Kenilworth

man.

The empiric Wayland undertook to do his best, and as the curate conducted him to the spot, he learned that the man had been found on the highroad, about a mile from the village, by labourers, as they were going to their work on the preceding morning, and the curate had given him shelter in his house. He had received a gun-shot wound, which seemed to be obviously mortal; but whether in a brawl or from robbers they could not learn, as he was in a fever, and spoke nothing connectedly. Wayland entered the dark and lowly apartment, and no sooner had the curate drawn aside the curtain than he knew, in the distorted features of the patient, the countenance of Michael Lambourne. Under pretence of seeking something which he wanted, Wayland hastily apprised his fellow- travellers of this extraordinary circumstance; and both Tressilian and Raleigh, full of boding apprehensions, hastened to the curate's house to see the dying man.

The wretch was by this time in the agonies of death, from which a much better surgeon than Wayland could not have rescued him, for the bullet had passed clear through his body. He was sensible, however, at least in part, for he knew Tressilian, and made signs that he wished him to stoop over his bed. Tressilian did so, and after some inarticulate murmurs, in which the names of Varney and Lady Leicester were alone distinguishable, Lambourne bade him 'make haste, or he would come too late.' It was in vain Tressilian urged the patient for further information; he seemed to become in some degree delirious, and when he again made a signal to attract Tressilian's attention, it was only for the purpose of desiring him to inform his uncle, Giles Gosling of the Black Bear, that 'he had died without his shoes after all.' A convulsion verified his words a few minutes after, and the travellers derived nothing from having met with him, saving the obscure fears concerning the fate of the Countess, which his dying words were calculated to convey, and which induced them to urge their journey with the utmost speed, pressing horses in the Queen's name when those which they rode became unfit for service. 

CHAPTER XLI.

The death-bell thrice was heard to ring,
An aerial voice was heard to call,
And thrice the raven flapp'd its wing
Around the towers of Cumnor Hall.

MICKLE.

We are now to return to that part of our story where we intimated that Varney, possessed of the authority of the Earl of Leicester, and of the Queen's permission to the same effect, hastened to secure himself against discovery of his perfidy by removing the Countess from Kenilworth Castle. He had proposed to set forth early in the morning; but reflecting that the Earl might relent in the interim, and seek another interview with the Countess, he resolved to prevent, by immediate departure, all chance of what would probably have ended in his detection and ruin. For this purpose he called for Lambourne, and was exceedingly incensed to find that his trusty attendant was abroad on some ramble in the neighbouring village, or elsewhere. As his return was expected, Sir Richard commanded that he should prepare himself for attending him on an immediate journey, and follow him in case he returned after his departure.

In the meanwhile, Varney used the ministry of a servant called Robin Tider, one to whom the mysteries of Cumnor Place were already in some degree known, as he had been there more than once in attendance on the Earl. To this man, whose character resembled that of Lambourne, though he was neither quite so prompt nor altogether so profligate, Varney gave command to have three horses saddled, and to prepare a horse-litter, and have them in readiness at the postern gate. The natural enough excuse of his lady's insanity, which was now universally believed, accounted for the secrecy with which she was to be removed from the Castle, and he reckoned on the same apology in case the unfortunate Amy's resistance or screams should render such necessary. The agency of Anthony Foster was indispensable, and that Varney now went to secure.

This person, naturally of a sour, unsocial disposition, and somewhat tired, besides, with his journey from Cumnor to Warwickshire, in order to bring the news of the Countess's escape, had early extricated himself from the crowd of wassailers, and betaken himself to his chamber, where he lay asleep, when Varney, completely equipped for travelling, and with a dark lantern in his hand, entered his apartment. He paused an instant to listen to what his associate was murmuring in his sleep, and could plainly distinguish the words, 'AVE MARIA—ORA PRO NOBIS. No, it runs not so—deliver us from evil—ay, so it goes.'

'Praying in his sleep,' said Varney, 'and confounding his old and new devotions. He must have more need of prayer ere I am done with him.—What ho! holy man, most blessed penitent!—awake—awake! The devil has not discharged you from service yet.'

As Varney at the same time shook the sleeper by the arm, it changed the current of his ideas, and he roared out, 'Thieves!—thieves! I will die in defence of my gold—my hard-won gold—that has cost me so dear. Where is Janet?—Is Janet safe?'

'Safe enough, thou bellowing fool!' said Varney; 'art thou not ashamed of thy clamour?'

Foster by this time was broad awake, and sitting up in his bed, asked Varney the meaning of so untimely a visit. 'It augurs nothing good,' he added.

'A false prophecy, most sainted Anthony,' returned Varney; 'it augurs that the hour is come for converting thy leasehold into copyhold. What sayest thou to that?'

'Hadst thou told me this in broad day,' said Foster, 'I had rejoiced; but at this dead hour, and by this dim light, and looking on thy pale face, which is a ghastly contradiction to thy light words, I cannot but rather think of the work that is to be done, than the guerdon to be gained by it.'

'Why, thou fool, it is but to escort thy charge back to Cumnor Place.'

'Is that indeed all?' said Foster; 'thou lookest deadly pale, and thou art not moved by trifles—is that indeed all?'

'Ay, that—and maybe a trifle more,' said Varney.

'Ah, that trifle more!' said Foster; 'still thou lookest paler and paler.'

'Heed not my countenance,' said Varney; 'you see it by this wretched light. Up and be doing, man. Think of Cumnor Place—thine own proper copyhold. Why, thou mayest found a weekly lectureship, besides endowing Janet like a baron's daughter. Seventy pounds and odd.'

'Seventy-nine pounds, five shillings and fivepence half-penny, besides the value of the wood,' said Foster; 'and I am to have it all as copyhold?'

'All, man—squirrels and all. No gipsy shall cut the value of a broom—no boy so much as take a bird's nest —without paying thee a quittance.—Ay, that is right—don thy matters as fast as possible; horses and everything are ready, all save that accursed villain Lambourne, who is out on some infernal gambol.'

'Ay, Sir Richard,' said Foster, 'you would take no advice. I ever told you that drunken profligate would fail you at need. Now I could have helped you to a sober young man.'

'What, some slow-spoken, long-breathed brother of the congregation? Why, we shall have use for such also, man. Heaven be praised, we shall lack labourers of every kind.—Ay, that is right—forget not your pistols. Come now, and let us away.'

'Whither?' said Anthony.

'To my lady's chamber; and, mind, she MUST along with us. Thou art not a fellow to be startled by a shriek?'

'Not if Scripture reason can be rendered for it; and it is written, 'Wives obey your husbands.' But will my lord's commands bear us out if we use violence?'

'Tush, man! here is his signet,' answered Varney; and having thus silenced the objections of his associate, they went together to Lord Hunsdon's apartments, and acquainting the sentinel with their purpose, as a matter