It was a sultry summer morning, in the midst of July, and there was a dull oppressive weight in the air, although neither mist nor cloud hung upon the lazy wings of a south wind, when an armed party rode through the deep forest of Auvillers, a part of the ancient Ardennes. Road, properly so called, there was none; but yet the way, though somewhat difficult to find for those not accustomed to all the intricacies of the wood, was not difficult to travel; for no care had been taken to plant new trees where old ones had fallen by the stroke of Time or the axe; all had been left to nature; and thus amidst the thick copses and the tall groves of old trees, wide open spaces and long uncovered tracts had spread here and there, over which the soft turf afforded pleasant footing for man or beast. True, the whole district was rocky and mountainous, and without a guide, the wanderer might have found it a wearisome journey in a sultry day, having to climb a high hill in one place, or wind in and out to avoid the long projecting cliffs of slaty stone in another. But for one directed by any persons well acquainted with the track, the journey was far more easy; and by choosing the proper breaks in the forest, and the long spaces which lay midway up the hills, he might ride along for many miles, without having to ascend any mountain, or deviate very greatly from a straight course, on account either of the wood or of the rocks.

Such was the course followed by the party of which I speak, under the direction of a tall powerful man, clothed from head to heel in steel; for those were not times, nor was that a part of the country in which men of rank and station could travel in safety without being armed in proof. Waleran de St. Paul, indeed, might better have risked his life with scanty arms and few attendants, than any other noble of the day, in that district, for he was well known and generally beloved by the lesser lords around; and his redoubted name rendered it a somewhat fearful task to strive with him, even if taken unprepared; but it would still have been a hazardous experiment, for in those remote and uncultivated tracts, bordering upon several great states, and very uncertain in their attachment to any, numerous bands of wild and lawless men took refuge, and, secure from the arm of justice, lived a life of plunder and oppression, only varied by the mimic warfare of the chase. None of the great nobles in the vicinity--generally engaged in the civil strifes and incessant broils of their own countries--had time to suppress them, even if they had the inclination. But it may well be doubted whether they felt at all disposed to put down, with the strong hand, the troops of roving plunderers which at that time infested the great forests that stretched along the banks of the Meuse and the Moselle; for in those very bands they frequently found a sort of dÉpÔt for brave and determined followers, from which their forces might at any moment be recruited for a short space of time. It is, moreover, whispered that in many instances, the more civilized and polite of the powerful barons round were accustomed to exact a certain share of the plunder from their marauding neighbours, as the price of toleration; and the inferior lords sometimes shared the peril as well as the spoil; and received as welcome guests into their strong castles the leaders of the freebooters, when any accidental reverse of fortune rendered the green wood no longer a secure abode.

Such was the state of the land through which now rode the Lord of St. Paul, still holding the sword, if not the office of Constable of France, with Richard of Woodville by his side, and a train of about forty men-at-arms behind them; so that all peril from their somewhat covetous neighbours of the Ardennes was unthought of by either; and the beauty of the scene, the heat of the day, their approaching meeting with the young Count of Charolois, the state of France, and the probability of speedy deeds of arms, were the subjects of the conversation.

The landscapes, indeed, were most lovely as they proceeded. Beneath, upon the left, sloped down the hill side, here and there covered with green wood, here and there broken with wild and rugged rocks; but everywhere so much below them, that the eye could generally catch the shining course of the Meuse, wandering on with a thousand sinuosities, and could then roam at large over the wide and varied country on the other side, sometimes reaching distant towns and cities many leagues away, sometimes checked by a bold mountain near at hand. Above rose the hills with their woody garmenture, from which would often start out a high grey cliff of cold slaty stone, sheer up and perpendicular as a wall; or at other times would rise a conical peak, smooth at the sides, or broken into points; and, through many of the gorges that they passed, perched upon isolated hills that seemed inaccessible, were seen the towers and walls of some stern feudal fortress, frowning down the valley, as if prognosticating woe to the traveller who ventured there alone.

Of each of these castles the Lord of St. Paul had some tale or anecdote; and he kindly strove to amuse the mind of his young companion by the way; but though Woodville listened with all due courtesy, ay, and admired the beauty of the land, and answered with a calm and ready mind, yet it was evident his cheerful gaiety was gone, at least for the time, and that his thoughts were pre-occupied by sadder themes, which only spared his attention for a moment, to reply to the words addressed to him, and then recalled it immediately to himself.

"You seem sad, sir knight," said the Lord of St. Paul, at length; "I trust that with the letters from the noble Count, which seemed to me full of all joyance, you received no evil tidings?"

