Julia. —— Gentle sir,

You are our captive — but we’ll use you so,

That you shall think your prison joys may match

Whate’er your liberty hath known of pleasure.

Roderick.

No, fairest, we have trifled here too long;

And, lingering to see your roses blossom,

I’ve let my laurels wither.

OLD PLAY.

Arrayed in garments of a mourning colour, and of a fashion more matronly than perhaps altogether befitted her youth — plain to an extremity, and devoid of all ornament, save her rosary — Eveline now performed the duty of waiting upon her wounded deliverer; a duty which the etiquette of the time not only permitted, but peremptorily enjoined. She was attended by Rose and Dame Gillian. Margery, whose element was a sick-chamber, had been already despatched to that of the young knight, to attend to whatever his condition might require.

Eveline entered the room with a light step, as if unwilling to disturb the patient. She paused at the door, and cast her eyes around her. It had been her father’s chamber; nor had she entered it since his violent death. Around the walls hung a part of his armour and weapons, with hawking gloves, hunting-poles, and other instruments of silvan sport. These relics brought as it were in living form before her the stately presence of old Sir Raymond. “Frown not, my father,”— her lips formed the words, though her voice did not utter them —“Frown not — Eveline will never be unworthy of thee.”

Father Aldrovand, and Amelot, the page of Damian, were seated by the bedside. They rose as Lady Eveline entered; and the first, who meddled a little with the healing art, said to Eveline “that the knight had slumbered for some time, and was now about to awake.”

Amelot at the same time came forward, and in a hasty and low voice, begged that the chamber might be kept quiet, and the spectators requested to retire. “My lord,” he said, “ever since his illness at Gloucester, is apt to speak something wildly as he awakes from sleep, and will be displeased with me should I permit any one to be near him.”

Eveline accordingly caused her women and the monk to retire into the anteroom, while she herself remained standing by the door-communication which connected the apartments, and heard Damian mention her name as he turned himself painfully on his couch. “Is she safe and unharmed?” was his first question, and it was asked with an eagerness which intimated how far it preceded all other considerations. When Amelot replied in the affirmative, he sighed, as one whose bosom is relieved from some weighty load, and in a less animated voice, asked of the page where they were. “This apartment,” he said, “with its furniture, are all strange to me.”

“My dear master,” said Amelot, “you are at present too weak to ask questions and receive explanations.”