Both chaplains supped regularly with the countess, and grace was never omitted before and after the meal. Great form was observed on the occasion; the servants were marshalled by a steward carrying a wand, and Trioche devoted himself exclusively to the Spaniards.
But the meal, though ceremonious, was of short duration. When grace had been said by Doctor Brideoake, the countess arose, and all the company followed her example.
For some time the party remained in the hall, conversing together.
After pacing to and fro for a few minutes, Standish and Engracia sat down on a couch at the further end of the vast apartment, which was here but imperfectly illumined. They had much to say to each other, but now they were alone, and might have said it, they remained mute.
“Why are you so pensive?” inquired Engracia, at length.
“I am thinking how wretched I shall be to-morrow, when I am forced to ride away,” he replied. “For the first time the battle-call will fail to animate me. Yet I should not feel so sad, if you would give me some hopes that the passion you have inspired is requited.”
Owing to the obscurity, Engracia’s blushes could not be seen, and besides she had her fan. She murmured some response, but it was scarcely audible. Standish took her hand, and as she did not withdraw it, he conveyed it to his lips.
“You have wrought a great change in me,” he said. “Heretofore, I enjoyed nothing so much as an expedition like that in which I am about to be engaged, but now I would rather stay here.”
“That must not be,” she cried. “Go and fight by the side of your valiant lord, and win renown. You may be certain I shall think of you constantly during your absence, and rejoice at your return.”
“I shall find you here when I come back?” he asked.
“Undoubtedly,” she replied. “There is no probability of our immediate departure. The countess, as you know, has seconded her lord’s invitation, and urged us to stay as long as we like. She is a noble dame. I am delighted with her and her daughters, and feel I shall be happy here.”
“I am glad to hear it,” said Standish. “I feared this dull life would not suit you. There are no diversions here—no fêtes. One day is like another.”
“I do not want amusement. I shall think of you. I should have been perfectly content if there had been a priest.”
“That is a difficulty I cannot get over,” said Standish. “But I would recommend you to perform your devotions in private—since by doing so, you can offend none.”
“Such is my design,” said Engracia. “I spoke to the damsel who conducted me to my chamber, and she gave me like advice.”
“Gertrude?” remarked Standish.
“Yes, that is her name. She is very beautiful, and I cannot but admire her, but I do not think I can ever love her.”
“I hope you may not dislike her,” said Standish. “I fear she dislikes you.”
“Why should she dislike me? What have I done to offend her?”
“Nothing,” replied a voice near them, which both recognised as Gertrude’s. “I heard my own name mentioned,” continued the speaker, “and I deem it right to say I have no feeling towards you save good will.”
“I am glad to receive the assurance,” said Engracia.
“Do not confide in her,” whispered Standish.
“I fear I have intruded, but I have no such design,” said Gertrude.
Then addressing Standish, she added, “The countess desires to speak with you. She is in the presence-chamber.”
“I will attend upon her ladyship at once,” he replied.
And bowing, he left the two damsels together.
Proceeding to the presence-chamber, he found the countess. She gave him a letter, and charged him with several verbal messages to the earl.
“Say everything loving from me to my lord,” she observed, “and all that is fond and dutiful from my children to their father. I have but one other injunction to give you. Be first to bring me tidings of the defeat of the rebels.”
“If life be left me, and my lord will grant me leave, I will do it,” replied Standish, as he placed the letter carefully in his doublet.