"Tidings most strange, my redoubted lord,"^[10] replied Richard of Woodville; "for while the Count speaks cheerfully of having removed all cause of difference between myself and a noble gentleman, Sir John Grey, on whom my best hopes depend, letters from that knight himself are filled with reproaches undeserved by me, and refuse all explanation or argument."

"That is strange, indeed," said the Count; "what are the dates? One may have been written earlier than the other."

"The dates are the same," answered Richard of Woodville, "and the letters of Sir John Grey, coming by the same messenger as those of the Count, might easily have been stopped, had the explanation been given after they were written. It is a dark and misty life we lead in this world; and still, when we think all is clear and bright, as I did when I returned from Lille to Ghent, some thick vapour spreads over the whole, concealing it from our eyes, like the cloud now rolling round the brow of the castle on that high rocky steep."

"We shall have rain," remarked the Lord of St. Paul, "and when it does begin, it will prove a torrent. Here, old Carloman," he continued, turning to one of his men-at-arms, "what does that cloud mean? and where can we best wait for the noble prince, the Count of Charolois, who is to meet us at the Mill Bridge?"

"The cloud means a heavy storm, my lord," replied the old man, riding forward. "Do you not see how the earth gapes for it? But it will not be able to swallow all that will come down, I think. We have not had a drop of rain these two months, and very little dew, so that everything is as parched as pulse. Then, as to waiting for the prince, the meadows by the river would be the best place, if it were not for that cloud."

"Oh, we mind not a little rain," answered the Count of St. Paul; "'twill but make the armourers' fingers ache to take off the rust to-night."

"Ay, 'tis not the rain I am thinking of," said the old man; "but the meadows are no safe resting-place, when there are storms above there. The water gathers in the gulleys, and comes down into the Sormonne, till the old fool can hold no more, and then the whole valley is covered."

"Oh, but if that be the case, we can easily gallop up higher," replied the Count. "There is no shame in running away from a torrent, old Carloman. 'Tis not like turning one's back on the foe."

"Faith that is a foe that gallops quicker than you can," answered the man-at-arms. "The meadow is so narrow, and the bank so high, that you cannot cut across; so you had better stop above, in what we call the Rock Castle, where you can see the country below, and the Mill Bridge and all, without getting in the way of the water. The old Sormonne is a lion, I can tell you, when he is angry; and nothing makes him so fierce as a storm in the hills."

"Well, be it so," answered his lord; "you shall be our governor, good Carloman."

"Then keep up higher, dread sir," replied the man-at-arms. "See," he added, as they passed a little brook that was running down a narrow ravine, all troubled and red, "it has begun farther to the east already; and it is coming against the wind. That is a sign that it will be furious, though not long-lived."

The Count and his party rode on, somewhat quickening their pace; and though they heard occasionally a distant roar, showing that there was thunder somewhere, no lightning was seen, and the wind still continued blowing faintly from the south-west. The clouds, however, crept over the sky, approaching the sun with their hard leaden edges, and to the north and east, covering the whole expanse with a deep black wall, broken and rugged at its summit, as if higher hills and rocks of slate and marble were rising from the bosom of the mountain scene into the heavens above. Over the deep curtain of vapour, indeed, here and there floated detached, some small paler clouds; and others seemed hurrying up from the south, where all had been hitherto clear, as if drawn by some irresistible power towards the adamant-like mass in the north-east. From one of these as they passed over-head, a few heavy drops fell, but then ceased; and still the sun shone out, as if in scorn of the black enemy that rose towering towards him. A deep stillness, however, fell upon the scene. There is generally in the risen day an unmarked but all pervading sound of busy life, composed of many different noises mingled in the air. According to the season of the year and hour, it varies of course. Sometimes it is full of the song of birds, the voices of the cattle, the hum of insects, the rush of streams, the whispering of the wind, the rustle of the trees, and a thousand other undistinguished sounds to which the ear pays no heed. But when they all or most of them cease, it is strange how we miss the murmur of creation--what a want, what a vacancy there seems! So was it now; and, turning to Richard of Woodville, the Lord of St. Paul remarked, "How silent everything has become!"

"It is generally so before a thunderstorm," answered the young knight. "In my country, we judge whether it will be merely rain or something more by the conduct of the cattle. If after a drought we are going to have refreshing showers, the sheep and oxen seem to hail it with their voices; but if there be lightning coming, everything is silent."

