheape, where there are plenty of fripperies; or carry them to the Lombards, who, perhaps, know more about such matters."

"I should think that the Lombards would purchase them best," answered Ella; "for one of these instruments, the viol, was purchased out of Italy, when my grandfather was chief minstrel to the great Earl of Northumberland."

"Ay, I remember the time well," said Mistress Trenchard. "Murdock Brune was a great man in those days, and rode upon a grey horse, fit for a knight. He used to pinch my cheek, and call me pretty Dolly Trenchard, till my husband was somewhat crusty;--and so the viol is valuable, you think?"

"Yes, and the ribible, too," answered Ella Brune; "for they were cut by a great maker in Italy, and such are not to be found in England."

"I will take care, I will take care," rejoined the hostess. "Gather them all together, and I will send up Tom, the drawer, for them, presently. To-morrow I will take them to the Lombards; for it is somewhat late this evening."

"Nay, but I have other favours to ask of you, dame," said Ella Brune. "To-morrow they bury the poor old man, and I must have a black gown of serge, and a white wimple; and I would fain that you went with me to the burial, if you could steal away for an hour; for it will be a sad day for me."

"That will I do, poor maiden," replied the hostess, readily; not alone because she took a sincere interest in her fair guest, but because in those days, as in almost all others, people of inferior minds found a strange pleasure in bearing part in any impressive ceremony, however melancholy. As so much of her spare time was likely to be occupied on the morrow, she agreed to run up to Cheape that very night, before the watch was set, and to purchase for Ella Brune the mourning garments which she required. The latter commission she performed fully to the poor girl's satisfaction, returning with a loose gown of fine black serge, ready made, and a wimple and hood of clear lawn, little differing from that of a nun.

Ella gazed on the dress with some emotion, murmuring to herself,--"Ay, the cloister; it must end there, at last!--Well, prayer and peace!--'tis the calmest fate, after all."

But the sale of the instruments of music, and several other small articles, was not executed quite as well. Men were rogues in those times, as at present, though, perhaps, in the improvement of all things, roguery has not been neglected, and the good Lombards took care not to give more than half the value of the goods they purchased. Neither Ella nor good Mistress Trenchard herself knew any better, however; so that the latter thought she had made a very good bargain, and the former was content. Her store was by this means considerably increased; and, a short time before the appointed hour, Ella, with the hostess, set out towards the hospital of St. James, for the sad task that was to be performed that day.

I will not pause upon the hours that followed. Dark and sorrowful such hours must ever be; for the dim eyes of mortality see the lamp of faith but faintly, and there is nought else to light our gaze through the obscure vault of death to the bright world of re-union. Put the holy promises to our heart as eagerly, as fondly as we will, how difficult is it to obtain a warm and living image of life beyond this life! How the clay clings to the clay! How the spirit cleaveth to the dust with which it hath borne companionship so long! Strange, too, to say, that we can better realize in our own case the idea of renewed existence, than in the case of those we love. It is comparatively easy to fancy that we who have lived to-day, shall live to-morrow;--that we, who lie down to rest ourselves in sleep and to rise refreshed, shall sleep in death, and wake again renewed. There is in every man's own heart a sentiment of his immortality, which nothing can blot out, but the vain pride of human intellect--the bitterest ashes of the forbidden fruit. But when we see the dearly loved, the bright, the beautiful, the wise, the good, fall, like a withered leaf, into the dark corruption of the tomb--the light go out like an extinguished lamp--and all that is left, all that has been familiar to our living senses, drop into dust and mingle with its earth again, the Saduceean demon seizes on us; and it requires a mighty struggle of the spirit, prayer, patience, resignation, hope, and faith, to win our belief from the dark actuality before us, and fix it on the distant splendour of a promised world to come.

They were sad hours for poor Ella Brune; and when they were over, the chambers of the heart felt too dark and lonely for her to admit any thoughts but those of the dead. She sent, therefore, to Mary Markham, to tell her that she was too wobegone to come that day; and, returning to her little chamber at the inn, she sat down to weep, and pass the evening with her memories.

