Convince him!' muttered Berenger. 'Oh that I could make him understand.
What a wretch I am to have no voice to defend her!'

'What?' said the old lord again.

'Only that I could speak, sir; you should know why it is sacrilege to
doubt her.'

'Ah! well, we will not wound you, my son, while talk is vain. You shall
have the means of sending your groom, if thus you will set your mind at
rest, though I had rather have trusted to Walsingham's dealing. I will
myself give him a letter to Sir Francis, to forward him on his way; and
should the young lady prove willing to hold to her contract and come
to you here, I will pray him to do everything to aid her that may be
consistent with his duty in his post.'

This was a great and wonderful concession for Lord Walwyn, and Berenger
was forced to be contented with it, though it galled him terribly to
have Eustacie distrusted, and be unable to make his vindication even
heard or understood, as well as to be forced to leave her rescue, and
even his own explanation to her, to a mere servant.

This revival of his memory had not at all conduced to his progress in
recovery. His brain was in no state for excitement or agitation, and
pain and confusion were the consequence, and were counteracted, after
the practice of the time, by profuse bleedings, which prolonged his
weakness. The splintered state of the jaw and roof of the moth likewise
produced effects that made him suffer severely, and deprived him at
times even of the small power of speech that he usually possessed; and
though he had set his heart upon being able to start for Paris so soon
as Osbert's answer should arrive, each little imprudence he committed,
in order to convince himself of his progress, threw him back so
seriously, that he was barely able to walk down-stairs to the hall, and
sit watching--watching, so that it was piteous to see him--the gates
of the courtyard, but the time that, on a cold March day, a booted and
spurred courier (not Osbert) entered by them.

He sprang up, and faster than he had yet attempted to move, met the man
in the hall, and demanded the packet. It was a large one, done up
in canvas, and addressed to the Right Honourable and Worshipful Sir
William, Baron Walwyn of Hurst Walwyn, and he had further to endure the
delay of carrying it to his grandfather's library, which he entered with
far less delay and ceremony than was his wont. 'Sit down, Berenger,'
said the old man, while addressing himself t