Almost immediately after he had spoken, there was a bright flash, not very near, but dazzling; and some drops fell, while the thunder followed at a long interval. Spurring on, they rode forward for about two miles farther; and as they went, every little gorge and hollow way had its minor torrent coming down thick and turbulent, though the rain, where the Count and his party were, had not become violent, pattering slowly upon their arms and housings, and spotting the sleek coats of the horses with marks like damascene work. The river, which they were now approaching nearer, might be seen swelling and foaming in its bed, its crowded waters curling in miniature whirlpools along the edge, and rising higher and higher up the bank, as the innumerable tributaries from the mountains poured down continual accessions to the flood.

At length the old man-at-arms exclaimed, "To the right, my lord," and passing through a narrow opening between the great belt of wood, and a small detached portion that ran farther down the hill, they entered a sort of natural amphitheatre crowned with old pines, and carpeted at the bottom of the crags with soft green turf spread over the rugged and undulating surface of ground. Numerous immense masses of rock, however, detached from the hills above, and rolled down in times long passed, started out from the greensward bare and grey; and here and there would rise up a group of old oaks or beeches, while on the stony fragments themselves was often perched an ash or a fir, like a plume in the helmet of a knight.

In front of this amphitheatre the trees sloped away both to the right and left, leaving a wide open space gradually descending the hill, so that from most parts of the Castle of Rocks, as it was called, a considerable portion of the course of the Sormonne might be seen, the nearest point being somewhat less distant than a quarter of a mile. Directly in front was a double wooden bridge spanning over the stream, which was there divided by a low island of very small extent, which served but as a resting-place for the piles of the two bridges, and for a mill, which gave the name to that particular spot. Beyond, on the opposite side of the water, was an undulating plain of several miles in extent, bounded by hills all round, but open to the eye of St. Paul and his party as they stood in the midst of the amphitheatre.

"Is not this the best place now, my lord?" asked old Carloman. "You can not only see here, but you can find shelter, and need not get your arms rusted, or your horses wet, unless you like. There, under the cliff where it hangs over, you can post two-thirds of the men; and as the storm comes the other way, not a drop will reach them. Then, as for the rest, they can get under this rock in front, where they will be quite dry, if they keep close."

"I will stay here," replied the Count of St. Paul. "You lodge the others, Carloman."

"I will keep you company, my lord," said Richard of Woodville; "and if we dismount, we shall be better able to shelter the horses."

Such was the plan followed; and all the troop, men and horses, were under shelter before the storm became violent. Nor, indeed, did the thunder ever reach that grand and terrible height which it frequently does attain in wood-covered mountains: the rain seemed to drown it; but the deluge which soon fell from the sky was tremendous. In long lines of black and grey it poured straight down, mingled with hail and every now and then crossed by the faint glare of the lightning. The distant country was hidden by the misty veil, and even the nearer scene of the bridge and the mill, the only dwelling in the neighbourhood, grew indistinct.

The Lord of St. Paul and Richard of Woodville endeavoured in vain to descry the plain on the opposite side of the river, in expectation of seeing the train of the Count of Charolois coming from the side of Avesnes. Nothing could they distinguish beyond a hundred yards from the opposite bank; and they mutually expressed a hope that the prince might have been delayed in the more cultivated country to the west, where he would find shelter from the storm.

"He cannot surely be already in the mill?" said the Count: "there seem a great many people at that casement looking up the stream. How many men did he say he would bring, Sir Richard?"

"Two hundred horse," replied Richard of Woodville; "he cannot be there, my good lord; yet there seems a number of heads too. Good heaven! how the stream is rising! 'Tis nearly up to the road-way of the bridge."

"It will be higher than that before it is done, sir knight," observed one of the men-at-arms. "I have seen the bridge carried away twice since I was a boy."

"Here comes a boat down the stream," said Richard of Woodville.

"Ay, we passed one a little way further up," replied the same man who had spoken before; "it has broken away, I dare say."

"That is not a boat," exclaimed the Lord of St. Paul, after gazing for a moment; "it is the thatch of a cottage. Heaven have mercy upon the poor people!" and lifting the cross of his sword to his lips, he kissed it, and muttered a prayer.

At the same moment a number of men, some evidently of inferior rank, and some in garbs which betokened higher station, ran out of the mill; and Woodville could then perceive that, almost close to the door, between the building and the bridge, the water had risen over the low shore of the islet, so as to be up to the knees of those who came forth. He fancied at first that they were about to make their escape over the bridge; but he saw that several of them were armed with long poles; and turning to the man-at arms, who seemed well acquainted with the country, he inquired what they were about to do.

"To draw the broken cottage-roof to the shore, sir knight, I suppose," replied the other, "lest it should damage the bridge."

"See, there comes down a bull!" cried the Count; "how furiously he struggles with the stream.--Ha! they have caught the roof with their hooks. They have got it--no!"

