The morning after the departure of Richard of Woodville dawned clear and bright upon the city of Ghent; and the hour of seven found a small party assembled in a neat wooden house, not many yards within the Brabant gate, at the cheerful meal of breakfast. With dagger in hand and hearty good will, Nicholas Brune was hewing away at a huge capon, which, with a pickled boar's head, formed the staple of the meal, helping his good buxom dame and Ella Brune to what he considered choice pieces, and praising the fare with more exuberance than modesty, considering that he was the lord of the feast.

Madame Brune, as we should call her in the present day, but known in Ghent by a more homely appellation, which may be translated "Wife Brune," was a native of the good city; and, by his marriage with her, Nicholas had not only obtained a considerable sum of money, but also various advantages, which placed him nearly, if not altogether, on a footing with the born citizens;--so that, for his fair better half, he had great respect and devotion, as in duty bound. For Ella his reverence had been greatly increased, by finding that she was endowed with a quality very engaging in his opinion--namely, wealth; for the sum which she possessed, though but a trifle in our eyes, was in those days no inconsiderable fortune, as I have already taken the liberty of hinting.

I must not, however, do the worthy goldsmith injustice, and suffer the reader to believe that, had Ella appeared poor and friendless, as he had last seen her, Nicholas Brune would have shown her aught but kindness; for he was a good-hearted and right-minded man; but it is not attributing too much to the influence of the precious metals in which he worked, to admit that, certainly, he always took them into account in computing the degree of respect which he was bound to pay to others. He would not have done any dishonest or evil act to obtain a whole Peruvian mine, if such a thing had been within the sphere of his imagination; but still, the possession of such a mine would have greatly enhanced, in the eyes of Nicholas Brune, the qualities of any one who might chance to be its proprietor. The only thing, indeed, which puzzled him in the present instance was, how his old uncle could assume the garb of a wandering, and not generally respected race, when he had by him a sum which set him above all chance of want. At first he fancied that the old man's love of music--which was to him, who did not know one note from another, a separate marvel--might have been the motive: the ruling passion strong in death. But then he thought that good old Murdock might have made sweet melody just as well in his own house, as in wandering from court to court, and fair to fair; but immediately after, remembering the old man's peculiar religious notions, with which he was well acquainted, he concluded that zeal, in which he could fully sympathize, must have been the cause of conduct that seemed so strange. This was an inducement he could understand; for, though on no other points was he of an enthusiastic and vehement character, yet he was so in matters of faith; and if he could have made up his mind to any sort of death, it would have been that of a martyr; but, to say truth, he could not bring himself to prefer any way of leaving the world, and thought one as disagreeable as another. Thus he arrived at the conclusion, that his uncle was quite right in using any means to conceal both his wealth and his religion.

However, as I have said, he viewed Ella with a very placable countenance,--invited her to eat and drink; and, as his mind reverted to what she had said, in regard to paying for her food and lodging, he treated it with a mixture of jest and argument, which showed her that he would receive something, though not too much.

"Why, my fair cousin," he said, when she recurred to the subject, "in this good town of Ghent, all is at so base a price that men live for nothing, and are expected to sell their goods for nothing, I can tell you. Now, look at that capon; a fatter one never carried its long legs about a stack of corn, and yet it cost but six liards. You would pay a sterling, or may be two, for such a one in London; and here you might get a priest as fat to sing a mass for the same money. God help the mummers!"

Ella, however, replied, that she would settle her share with his dame for so long as she stayed, and was proceeding to let her good-humoured cousin into some of her views and intentions, foreseeing that she might need his countenance and assistance, when the outer door opened, and, after a knock at that of the room in which they sat, Ned Dyram entered, to inquire after his fair companion of the way. Ella knew not whether to be pleased or sorry to see him; but surprised she certainly was; for she had thought he was far away from Ghent with his lord. The cause of these contrary emotions was simply, that she felt little pleasure in the man's society, and less in the love that he professed towards her, and yet, having made up her mind to take advantage of the passion he experienced or affected, to work out her own purposes, she saw that his remaining in Ghent might greatly facilitate her views. But the game she had to play was a delicate one, for she had resolved, for no object whatsoever, to give encouragement to his suit; but rather, to leave him to divine her wishes, and promote them if he would, than ask aught at his hands.

