MILTON.

The liberal offer which the King of the Peak made for the recovery of his daughter fired his followers with enthusiasm; for, although they had searched willingly enough before, both for the sake of love and duty, yet the tempting reward added to their zeal, and each one set out on his journey anew, feeling pretty confident that very soon he would be at least twenty n.o.bles the richer.

As the shades of evening fell, and the twilight began to fade into darkness, the prospect of finding the maiden grew fainter and fainter, until at length the most hopeful gave up the search and returned disconsolately to Haddon, hoping that the maiden would be found at the Hall, and that with her return the chance of gaining the twenty n.o.bles was irretrievably lost. Sir George was the last to return, and the jaded condition of his horse told far more plainly than ever words could have done how far he had ridden.

He had hoped, amid fear and trembling, that his lost darling had been found. He even half expected her to meet him upon his return; but all his antic.i.p.ations were rudely dispelled. Not a trace of her had been found, and crushed by the ill news, he retired to the solitude of his dressing room, with his riding accoutrements unremoved, and gazed for a time meditatively into the empty fireplace, in an agony of fear as to the fate which had befallen her. So far, there was no clue to guide him; he could not even imagine or suspect any adequate reason for her absence; he could only ruminate sorrowfully on the fact that she was gone, and lament his inability to find her.

He was pondering in this fashion when a gentle knock at the door aroused him from his reverie.

"Enter," he gruffly and impatiently responded.

The door opened and Lettice entered. Her face was suffused with tears.

"Well, Lettice," he inquired in a somewhat gentler voice, "what is it, eh?"

"Is there any news of my mistress?" she tremblingly asked.

"None," he replied, "would G.o.d there were."

The maid curtsied and withdrew, but ere she had closed the door, the baron called her back.

"Lettice!" he cried.

She was in the room again in an instant.

"Is Sir Thomas Stanley here?" he asked.

"He is with Mistress Margaret, keeping watch in Sir Henry's room," she replied.

"Bid him attend me here, then," he commanded. Lettice closed the door again, and with a feeling of keen disappointment went off to discharge her mission.

Sir Thomas received the summons ungraciously, but feeling constrained to obey it, he bade the maid keep his betrothed company, and telling her not to let her eyes depart from De la Zouch he hastened to see Sir George.

When the good folk of Haddon awoke next morning, they were summoned to the Hall by the sound of the bell. The news of Dorothy's mysterious disappearance had quickly spread, and feeling sure that some announcement concerning her was about to be made, they quickly flocked into the courtyard curious to learn the latest tidings.

They were not disappointed. Sir George repeated his offer of the previous day, increasing it upon the impulse of the moment to fifty n.o.bles, and he at once despatched a number of his household to renew the search.

Meanwhile De la Zouch, to revenge himself upon the baron for his behaviour to him on the preceding afternoon, continued in a well-feigned semi-unconscious state, and throughout the day he declared himself too faint and dazed and altogether unfit to explain Dorothy's absence. Although besieged with inquiries from early morning, he remained obstinately deaf to all entreaties, nor was it until the evening that he professed himself able to understand their inquiries or returned intelligent answers to their questions.

"I was almost killed by that treacherous esquire," he whined, as he began his explanation.

"Never mind that, tell us about Dorothy," interrupted the baron.

"I am coming to that," he replied. "No sooner were we started than I began to suspect mischief. I could see that Manners did not want me."

"Very like," interrupted Sir Thomas dryly.

De la Zouch felt hurt by the unfeeling remark, and he looked hurt, too, but Sir Thomas took no note of it, and the effort was futile.

"Why did you not come, Crowleigh?" he continued, changing the expression of his countenance from anger to agony, "then all would have been different."

It would, indeed, but not as Sir Henry implied.

"I was hindered," returned Sir Everard, highly nettled at the other's tone and speech. "My horse fell lame with a stone in his shoe, and I had to return."

"At Cromford he set a pack of knaves upon me," pursued De la Zouch, with the coolest audacity. "I was almost murdered; I tried to save her, but what could I do? They were ten to one, and whilst I fought like a madman, Dorothy and Manners laughed at me to my face and rode off together."

"You lie," returned Crowleigh, hotly.

"Do I?" he replied with a sneer, "then prithee what does this bespeak, and this, and this?" and he showed in turn the scratches and bruises on the various parts of his body.

"At Cromford?" inquired the baron. "Did you say at Cromford?"

"Aye, at Cromford, Sir George. I struggled hard to rescue Dorothy for thee, but it was of no avail. No man can combat ten and win."

"I pa.s.sed Cromford myself and saw naught of it, nor yet had any of the villagers," said the baron severely.

"And what means this?" continued De la Zouch, pointing to the battered hat and soiled and torn clothes. "Do not these alone prove that I am speaking but the truth? Can you doubt me longer now?" and he glanced round indignantly, and acted his part so well that he almost persuaded himself that he was a much-abused and persecuted person.

"Did no one witness the struggle, Sir Henry?" asked the sceptical Stanley. "Was there not one during all that time pa.s.sed by?"

"In faith, Sir Thomas, I know not," he replied. "I found no time to look. I had work enough to do to save my skin, I a.s.sure you. He has taken her to London."

"The ingrate!" warmly exclaimed Lady Maude, who had just entered the room. "And Dorothy is worse than he. Let them go, Sir George, they are not worth the finding; let them go."

"Well, 'twas a knightly thing to do, to leave a lady; a right gallant thing, nay by my troth it was," said Stanley, severely. "And my brother is on his way here, too; what will Edward say?"

"Poor Sir Henry, we have judged thee hardly, I fear, but we must try to make amends for it now," said the dame sympathetically.

"She _must_ be found; she _shall_," interrupted the baron, emphasising the last word with a stamp of the foot. "Manners shall suffer though I--"

"Tush, Sir George, let them go," interrupted his good lady. "They will want to return soon enough."

"Nay, she must be traced and brought home again," said Stanley.

"Edward would die of chagrin else."

"She shall be found," repeated the baron decisively.

De la Zouch had mentally calculated that a slight relapse in his condition would probably arouse a wider feeling of sympathy for him, and to secure this end he closed his eyes and gasped for breath, but the feeling of suspicion was too firmly rooted to be dispelled so easily, and he opened his eyes again to find his companions as cold and unsympathetic as before.

"You have not told us all," exclaimed Crowleigh. "Manners would never leave his host in so graceless a style, I know."

"Have I not told thee the truth, Sir George?" De la Zouch meekly appealed, "and do not these rents and scars bear me out? 'Tis a pretty reward for a n.o.ble fight is this," and he finished with a sigh of profound discontent.

"I believe thee," returned the baron slowly, to whom the evidence of the torn garments and De la Zouch's wounds appeared irresistible.

"And was not my poor horse lamed by the miscreants, who would have killed it outright had I not interposed myself?" continued Sir Henry.