They had indeed obtained for a moment some hold upon the heavy mass of timber and straw that came rushing down, and were dragging it towards the little island; but the stream was increasing so rapidly, and pouring such a body of water upon the land where they stood, that one of the men slipped, and let go his pole, glad enough to be dragged out of the eddy by those behind.

The roof at the same moment swang round and disengaged itself. The bull, still struggling with the torrent, was dashed against the bridge and recoiled. The heavy mass of thatch and wood-work was borne forward upon him with the full force of the stream, and crushed him between itself and the piers. A shrill and horrible cry--something between a roar and a scream, burst from amidst the fierce rushing sound of the overwhelming waters; the whole mass of the floating roof was cast furiously upon the weaker part of the bridge in the centre, already shaken by the torrent; and with an awful crash the whole structure gave way, and was borne in fragments down the stream.

"The flood has reached the mill," said the Count of St. Paul, turning to the man-at-arms; "is there no danger of its being carried away, too?"

"The miller would tell you, none, my dreaded lord," replied the soldier; "but every day is not like to-day; and what has happened once may happen again. He always says there is no danger, since he put up an image of the blessed Virgin over the door; but I recollect when I was a little boy, and lived at Givet, that island was six feet under water, and where there was a mill in the morning, you could row over in a boat at night. They were all drowned, this man's uncle and all."

"Why are you stripping off your casque and camail, Sir Richard?" asked the Count.

"Because I imagine they may soon want help, my good lord," replied the young knight.

"Madness!" cried the Lord of St. Paul; "no man could swim such a torrent as that."

"I do not know that, noble sir," answered Richard of Woodville; "we are great swimmers in my country, and accustomed to buffet with the waves. But there is a boat higher up. I will first try that, and if that sinks, swimming must serve me."

"I will not suffer it!" exclaimed the Count; "neither boat nor man could live in such a rushing torrent as that."

"Indeed, my good lord, you must," replied the young knight, gravely. "My life is of no great value to myself, or any one, now; and, though I know not who these good folks are, they shall not be lost before my eyes, without an effort on my part to deliver them. See, see!" he cried, "some one waves to us from the window!" and, casting off his corslet, and all his heavy armour, he was hurrying down. But the Count caught him by the arm with a glowing cheek, saying, "Stay, stay, yet a little. They are in no danger yet. The stream may not rise higher."

"But if it does, they are lost," answered Woodville, gently disengaging his arm.

"Then I will go with you," said the Count.

"No, no, my lord!" replied the young knight; "you would but fill the boat, which is small enough. One man is better than a thousand there. If I die, divide my goods amongst my men--send my ring to my sweet lady; and farewell."

Thus saying, he sped on to the very brink of the water, which, instead of decreasing, was still rising rapidly. There, he tried to make the people of the mill hear him, and they shouted from the casement in reply, but the roaring of the torrent drowned their words; and hurrying up to the spot where he had seen the boat moored, he found it, now far out from the actual brink of the stream, swaying backwards and forwards with the eddies. The top of the post, to which it was attached by a chain, and which, an hour before, had been some yards on shore, was now just visible above the rushing waters; but, wading in, the young knight caught the chain, and drew the boat to him.

It was luckily flat, and somewhat heavy in its build; so that he managed to get in without upsetting it, but not without difficulty. The only implements, however, which he found to guide its course, were one paddle and a large pole with an iron hook, such as he had seen in the hands of the people of the mill. But he had no hesitation,--no fear; and, throwing loose the chain, he guided the boat into the middle of the stream, where, though the current was stronger, the eddies were less frequent. There it was borne forward with terrible rapidity towards what had been the island, but was no longer to be distinguished from the rest of the stream but by the foaming ripple on either side, and the mill rising in the midst.

The bank of the river, on the eastern side, was crowded by his own attendants and the followers of the Count of St. Paul; the windows of the mill, and a little railed platform above the wheel, showed a multitude of anxious faces. No one spoke--no one moved, however, but two stout Englishmen, who were seen upon the shore, stripping off their arms and clothing; while the timbers of the mill, and the posts and stanchions of the platform, quivered and shook with the roaring tide as it whirled, red and furious, past them, lingering in a curling vortex round, as if unwilling to dash on without carrying every obstacle along with it.

Richard of Woodville raised not his eyes to look at those who hung between death and life; he turned not to gaze at his companions on the shore: he knew that every energy, every thought was wanted to accomplish the great object; and, if he suffered his mind to stray, for even a single instant to other things, it was but to think, "I will show those who have belied me that I can risk life, even for beings I do not know!" His eyes were fixed upon one spot, where the boiling of the tide evinced that the ground came near the surface; and there, he determined first to check the furious speed at which he was hurried down the stream. A little farther on, were the strong standards and braces of a mill of those days; and he thought that, if he could break the first rush of the boat at the shallow, he should be able more easily to bring her up under the casements and the platform.