On the following morning early, she once more set out for Westminster, and passed quietly along the road till she reached Charing; but near the hermitage and chapel of St. Catherine, just opposite the cross, she perceived a man standing gazing up the Strand, with the serpent embroidered on the black ground, which distinguished the followers of Sir Simeon of Roydon. Her fears might have betrayed her; for she forgot for a moment the complete change of her dress, and fancied that she must be instantly recognised; but the instant after, recovering her presence of mind, she drew the hood far over her face, and passed the man boldly, without his even turning to look at her. She then made her way on towards Tote-hill, and soon came to the gates of the house in which Sir Philip Beauchamp had taken up his temporary abode.

Few but the higher nobility, or persons immediately attached to the Court, indulged in those days in the luxury of a dwelling in London or the neighbouring city; and when business or pleasure called inferior personages to the capital, they either took up their dwelling at a hostel, or found lodging in the mansions of some of the great families to whom they were attached by friendship or relationship. Nor was such hospitality ever refused, so long as the house could contain more guests; for each man's consequence, and sometimes his safety, depended upon the number of those whom he entertained; and even when the lord was absent from his own dwelling, the doors were always open to those who were known to be connected with him. Thus Sir Philip Beauchamp had found ready lodging in the house of one of the numerous family of that name, the head of which was then the Earl of Warwick, though, ere many years had passed, an only daughter bore that glorious title into the house of Neville.

When Ella reached the mansion, the porter, distinguished by the cognizance of the bear, was standing before the gates, talking with a young man, who seemed to have just dismounted from a tired horse, and held the bridle-rein cast over his arm.

In answer to Ella's inquiry for the Lady Mary Markham, the old servant laughed, saying, "Here is another!--if it goes on thus all day, there will be nothing else but the opening of gates for a pretty lady who is not here. She departed last night with Sir Philip, fair maid. They went in great haste, good sooth I know not why; for 'twas but two hours before, the sturdy old knight told me he should stay three days; but they had letters by a messenger from the country, so perchance his daughter is ill."

"The blessed Virgin give her deliverance!" said Ella, turning away with a disappointed look; and, bending her steps back towards the city of London, she walked slowly on along the dusty road, absorbed in no very cheerful thoughts, and marking little of what passed around her. But few people were yet abroad between the two towns--the Strand was almost solitary; and she had nearly reached the wall of the garden of Durham House, which ran along to the Temple, when she heard a voice behind her exclaim, in a sharp tone, "Why do you follow her, master knave?"

"What is that to you, blue tabard!" replied another tongue.

"I will let you know right soon, if you do not desist," answered the first.

"Whom do you serve?" asked the second.

"The King!" was the reply; "so away with you."

Ella looked round, and beheld the man whom she had found speaking with the porter a moment before, bending his brows sternly upon the servant of Sir Simeon Roydon, whom she had seen watching near the hermitage of St. Catherine, as she passed up the Strand. The latter, however, seemed to be animated by no very pugnacious spirit, for he merely replied, "Methinks one man has a right to walk the high road to London as well as another."

But he did not proceed to enforce this right by following the course he had been pursuing; and, crossing over from the south to the north side of the way, he was soon lost amongst the low shops and small houses which there occupied the middle of the road.

"I will ride along beside you, fair maiden," said Ned Dyram, for he it was who had come up, "though I should not wonder, from what the porter told me just now, if you were the person I am looking for."

He spoke civilly and gravely; and Ella replied, with a bright smile, "Ha! perhaps it is so; for he said he would send. Whom do you come from?"

"I come from Richard of Woodville," answered the man; "and I am sent to a maiden named Ella Brune, living not far up the new street somewhat beyond the Old Temple, in an hostelry called the Falcon."

"'Tis I--'tis I!" cried Ella. "Oh! I am glad to see you."

Her bright eyes lighted up, and her fair face glowed with an expression of joy and satisfaction, which added in no small degree to its loveliness; for, though we hear much of beauty in distress being heightened by tears, yet there is an inherent harmony between man's heart and joy, which makes the expression thereof always more pleasant to the eye than that of any other emotion.