Though carried on by that eager and enthusiastic spirit which lingers longer in the breast of woman than in that of man: from which, indeed, everything in life tends to expel it--his own wearing passions, his habits of indulgence, the hard lessons of experience, and the checks of repeated disappointment--yet she felt somewhat alarmed at the new course before her. Perhaps she was not quite sure, though the end ever in view was high and noble, self-devoted, and generous, that the means were right. To have followed Richard of Woodville through the world--to have watched over him as a guardian spirit--to have sacrificed for his sake, and for his happiness, all, anything, peace, security, comfort, and even her own fame--I do not say her own honour--she would not have scrupled; but she might ask herself at that moment, whether it was right and just to sport with the love of another--to use it for her purpose--even to suffer it, when she knew that it could never be returned. And yet woman's eye is very keen; and that selfishness, which frequently bears such a large share in man's love, was so apparent to her view in all Dyram's actions, that she could not but feel less compunction for suffering him to pamper himself with hopes, than if he had been of a nobler and a higher nature.

Whatever were the ideas that crossed her mind, and kept her silent for a moment, they rapidly passed away; and when her cousin, after gazing at the intruder for an instant, asked who he was and what he wanted, she answered for him, in a gay tone, affecting the coquettish airs then very common in a higher class, "Oh! he is a servant of mine, Nicholas--vowed to the tip of my finger. I do not intend ever to have him; but if the poor creature is resolved to sigh at my feet, I must e'en let him. Pray you, give him welcome. What news, servant? How is it that you have not followed your lord?"

"Because," replied Ned Dyram, "I loved best to stay with my lady."

"Nay," answered Ella Brune, "call me not your lady. You are my servant, but I am yours not at all, either as lady or servant. You have not yet merited such grace."

In this light and jesting tone she continued to treat him; and though perhaps such conduct might have repelled a more sensitive and delicate lover, with Ned Dyram it but added fuel to the fire. Each day he came to visit--each day returned with stronger passion in his heart. Jest, indeed, which was far from natural to her character or to her feelings at the time, Ella could not always keep up: though great and stern resolution is often the source of a certain bitter mirth at minor things. But in every graver moment she spoke to Dyram of Richard of Woodville and of Mary Markham--for as yet she knew her by no other name. She did so studiously, and yet so calmly and easily, that not the slightest suspicion of the real feelings in her heart ever crossed the mind of her hearer. Of Mary, she told him far more than he had hitherto gathered from his companions in Woodville's train, and dwelt long upon her beauty, her gentleness, her kindness. Following closely her object, she even found means to hint, one day, a regret that she had not been permitted to follow the young Englishman on his expedition.

"What would I have given," she said, "to have had your chance of going with him; and yet you chose to remain behind!"

"Indeed, fair Ella!" he exclaimed; "what made you so anxious to go?"

"Nay," answered the girl, with a mysterious look, "do you expect me to tell you my secrets, bold man? I would give a chain of gold, however, to be able to follow your master about the world for just twelve months, if it could be done without risking my own fair fame. Oh! for one of those fairy girdles that made the wearer invisible!"

"Methinks you love him, Mistress Ella," replied Ned Dyram, more from pique than suspicion.

But Ella answered, boldly and at once, though he had touched the wound somewhat roughly.

"Yes, I do love him well!" she answered; "and I have cause, servant of mine. But it is not for that. I have a vow; I have a purpose; and though they must be executed, I know not well how to do so. I ought not to have left him, even now."

"I dare say he would have taken you, if you had asked him!" replied the man.

"And what would men have said?" demanded Ella. "What would you have thought yourself--what might your young lord have thought--though he is not so foolish as yourself? Most likely you would all have done me wrong in your fancies. No, no!--if I go, it must be secretly. But there, get you gone; I will tell you no more."

"Nay, tell on, sweet Ella!" exclaimed Ned Dyram; "and perhaps I may aid you."

"Get you gone, I say!" replied Ella Brune. "I will tell you no more, at least for the present. You help me!--Why, were I to trust to you for help in such a matter as this, should I not put myself entirely in your power?"

"But I would never misuse it, Ella," answered Ned Dyram.

"No, no!" she exclaimed; "I will never put myself in any man's power, unless I suffer him to put a ring upon my finger; and then, of course, I am as much his slave as if he had a ring round my neck. There, leave me! leave me! You may come again to-morrow, and see if I am in a better mood. I feel cross to-day."

