ic, who, happy that his recovered health enabled him to serve,
in adversity, the noble stock under whose protection he had formerly
flourished, followed his dear lord, as he called him, over the
mountains, thinking of the days that were past. Sometimes Williams would
lead Evellin to talk of former times, when Bellingham Castle blazed with
feudal splendor, and the numerous dependents of its mighty owner,
marshalled by the sound of the bugle, rode to their sports like the
clans of the earlier ages, a gallant troop, to rouse the stag from his
lair, or to loose the hawk at the crested pheasant. The heir of that
castle, habited as an humble yeoman, sullenly listened to the narrative
of his only follower. "Does not the chace," he would say, "now afford us
equal pleasure? are not my dogs as swift, and these mountains as replete
with game as those which engird my paternal residence." A deep groan
contradicted the conclusion to which this inquiry seemed to lead; yet
Williams, fancying he amused his master, continued to deepen those
agonizing recollections which are most dangerous to poignant
sensibility. Nor had Evellin the self-command to forbear making
inquiries which must, when answered, aggravate his anguish. He bade
Williams freely state what he knew of their old neighbours and
dependents. The tale was diffusely told. Evellin listened with deep
attention, execrated his own misconduct, enjoined silence, and then, by
fresh questions, encouraged repetition. A hope had long clung to his
heart, arising from that lofty tone of feeling which is more pained at
becoming the tool of falsehood than at being the victim of misfortune.
Long-continued moody musings had affected his judgment; and he sometimes
actually doubted whether De Vallance was really treacherous, or had been
defeated in his friendly efforts by the power of a host of enemies.

"Answer me truly, Williams," said he, while his lip quivered with
emotion, and his hand trembled as he affected to stroke his falcon with
a careless air: "you see the present and the future are now indifferent
to me. You remember the time when Walter's father rescued me, a cradled
infant, from Tyrone's rebellious kerns in Ireland, and thus laid the
foundation of the friendship between our houses. You remember, Walter
himself saving me from the lake when I was nearly drowned. Surely he was
then a warm-hearted, generous boy. The tears he shed over my supposed
corse could not be dangerous and deceit