Now guiding with the paddle, now starting up to hold the boat-pike, he came headlong towards the shoal; but, fending off till the speed of the boat was checked, and she swung round with the torrent and drifted more slowly on, he caught at the thick uprights of the mill with the hook--missed the first--grappled the second; and, though almost thrown over with the shock, held fast till the boat swung heavily round, and struck with her broadside against the building. A rope was instantly thrown from above; and, tying it fast through a ring, which was to be found in the bow of all boats in those days, he relaxed his hold of the woodwork, and the skiff floated farther round.

Then first he looked up; and then first a feeling of deadly terror took possession of him. His cheek grew pale; his lips turned white; and, stretching out his arms, he exclaimed, "Oh, Mary!--oh, my beloved! is it you on whom such peril has fallen?--Quick, quick!" he continued, "lose not a moment. The stream is coming down more and more strong--the building cannot stand. Bear her down quick, Sir John."

"Poo! the building will stand well enough," said a man, in a rude jargon of the French tongue. "'Tis but that people are afraid."

"Fool!" cried Richard of Woodville, who saw the timbers quivering as if shaken by mortal agony: "if you would save your life, come down with the rest."

"Not I," answered the miller, with a laugh; "I have seen as bad floods before now. Here, lady, here--set a foot upon the wheel; it is made fast, and cannot move. Catch her, young gentleman:--nay, not so far, or you will upset the boat--that will do,--there she is;" and Richard of Woodville, receiving Mary Grey in his arms, seated her in the stern of the boat, and again advanced to aid her women and the old knight in descending. Two fair young girls, a young clerk in a black gown, and three armed servants formed the train, and they were the first to take refuge in the boat, leaving their horses behind them. There were three other men remained above, and laughed lightly at the thought of danger; but one young lad, of fifteen years of age, though he too said he would stay, bore a white cheek and a wandering eye.

"Send down the boy, at least," cried Richard of Woodville to the miller; "though you may be fool-hardy, there is no need to sacrifice his life."

"Go, go, EdmÉ," said the miller; "you are as well there as here. You can do us no good."

The boy hesitated; but the increasing force of water made the mill tremble more violently than ever; and, hurrying on, he sprang into the boat.

"Every one down and motionless!" cried Richard of Woodville, without exchanging even a word with those who were most dear; and, casting off the rope, he steered as well as the paddle would permit towards the bank. But, hurried rapidly forward down the stream, with scarcely any power of direction, he saw that the frail bark must pass the ruined bridge. It was a moment of terrible anxiety, for the eddies showed that the foundations of the piers were left beneath the waters. By impulse, the instinct of great peril, he guided the boat over the most violent gush of the stream, between two of the half-checked whirlpools; and she shot clear down, falling into another vortex below, which carried her completely round twice; and then, broken by the blade of the paddle, let her float away into the stream.

The whole band of the Count of St. Paul were running down by the side of the river; and, as the course of the skiff became more steady, Richard of Woodville turned his eyes towards them. They had got what seemed a rope in their hands; and, ever and anon, one of his own archers held it up, and made signs, as if he would have thrown it, had they been nearer.

"Some one be ready to catch the rope!" cried Woodville, "I cannot quit the steering;" and he guided the boat gently and gradually towards the shore. The young clerk sprang at once into the bow; the women sat still in breathless expectation. Sir John Grey advanced slowly and steadily to aid the youth; and when, at the distance of a few yards, a band, formed of the sword-belts of the troop tightly tied together, was thrown on board, the young man and the old knight caught it, but were pulled down by the shock. Some of the others aided to hold it fast; but, in spite of all Woodville's efforts, the boat swung round, struck the rocky shore violently, and began to fill.

There were now many to aid, however: one after another was supported to the land; and Richard of Woodville springing out the last, caught his sweet Mary to his heart, and blessed the God of all mercies for her preservation in that hour of peril.

As he did so, a faint and distant cry, and a rushing sound, different--very different, either from the roar of the stream or the growling of the thunder, caught the ear. All turned round towards the mill, and gazed. It was gone!--a black mass floated on the tide, struck against the sunken piers of the fallen bridge, obstructed for a moment the torrent which instantly poured over it in a white cataract, and then, broken into innumerable fragments, rushed past, darkening the red waters. Woodville ran to the brink, and gazed; but no trace of the rash men who had chosen to remain appeared, and their bodies were not found for many days, when they floated to the shore far down the then subsided stream.