Ned Dyram retired; but he was destined to return before the day was over, and to bring her tidings, which, however unpleasant in themselves, rendered his coming welcome. As he took his way back towards the inn, just at the corner of the Vendredi market-place, he met a party of travellers, and heard the English tongue; but he took little heed, for his thoughts were full of Ella Brune; and he had passed half across the square, when one of the horsemen rode after him, and said his lord desired to speak with him. Ned Dyram looked up, and at once remembered the man's face. For reasons of his own, however, he suffered not the slightest trace of recognition to appear on his own countenance. As the horseman spoke in English, he replied in the same tongue, asking who was his master, and what he wanted?

"He is an English knight," replied the servant; "and what he wants he will tell you himself."

"But I am not fond of trusting myself in English knights' hands," answered Ned Dyram; "they sometimes use one badly: so tell me his name, or I do not go."

"His name is Sir Simeon of Roydon," replied the man: "a very good name, isn't it?"

"Oh, yes! I will go to him," replied Ned Dyram. "He used to be about the Court, when I was a greater man than I am now;" and he walked straight up to the spot where Sir Simeon of Roydon had halted his horse, and lowly doffed his bonnet as he approached.

"My knave tells me," said the knight, "that you are a servant of the King's. Is it so?"

"It was so once, sir," replied Ned Dyram; and then added, looking round to the servant who had followed him, "So, it was he who told you: I do not remember him!"

"Perhaps not," answered the knight; "but you came up with him once, when he was following a young woman in whom I take some interest. Do you know where she is now?"

"It may be so," replied Ned Dyram; "but I talk not of such things in the street, good sir."

Simeon of Roydon paused and mused, gazing in the man's face the while. "Whom do you serve now?" he demanded, at length.

"Why, I am employed by no one, at present," said Ned Dyram; not exactly telling a falsehood, but implying one.

"Well, then, come to me to-night, some time after sunset," rejoined Sir Simeon, "and we will speak more. You know the convent of the Dominicans; I am to lodge there, for the prior is my cousin. Ask for Sir Simeon of Roydon, or the English knight, and the porter will show you my lodging."

"At the Dominicans!" cried Ned Dyram; "why, you are not going thither now--at least, that is not the way."

"Is it not?" exclaimed the knight. "Why this fellow agreed to guide me;" and he pointed to a man in the dress of a peasant, who accompanied them.

"Then he is guiding you wrong," replied Ned Dyram. "Go straight up that street, follow the course of the river to the left, and, when you have passed the second bridge, turn up to the right, cross the Lys, and you will see the Dominicans right before you. He was taking you to the Carmelites."

"Well, don't fail to come," rejoined Sir Simeon of Roydon; and he then rode on, pouring no very measured abuse upon the head of his guide.

The moment he was gone, Dyram hurried back to Ella Brune; and a long and eager conversation ensued between them, of a very different tone and character from any which had taken place before. Ella was obliged to trust and to confide in him, to tell her reasons for abhorring and shrinking from the sight of one whom her evil fortune seemed continually to bring across her path, and to consult with him on the means to be employed for the purpose of concealing her presence in Ghent from Roydon's eyes, and of discovering what chance had brought him to the same city so soon after herself.

Nothing, perhaps, could have given Dyram more satisfaction than this result. The new relations which it established between Ella and himself--the opportunities which it promised of serving, assisting her, and laying her under obligations--the constant excuse which it afforded for seeing her, and consulting with her on subjects of deep interest to herself--were all points which afforded him much gratification. But that was not all: he fancied that he saw the means of obtaining a power over her--a command as well as an influence. Vague schemes presented themselves to his mind of entangling her in a chain that she could not break--of binding her to himself by ties that she could not shake off--and of using the haughty and vicious knight, whose character he easily estimated, from the information now given him by Ella, as a tool for the accomplishment of his own purposes. I have said that these schemes were vague; and perhaps they might never have taken any more definite a form, had not other events occurred which led him to carry them out almost against his own will. Man, in the midst of circumstances, is like one in a DÆdalian labyrinth, where a thousand paths are ready to confound him, a thousand turnings to lead him to the same end, and that end disappointment; while but one, of all the many ways, can reach the issue of success.