Ned Dyram gazed at her with admiration, but withdrew his eyes the moment after, and resumed a more sober look. "I will give you all his messages by and by," he said, "for I shall lodge at the Falcon to-night, and have much to say. But yet I may as well tell you a part as we go along," he continued, dismounting from his horse, and taking the bridle on his arm. "First, fair maiden, I was to ask how you fared, and what you intended to do?"

"I have fared ill and well," answered Ella Brune; "but that is a long story, and I will relate it to you afterwards; for that I can talk of, though the people of the house should be present; but what I am to do is a deeper question, and I know not well how to answer it. I have friends at the court of Burgundy--"

"What, then, are you of noble race, lady?" asked Ned Dyram, in an altered tone.

"Oh, no!" replied Ella Brune, with a faint smile. "The cousin of whom I speak is but a goldsmith to the Count of Charolois; but, 'tis a long journey for a woman to take alone, through foreign lands, and amongst a people somewhat unruly."

"Why not come with us?" inquired Ned Dyram; "we sail from Dover in three days, and our company will be your protection. Did not Childe Richard tell you he was going?"

"Yes," answered Ella Brune, casting down her eyes, "but he did not seem to like the thought of having a woman in his company."

"Faith! that is courteous of the good youth," cried Ned Dyram, with a low sharp laugh. "He may win his spurs, but will not merit them, if he refuses protection to a lady."

"That, I am sure, he would not do," replied Ella, gravely. "He has given me the noblest protection at my need; but he may not think it right."

"No, no; you have mistaken him," said Ned Dyram. "He is courteous and kind, without a doubt. He might think it better for yourself to go to York, as he bade me tell you, and to see your friends there, and to claim your rights; but if you judge fit to turn your steps to Burgundy instead, depend upon it he will freely give you aid and comfort on the way. If he did doubt," added the man, "'twas but that he thought his lady-love might be jealous, if she heard that he had so fair a maiden in his company--for you know he is a lover!"--and he fixed his eyes inquiringly on Ella's face.

"I know he is," she answered, calmly, and without a change of feature. "I know the lady, too; but she is not unwilling that I should go; and I dread much to show myself in York."

"Why so?" demanded Ned Dyram. But Ella Brune was not sufficiently won by his countenance or manner to grant him the same confidence that she had reposed in Richard of Woodville; and she replied, "For many reasons; but the first and strongest is, that there are persons there who have seized on that which should be mine. They are powerful; I am weak; and 'tis likely, as in such case often happens, that they would be willing to add wrong to wrong."

"Not only often, but always," replied Ned Dyram; "therefore I say, fair maiden, you had better come with us. Here's one arm will strike a stroke for you, should need be; and there are plenty more amongst us who will do the like."

Ella answered him with a bright smile; but at that moment they were turning up the lane opposite the gate of the Temple, and she paused in her reply, willing to think farther and see more of her companion before she decided.

"Stay, fair maiden!" continued Ned Dyram, who well knew where the hostelry of the Falcon was situate--"It may be as well to keep our counsel, whatever it be, from host and hostess. Gossip is a part of their trade; and it is wise to avoid giving them occasion. I will give you, when we are within, a letter from my young lord, and read it to you, too, as perchance you cannot do that yourself; but it will let the people see that I am not without authority to hold converse with you, which may be needful."

"Nay," answered Ella, "I can read it myself; for I have not been without such training."

"Ay, I forgot," rejoined Ned Dyram, with one of his light sneers; "had you been a princess, you would not have been able to read. Such clerk-craft is only fit for citizens and monks. I wonder how Childe Richard learned to read and write. I fear it will spoil him for a soldier."

