Being skilless in these parts, which, to a stranger,

Unguided and unfriended, often prove

Rough and inhospitable.

TWELFTH NIGHT.

There was a little attempt at preparation, now that the dinner hour was arrived, which showed that, in the opinion of his few but faithful domestics, the good knight had returned in triumph to his home.

The great tankard, exhibiting in bas-relief the figure of Michael subduing the Arch-enemy, was placed on the table, and Joceline and Phoebe dutifully attended; the one behind the chair of Sir Henry, the other to wait upon her young mistress, and both to make out, by formal and regular observance, the want of a more numerous train.

“A health to King Charles!” said the old knight, handing the massive tankard to his daughter; “drink it, my love, though it be rebel ale which they have left us. I will pledge thee; for the toast will excuse the liquor, had Noll himself brewed it.”

The young lady touched the goblet with her lip, and returned it to her father, who took a copious draught.

“I will not say blessing on their hearts,” said he; “though I must own they drank good ale.”

“No wonder, sir; they come lightly by the malt, and need not spare it,” said Joceline.

“Say’st thou?” said the knight; “thou shalt finish the tankard thyself for that very jest’s sake.”

Nor was his follower slow in doing reason to the royal pledge. He bowed, and replaced the tankard, saying, after a triumphant glance at the sculpture, “I had a gibe with that same red-coat about the Saint Michael just now.”

“Red-coat — ha! what red-coat?” said the hasty old man. “Do any of these knaves still lurk about Woodstock? — Quoit him down stairs instantly, Joceline. — Know we not Galloway nags?”

“So please you, he is in some charge here, and will speedily be gone. — It is he — he who had a rencontre with your honour in the wood.”

“Ay, but I paid him off for it in the hall, as you yourself saw. — I was never in better fence in my life, Joceline. That same steward fellow is not so utterly black-hearted a rogue as the most of them, Joceline. He fences well — excellent well. I will have thee try a bout in the hall with him tomorrow, though I think he will be too hard for thee. I know thy strength to an inch.”

He might say this with some truth; for it was Joceline’s fashion, when called on, as sometimes happened, to fence with his patron, just to put forth as much of his strength and skill as obliged the Knight to contend hard for the victory, which, in the long run, he always contrived to yield up to him, like a discreet serving-man.

“And what said this roundheaded steward of our great Saint Michael’s standing cup?”

“Marry, he scoffed at our good saint, and said he was little better than one of the golden calves of Bethel. But I told him he should not talk so, until one of their own roundheaded saints had given the devil as complete a cross-buttock as Saint Michael had given him, as ’tis carved upon the cup there. I trow that made him silent enough. And then he would know whether your honour and Mistress Alice, not to mention old Joan and myself, since it is your honour’s pleasure I should take my bed here, were not afraid to sleep in a house that had been so much disturbed. But I told him we feared no fiends or goblins, having the prayers of the Church read every evening.”

“Joceline,” said Alice, interrupting him, “wert thou mad? You know at what risk to ourselves and the good doctor the performance of that duty takes place.”

“Oh, Mistress Alice,” said Joceline, a little abashed, “you may be sure I spoke not a word of the doctor — No, no — I did not let him into the secret that we had such a reverend chaplain. — I think I know the length of this man’s foot. We have had a jollification or so together. He is hand and glove with me, for as great a fanatic as he is.”

“Trust him not too far,” said the knight. “Nay, I fear thou hast been imprudent already, and that it will be unsafe for the good man to come here after nightfall, as is proposed. These Independents have noses like bloodhounds, and can smell out a loyalist under any disguise.”

“If your honour thinks so,” said Joceline, “I’ll watch for the doctor with good will, and bring him into the Lodge by the old condemned postern, and so up to this apartment; and sure this man Tomkins would never presume to come hither; and the doctor may have a bed in Woodstock Lodge, and he never the wiser; or, if your honour does not think that safe, I can cut his throat for you, and I would not mind it a pin.”

“God forbid!” said the knight. “He is under our roof, and a guest, though not an invited one. — Go, Joceline; it shall be thy penance, for having given thy tongue too much license, to watch for the good doctor, and to take care of his safety while he continues with us. An October night or two in the forest would finish the good man.”