That night, soon after sunset, Dyram stood before the gate of the Dominican monastery, and, ringing the bell, asked the porter for the lodging of Sir Simeon of Roydon. It was evident to him that orders had been given for his admission, for, without any inquiry, he was immediately shown to a small chamber, where he found the knight alone. A curious contest of the wits then ensued, for the knight was shrewd, and had determined, if it were within the scope of possibility, to gain from Ned Dyram all the information he could afford; and Dyram, on the contrary, had resolved to give none but that which suited his purpose. Both were keen and cunning men; neither very scrupulous; each selfish in a high degree, though in a somewhat different line; and both eager and fiery in pursuit of their objects.

The first question of the knight to Ned Dyram was, what had brought him to Ghent?

"I came hither," he replied, at once, "with Master Richard of Woodville."

The knight's brow was covered by a sudden cloud, and he demanded, in a sharp tone, "Is he here now?--Are you his servant, then?"

"He is not here now," answered the man; "he has gone on with the Count de Charolois, and did not think fit to take me with him any further."

"Then you are out of employment?" asked the knight.

"For the present, I am," said Ned Dyram; "but I shall soon find as much as I want. I am never at a loss, sir knight."

"That is lucky for yourself," replied Simeon of Roydon; and then abruptly added, "Will you take service with me?"

"No!" answered Dyram, bluntly. "I will take service with no one any more. I was not meant for a varlet. I can do better things than be the serving-man of any knight or noble."

"What can you do?" demanded Roydon, with a somewhat sarcastic smile.

"What can I not?" exclaimed Dyram. "I can read better than a priest--write better than a clerk. I can speak languages that would make your ears tingle, without understanding what you heard. I can compound all essences and drugs; I can work in gold, silver, or iron; and I know some secrets that would well nigh raise the dead."

"Indeed!" said the knight. "Then you must be a monk, or a doctor of Oxford."

"Neither," replied the man; "but I see you disbelieve me. Shall I give you a proof of what I can do?"

"Yes," answered Sir Simeon; "I should like to see some spice of your skill."

"In what way shall it be," asked Ned Dyram. "If you will order up some charcoal, with this little instrument and these pinchers I will make you a chain to go round your wrist out of a gold noble; or, if there be a Greek book in the monastery, I will read you a page therefrom, and expound it, in the presence of whom you will, as a judge; for well I wot you yourself know nothing about it."

"Nor wish to know," replied the knight; "but I will have neither of these experiments; the one would be too long, the other too tedious. You said that you had secrets that would well nigh raise the dead. I have heard of such things, and I should like to see them tried."

"Would you not be afraid?" asked Ned Dyram.

"No!--Why?" answered Sir Simeon of Roydon. "The dead cannot hurt me."

"Assuredly," said Ned Dyram; "but yet, when we call for those who are in their graves, we can never surely tell who may come. It is not always the spirit we wish that answers to our voice; and that man's heart must be singularly free, who, in the days of fiery youth, has done no deed towards the silent and the cold, that might make him shrink to see them rise from their dull bed of earth, and look him in the face again."

"I am not afraid," said Roydon, after a moment's thought. "Do it if you can."

"Nay, I said I had secrets that would well nigh raise the dead," answered Ned Dyram. "I neither told you that they would, nor that I was willing."

"Ha! it seems to me you are a boaster, my good friend," exclaimed the knight, with a sneer. "Can you do anything in this sort, or can you not?"

"I am no boaster, proud knight," replied Ned Dyram, in an angry tone, "and I only say what I am able to perform. 'Tis you that make it more than I ever did say; but if you would know what I can do, I tell you I can raise the dead for my own eye, though not for yours. That last great secret I have not yet obtained; but I trust ere long to do so; and as you are incredulous, like all other ignorant men, I will give you proof this very night."

"But how shall I know, if I do not see the shapes myself?" demanded Sir Simeon of Roydon.

"I will tell you what I behold," rejoined the man, "and you must judge for yourself. Those whom I call up shall all have some reference to you. Have you a mirror there?"

"Yes," replied the knight; and while he rose to search for one, Dyram strewed some small round balls upon the table, jet black in colour, and apparently soft. The knight brought forward one of the small, round, polished mirrors of the day, which generally formed part of the travelling apparatus of both sexes in the higher class; and, setting it upright, Dyram brought each of the little balls for a single instant to the flame of the lamp, and laid them down before the mirror. A thin white smoke, of a faint, but delicate odour, instantly rose up and spread through the room, producing a feeling of languor in those who breathed the perfume, and giving a ghastly likeness to all things round; and, kneeling down before the table, Ned Dyram gazed into the glass, pronouncing several words in a strange tongue, unintelligible to the knight. The moment after his eyes opened wide, and seemed almost starting from his head; and the knight exclaimed eagerly, "What is it you see?"

