id.

She embraced him, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

"Oh, my Martin: Hubert is no more: and thou shouldst have been Lord
of Walderne."

"I seek a better inheritance, and I have not lost my hope of
Hubert's return."

"I shall never see him, and I cannot trust Drogo, although he be the
nephew of my late dear lord. I fear he will make a bad Lord of Walderne."

"Then, my lady, leave the place simply in trust for Hubert, in case
ought happen to you. Again I say Hubert will return."

"What Drogo takes charge of, he will keep."

"Then confer with the neighbouring gentry, with Earl Warrenne and
others, and ask their advice how to secure the property for the
true heir."

"It is wisely thought, and shall be done," she replied. "And now,
my dear nephew, tell me all about my poor sister. Can she not be
regained to her home, rescued from the wretched life of the woods?"

"I fear it is useless, while Grimbeard yet lives; besides a wife's
first duty is to her husband. I live in hope that he may be brought
to submit to the authorities whom God has seen fit to place in
trust over this land: then, if his pardon can be secured, all will
be well."

What further they said we may not relate. Only that, with her ear
glued to the door, sat one of the tire women, drinking in all their
conversation from the adjoining closet.

What could it avail to the wench? Nought personally, perhaps, but
the lady was surrounded by the creatures of Drogo, and hence what
she said in the supposed secrecy of her bower (boudoir), might soon
be reported in his ear, and stimulate him to action.

It was a dismal dell--no sunlight penetrated its dark recesses,
overgrown with vegetation, overshadowed by dark pines, filled with
nettles and brambles. Herein dwelt one of those wretched women
supposed to hold special communion with Satan by the credulous
peasantry, and whose natural death was the stake. But often they
were spared a long time, and sometimes, by accident, died in their
beds. Love charms, philtres, she sold, and it was said dealt in
poisons, but the fact was never brought home to her, or Sir
Nicholas would have hanged, if not have burned her. As it was she
owed a longer spell of time, wherein to work evil, to the
intercession of the Lady Sybil.

And now she was about to return evil for good. A dark visitor, a
young man veiled in a cloak, sought her cell one day. There was a
long conference. He departed, concealing a small phial