"You are brave at a distance, daughter," said the bishop calmly; "but be not alarmed. They are only raised a little higher."
"Oh, no," she answered; "I am no coward; and you would see, if they did come near, I should not lose my wits."
Almost as she spoke, a voice exclaimed, in a one not very loud--
"Who goes there?" and Iola started, and laid her hand on the bishop's arm, as if to keep him back.
"It is Boyd the woodman's voice, I think," she said in a whisper. "Slip in behind that great tree, and I will go on and see."
"Who goes there?" repeated the voice again raised higher; and Iola, taking a step or two forward, demanded--
"Who is it that asks?"
"Is that you, Lady Iola?" said the voice, as soon as the woman's tone was distinguished.
"Yes," answered Iola. "Is it Boyd who speaks?"
"The same," answered the woodman. "Have you brought him? Where is he? Is he safe?"
"He is here, he is here," answered Iola. "Father, this is Boyd the woodman, in whom you can fully trust."
"Ah, lady, lady," murmured the woodman, coming forward, "where is the man in whom you can fully trust?"
Advancing towards him, Iola and the prelate found that he had been standing in a small open space at the angle of two roads, both of which led more or less directly to St. Magdalen's cell. The light on the spot was faint, but the woodman's tall and powerful figure was not to be mistaken; and, having resigned her charge to him, Iola turned to the prelate, saying,
"Now I will go back as fast as possible, father."
"Stay a moment, my child," replied the bishop. "May the Almighty bless and protect you, and guide you in safety unto all peace;" and he laid his hand tenderly on her head.
"Do not go in rashly, lady," said the woodman, "but stay in the little vaulted chamber at the end of the passage, till you hear matins sung in the chapel. The place will not be free of these rovers till then. If you hear not matins or prime, you may suppose that they still keep possession. In that case, you had better come away to me, dear lady--you know that I will take care of you."
"Oh, I know that well, Boyd," replied Iola. "Good night, good night--see to this reverend father's safety before all things."
"Ay, that will take two good hours at least," said the woodman, "or I would go back with you myself, dear lady; but I think you are safe enough alone."
"I have no fear," answered Iola; and she tripped lightly away, retreading the path back towards the cell.
That path led along the rising ground just at the verge of the forest, where the trees were thin and the undergrowth scanty, so that the sounds from the abbey continued to reach the fair girl's ears as she pursued it. She thought she heard the sound of horses' feet somewhat nearer, also, as if coming from the road that led up through the forest. At the same time it seemed to her that a redder glare, and a broader light spread over the sky, reflected thence upon the little footway which she trod. "They must have piled more wood upon the beacon," she thought; but yet she felt some degree of alarm.
Hurrying on, she at length reached the spot where the path passed at the back of the cell, and turning quickly round the little building, the abbey, with the slight rise on which it stood, was once more before her sight. What was her terror and surprise at that moment, when she saw the beacon light extinguished, but a still wider and more fearful glare rising up from the little green, the houses surrounding which were all in flames. Several of the wooden cottages were already down, the still burning beams and rafters lying in piles upon the ground, like huge bonfires casting up a cloud of sparks into the flickering fiery air above; and across the glare might now be seen a number of dark figures moving about upon the green, some on horseback, some on foot. From the house of the priests and choristers was rising up a tall spire of flame, sometimes clear and bright, sometimes obscured by a cloud of smoke and sparks; but the abbey itself was still unfired, and stood out dark and solemn in the midst of the blaze, with the light gleaming here and there upon the walls and pinnacles.
The first sight startled and horrified her; but she did not pause to gaze at it, till she had entered the chapel and closed the iron gate, as if for protection; but then she stood and watched the flames for a moment or two, and at length asked herself what she should do.
"I will go back," she answered, after a moment's thought. "I will not be absent from my poor aunt's side at such a moment;" and she turned to seek the door into the passage. Then, for the first time, she perceived that it was closed, and recollected the warning of the abbess to leave it ajar. She now felt really terrified; and that need of protection and help, that want of something to lean upon and to trust in, which most women experience in the hour of danger, made itself terribly felt.
"What will become of me? Where shall I go? What shall I do?" she murmured anxiously; and then, again and again, cast a timid glance at the burning buildings on the opposite side of the dell. "I will go to Boyd's house," she said at length. "I can find protection there."
But suddenly she remembered what he had said, in regard to the time he should be occupied in providing for the safety of the bishop; but her determination was at length expressed--"I shall be more safe there than here at all events. I will go;" and, without further hesitation, she crept back into the path again.
Iola now knew for the first time in life, perhaps, what it is to fear, and how the imagination is excited by apprehension. The sight of the burning buildings had shaken her nerves. She crept along as stealthily as if she feared that every tree was an enemy. She thought she heard sounds too, near at hand as she went on, and then tried to persuade herself that it was but the waving of the trees in the wind. Then she felt sure that somebody must be near; she quickened her pace to reach a path which turned suddenly to the right; but at the very entrance, when she reached it, there was standing a figure, the form of which she could not distinctly see; but it seemed tall and thin, and garmented all in white, according to the popular idea of a phantom. She recoiled in terror, and would have fled back again; but there directly in her way was another figure; and a voice exclaimed, as she was turning once more to fly--
"Lady, lady, whither away? Stay yet a moment--stay, it is a friend."
She thought she knew the tones; but, as the stranger approached, she receded, asking--
"Who is it? Who is it?"
"It is Lord Chartley," he said. "Stay, stay! You are running upon danger."
The last words were needless; for, before they were fully uttered, Iola had not only stopped but sprung forward to meet him.
CHAPTER X.
Human fate, or rather the fate of the whole human race, is but as a web of cloth fixed in the frame of circumstances, with an unseen hand continually throwing the shuttle. The threads may be infinite, and some far apart from others; some in the centre, some at the selvage, but all tied and bound together by filaments that run across and across, and never ceasing till the piece is finished. When will that be? Heaven only