"I see," replied the man, "a gentleman in a black robe seated at a table; and he looks very sad. He is young and handsome, too, with coal-black hair curling round his brow."

"Has he no mark by which I can distinguish him?" asked the knight.

"Yes," answered Dyram; "but it matters not for him, as I see he is amongst the living. It is the absent who generally come first, and then the dead. However, here's a scar upon his right cheek, as if from an old wound."

"Sir Henry Dacre!" murmured Roydon. "Try again, man--try again; and let it be the dead this time."

Dyram pronounced some more words, apparently in the same language; and then a smile came upon his countenance. "A sweet and beautiful lady!" he said. "How proudly she walks, as if earth were not good enough to bear her! Ha! how is that?"--and, as he spoke, his face assumed a look of terror: his lip quivered, his eye stared; and the countenance of Sir Simeon of Roydon turned deadly pale.

"What do you see?" demanded the knight, in a voice scarcely audible. "What do you see?"

"She walks by a stream!" cried Dyram, in a terrible tone, "and the sun is just below the sky. Some one meets her, and they talk. He seizes her by the throat!--she struggles--he holds fast--he casts her into the river! Hark, how she shrieks! She sinks--she rises--she shrieks again! Oh God! some one help her!--she is gone!"

All was silent in the room for a minute: and Ned Dyram, wiping his brow, as if recovering from some great excitement, gazed round him by the light of the lamp. Simeon of Roydon had sunk into a seat; and his face was so ashy pale, the lids of his eyes so tightly closed, that for a moment his companion thought he had fainted. The instant after, however, he murmured, "Ah! necromancer!" and then starting up, exclaimed, "What horrible vision is this? Who is it thou hast seen?"

"Nay, I know not," answered Ned Dyram. "How can I tell? They spoke not;--'twas but a sight. But one thing is certain, that either the man or the woman is closely allied to you in some way."

"What was he like?" demanded the knight, abruptly.

"It was so dark when he came that I could not see him well," replied Dyram. "He was a tall, fair man; but that was all I saw. The lady was more clearly visible; for when she came, there was a soft evening light in the sky."

"Why, fool, it has been dark these two hours," cried the knight.

"Not in that glass," answered the other. "When she appeared first, it was a calm sunset, and I saw her well; but it speedily grew dark, and then I could descry nothing but her form, first struggling with her murderer, and then with the deep waters."

"Her murderer!" repeated Simeon of Roydon--"her murderer! What was she like?"

"A vain and haughty beauty, I should say," replied the man; "with dark hair, and seemingly dark eyes, a proud and curling lip, and----"

"Enough, enough!" answered Simeon of Roydon, with resumed composure. "I know her by your description, and by the facts; but in the man you are mistaken--he was a dark man who did the deed, or suspicion belies him."

"'Twas a fair man, that I saw," rejoined Dyram, in a decided tone; "of that, at least, I am sure, though the shadows were too deep to let me view his face distinctly. Shall I look again, to see any more, sir knight?"

"No, no--it is sufficient!" cried Simeon of Roydon, somewhat sharply. "I see you have not overstated what you can do. Hearken to me; I will give you employment in your own way--much or little, as you like. I would fain hear more of this girl, Ella Brune--of where she is, what she is doing. I would fain find her--speak with her; but I am discomposed to-night. This lady that you saw but now was very dear to me; her sad fate affects me deeply even now. See, how I am shaken by these memories!" And in truth his hand, which he stretched forth to lay the mirror flat upon the table, trembled so, that he nearly let it fall. "But of this girl, Ella Brune," he continued: "have you known her long?--know you where she now is?"

"Nay, I was but sent to bear her a letter from Richard of Woodville, and to counsel her from him, to go to York," replied Dyram. "Then, as to where she is, I cannot say exactly--not to a point, that is to say; but I can soon learn, if I am well entreated and well paid!"

"That you shall be," rejoined the knight. "Come to me to-morrow early, and we will talk more. To-night I am unfit. Here is some gold for you for what you have done. Good night, good night!"