“He’s more like to finish our October than our October is to finish him,” said the keeper; and withdrew under the encouraging smile of his patron.

He whistled Bevis along with him to share in his watch; and having received exact information where the clergyman was most likely to be found, assured his master that he would give the most pointed attention to his safety. When the attendants had withdrawn, having previously removed the remains of the meal, the old knight, leaning back in his chair, encouraged pleasanter visions than had of late passed through his imagination, until by degrees he was surprised by actual slumber; while his daughter, not venturing to move but on tiptoe, took some needle-work, and bringing it close by the old man’s side, employed her fingers on this task, bending her eyes from time to time on her parent, with the affectionate zeal, if not the effective power, of a guardian angel. At length, as the light faded away, and night came on, she was about to order candles to be brought. But, remembering how indifferent a couch Joceline’s cottage had afforded, she could not think of interrupting the first sound and refreshing sleep which her father had enjoyed, in all probability, for the last two nights and days.

She herself had no other amusement, as she sat facing one of the great oriel windows, the same by which Wildrake had on a former occasion looked in upon Tomkins and Joceline while at their compotations, than watching the clouds, which a lazy wind sometimes chased from the broad disk of the harvest-moon, sometimes permitted to accumulate, and exclude her brightness. There is, I know not why, something peculiarly pleasing to the imagination, in contemplating the Queen of Night, when she is wading, as the expression is, among the vapours which she has not power to dispel, and which on their side are unable entirely to quench her lustre. It is the striking image of patient virtue, calmly pursuing her path through good report and bad report, having that excellence in herself which ought to command all admiration, but bedimmed in the eyes of the world, by suffering, by misfortune, by calumny.

As some such reflections, perhaps, were passing through Alice’s imagination, she became sensible, to her surprise and alarm, that some one had clambered up upon the window, and was looking into the room. The idea of supernatural fear did not in the slightest degree agitate Alice. She was too much accustomed to the place and situation; for folk do not see spectres in the scenes with which they have been familiar from infancy. But danger from maurauders in a disturbed country was a more formidable subject of apprehension, and the thought armed Alice, who was naturally high spirited, with such desperate courage, that she snatched a pistol from the wall, on which some fire-arms hung, and while she screamed to her father to awake, had the presence of mind to present it at the intruder. She did so the more readily, because she imagined she recognised in the visage, which she partially saw, the features of the woman whom she had met with at Rosamond’s Well, and which had appeared to her peculiarly harsh and suspicious. Her father at the same time seized his sword and came forward, while the person at the window, alarmed at these demonstrations, and endeavouring to descend, missed footing, as had Cavaliero Wildrake before, and went down to the earth with no small noise. Nor was the reception on the bosom of our common mother either soft or safe; for, by a most terrific bark and growl, they heard that Bevis had come up and seized on the party, ere he or she could gain their feet.

“Hold fast, but worry not,” said the old knight. —“Alice, thou art the queen of wenches! Stand fast here till I run down and secure the rascal.”

“For God’s sake, no, my dearest father!” Alice exclaimed; “Joceline will be up immediately — Hark! — I hear him.”

There was indeed a bustle below, and more than one light danced to and fro in confusion, while those who bore them called to each other, yet suppressing their voices as they spoke, as men who would only be heard by those they addressed. The individual who had fallen under the power of Bevis was most impatient in his situation, and called with least precaution —“Here, Lee — Forester — take the dog off, else I must shoot him.”

“If thou dost,” said Sir Henry, from the window, “I blow thy brains out on the spot. Thieves, Joceline, thieves! come up and secure this ruffian. — Bevis, hold on!”

“Back, Bevis; down, sir!” cried Joceline. “I am coming, I am coming, Sir Henry — Saint Michael, I shall go distracted!”

A terrible thought suddenly occurred to Alice; could Joceline have become unfaithful, that he was calling Bevis off the villain, instead of encouraging the trusty dog to secure him? Her father, meantime, moved perhaps by some suspicion of the same kind, hastily stepped aside out of the moonlight, and pulled Alice close to him, ............