The crying of the poor little sufferer for his Grisly called her back before she could say or hear more. Her mother lay still utterly exhausted on her bed, and hardly noticed her; but all that evening, and all the ensuing night, Grisell held the boy, sometimes on her lap, sometimes on the bed, while all the time his moans grew more and more feeble, his words more indistinct. By and by, as she sat on the bed, holding him on her breast, he dropped asleep, and perhaps, outwearied as she was, she slept too. At any rate all was still, till she was roused by a cry from Thora, “Holy St. Hilda! the bairn has passed!” And indeed when Grisell started, the little head and hand that had been clasped to her fell utterly prone, and there was a strange cold at her breast. Her mother woke with a loud wail. “My bairn! My bairn!” snatching him to her arms. “This is none other than your Dutchman’s doings, girl. Have him to the dungeon! Where are the stocks? Oh, my pretty boy! He breathed, he is living. Give me the wine!” Then as there was no opening of the pale lips, she fell into another tempest of tears, during which Grisell rushed to the stair, where on the lowest step she met Lambert and Ridley. “Have him away! Have him away, Cuthbert,” she cried. “Out of the castle instantly. My mother is distraught with grief; I know not what she may do to him. O go! Not a word!” They could but obey, riding away in the early morning, and leaving the castle to its sorrow. So, tenderly and sadly was little Bernard carried to the vault in the church, while Grisell knelt as his chief mourner, for her mother, after her burst of passion subsided, lay still and listless, hardly noticing anything, as if there had fallen on her some stroke that affected her brain. Tidings of the Baron were slow to come, and though Grisell sent a letter by a wandering friar to York, with information of the child’s death and the mother’s illness, it was very doubtful when or whether they would ever reach him. CHAPTER XV WAKEFIELD BRIDGE I come to tell you things since then befallen. After the bloody fray at Wakefield fought, Where your brave father breathed his latest gasp. SHAKESPEARE, _King Henry VI._, Part III. CHRISTMAS went by sadly in Whitburn Tower, but the succeeding weeks were to be sadder still. It was on a long dark evening that a commotion was heard at the gate, and Lady Whitburn, who had been sitting by the smouldering fire in her chamber, seemed suddenly startled into life. “Tidings,” she cried. “News of my lord and son. Bring them, Grisell, bring them up.” Grisell obeyed, and hurried down to the hall. All the household, men and maids, were gathered round some one freshly come in, and the first sound she heard was, “Alack! Alack, my lady!” “How—what—how—” she asked breathlessly, just recognising Harry Featherstone, pale, dusty, blood-stained.