A month had passed since Jane's arrival at Belfront Castle, and she had had many private and confidential conversations with Mr Lutter. The ominous eyes of Mr Peeper grew fiercer and fiercer, and she many times thought of coming to an open rupture with him at once; but was deterred from doing so, by not yet having ascertained whether her influence over Reginald was sufficiently established to stand a contest with the authority of his ancient friend. She could not understand how her husband could have remained hoodwinked so long; or how he had submitted to the despotic proceedings of his former tutor, who persisted in assembling the same airs of authority over him, as he had exercised when he was a child. Such, however, was evidently the case; and Reginald had never entertained a thought of rescuing himself from the thraldom in which he had grown up. A look from Mr Peeper; a solemn statement from him, that such and such things had never been heard of before in Belfront; and, above all, the use of the muttered and unintelligible jargon to which Mr Peeper betook himself in matters of weight and difficulty, were quite sufficient: Reginald immediately gave up his own judgment, and felt in fact rather ashamed of himself for having hinted that he had a judgement at all. Under these circumstances, Mr Lutter had a very difficult part to play; and all that Jane could do, was to second him whenever she had the opportunity. One day, in the lovely month of April, Phil Lorimer sat on a sunny part of the enornous wall that guarded the castle, and leaning his back against one of the little square towers that rose at intervals in the circuit of the fortifications, sang song after song, as if for the edification of a number of crows that were perched on the trees on the other side of the moat. The audience were grossly inattentive, and paid no respect whatever to the performer, who still continued his exertions, as highly satisfied as if he were applauded by boxes, pit, and gallery of a crowded theatre:--Among others, he sang the ballad of the "Silver Scarf." "It was a King's fair daughter, With eyes of deepest blue, She wove a scarf of silver The whole long summer through-- "A stately chair she sat on Before the castle door, And ever in the calm moonlight She work'd it o'er and o'er. "And many a knight and noble Went daily out and in, And each one marvell'd in his heart Which the fair scarf might win. "She took no heed of questions, From her work ne'er raised her head, And on the snow-white border Sew'd her name in blackest thread. "Then came a tempest roaring, From the high hills it came, And bore the scarf far out to sea From forth its fragile frame: "The maiden sate unstartled, As if it _must_ be so-- She stood up from her stately chair, And to her bower did go.