"You do her wrong, Harry," answered his companion. "Your mind is sickly; and, as a man in a sore disease, you see all things through one pale mist. Isabel may often think of her who is no more, may grieve for her, and regret that she did not make life happier to herself and others, and that she met so early and so sad a death; but she will ever call her back to mind as one who wronged you, not as one wronged by you: and you may be happy yet." He spoke gravely, and Sir Henry Dacre turned and gazed at him, as if for explanation of his words; but Richard said no more; and, riding on in silence, they soon after came to a point where the road began to rise, winding in slowly between two wooded hills, with a small streamlet flowing on by its side. The sun was sinking below the horizon, as they passed through a village, with the bright blacksmith's forge jutting out beyond the other buildings; and when at length they drew the rein before the gate of a tall house bosomed in trees, it was well nigh dark. Several servants came instantly into the court; and, giving their horses to be taken to the stable, the two gentlemen entered the outer hall, and thence proceeded onwards to a room beyond, where they were immediately joined by a stout man, habited as a courier, who placed a letter in the hand of Sir Harry Dacre, without speaking. "So thou art back, Martin," said the knight, while Richard of Woodville called for lights. "Yes, noble sir," answered the servant; "but I have had to ride hard, for he kept me a long time; but that I don't wonder at." "Indeed!" exclaimed Sir Henry; "why should he keep you long?" "Because he wrote a long letter, sir," replied the man; "he might have waited till doomsday, if he had been in my place, and I in his." "Did he look ill?" inquired the knight. "Not he, sir," answered the servant; "he was out gosshawking after larks when I arrived."