The satire was not altogether just; for, though it did not unfrequently happen that high nobles and celebrated warriors and statesmen were as illiterate as the merest boors, and in some instances (especially after the wars of the Roses had deluged the land with blood, and interrupted all the peaceful arts of life) the barons affected to treat with sovereign contempt the cultivation of the mind, yet such was not by any means so generally the case, as the pride of modern civilization has been eager to show. We have proofs incontestable, that, in the reigns of Richard II., Henry IV., and Henry V., men were by no means so generally ignorant as has been supposed. The House of Lancaster was proud of its patronage of literature; and, though more than one valiant nobleman could not sign his own name, or could do so with difficulty, there is much reason to believe that the exceptions have been pointed out as the rule; for we know that many a citizen of London could not only maintain, without the aid of another hand, long and intricate correspondence with foreign merchants, but also took delight in the reading during winter's nights of Chaucer and Gower, if not in studying secretly the writings of Wickliffe and his disciples.

Ella Brune replied not, but walked on into the house, calling the good hostess, who, in that day as in others, often supplied the place of both master and mistress in a house of public entertainment. Ned Dyram followed her with his eyes into the house, scrutinizing with keen and wondering glance the beauties of form which even the long loose robe of serge could not fully conceal. He marvelled at the grace he beheld, even more rare at that day amongst the sons and daughters of toil than at present; and, although the pride of rank and station could not, in his case, suggest the bold disregard of all law and decency in seeking the gratification of passion, his feelings towards Ella Brune were not very far different from those of Sir Simeon of Roydon. He might have more respect for the opinion of the world, by which he hoped to rise; he might even have more respect for, and more belief in, virtue, for he was a wiser man; he might seek to obtain his ends by other means; he was even not incapable of love,--strong, passionate, overpowering love; but the moving power was the same. It was all animal; for, strange to say, though his intellect was far superior to that of most men of his day; though he had far more mind than was needful, or even advantageous, in his commerce with the world of that age, his impulses were all animal towards others. That which he cared for little in himself, he admired, he almost worshipped, in woman. It was beauty of form and feature only that attracted him. Mind he cared not for--he thought not of; nay, up to that moment, he perhaps either doubted whether it existed in the other sex, or thought it a disadvantage if it did. Even more, the heart itself he valued little; or, rather, that strange and complex tissue of emotions, springing from what source we know not, entwined with our mortal nature--by what delicate threads who can say?--which we are accustomed to ascribe to the heart, he regarded but as an almost worthless adjunct. His was the eager love--forgive me, if I profane what should be a holy name, rather than use a coarser term--of the wild beast; the appetite of the tiger, only tempered by the shrewdness of the fox. I mean not to say it always remained so; for, under the power of passion and circumstances, the human heart is tutored as a child. Neither would I say that aught like love had yet touched his bosom for Ella Brune. I speak but of his ordinary feeling towards woman; but feelings of that sort are sooner roused than those of a higher nature. He saw that she was very beautiful--more beautiful, he thought, than any woman of his own station that ever he had beheld; and that was enough to make him determine upon counteracting his master's wishes and counsel, and persuading Ella to turn her steps in the same course in which his own were directed. He knew not how willing she was to be persuaded; he knew not that she was at heart already resolved: but he managed skilfully, he watched shrewdly, through the whole of his after-communications with her during the day. He discovered much--he discovered all, indeed, but one deep secret, which might have been penetrated by a woman's eyes, but which was hid from his, with all their keenness--the motive, the feeling, that led her so strongly in the very path he wished. He saw, indeed, that she was so inclined; he saw that there was a voice always seconding him in her heart, and he took especial care to furnish that voice with arguments which seemed irresistible. He contrived, too, to win upon her much; for there was in his conversation that mingling of frankness and flattering courtesy, of apparent carelessness of pleasing, with all the arts of giving pleasure, and that range of desultory knowledge and tone of superior mind, with apparent simplicity of manner, and contempt for assumption, which of all things are the most calculated to dazzle and impress for a time. 'Tis the lighter qualities that catch, the deeper ones that bind; and though, had there been a comparison drawn between him, who was her companion for a great part of that evening, and Richard of Woodville, Ella Brune would have laughed in scorn; yet she listened, well pleased, to the varied conversation with which he whiled away the hours, when she could wean her thoughts from dearer, though more painful themes; yielded to his arguments when they seconded the purposes of her own heart, and readily accepted his offered service to aid her in executing the plan she adopted.