Hildebrand; or, The Days of Queen Elizabeth, An Historic Romance, Vol. 2 of 3Anonymous
History
Hildebrand; or, The Days of Queen Elizabeth, An Historic Romance, Vol. 2 of 3
Anonymous
Great Britain -- History -- Elizabeth, 1558-1603 -- Fiction
She was sitting exactly as he had left her, with Martha, still
seeking to cheer her, at her side. They both rose, however, when
he entered, and Evaline gazed inquiringly in his face.
“God be with thee, lady!” he said, with a smile. “What wouldst
thou have?”
His smile, and the tone in which he spoke, which was more
cheerful than his wont, brought a flush of animation to Evaline’s
face, and the look of inquiry that she had fixed upon him became
more intense.
“Thou hast heard somewhat, Master Gray,” she said. “Is Sir Walter
Raleigh at large again?”
“I fear me, no!” answered Bernard. “But be of good cheer, fair
mistress. I have brought thee a pass to visit thy father.”
And, with another cheering smile, he drew forth the letter which
he had received from Lord Burleigh, and placed it in her hands.
As Evaline accepted the letter, her small white hands, though
they clasped closely over it, quivered like aspens. Drawing the
letter to her heaving bosom, she raised her eyes towards heaven,
and burst into tears.
CHAPTER VII.
The darkness is often greatest just before morning. At the moment
that all hope seems to be lost, the course of events, rolling
providently on, takes a new turn, and opens a brighter and more
cheering prospect. The worst, with all its tissue of terrors, is
frequently followed close by the better; and the wave which we
expect to engulf and overwhelm us, leaves us high and dry on the
shore.
The most trying crisis is not without some assurance of
amelioration or relief. If all else fail, the nobleness of man’s
own heart, bearing him up against the tide, is a resource and
comforter. In that he is provided against all evils, and armed
against every calamity. If he properly exercise his own innate
resources, affliction can never subdue him, but will rather
serve, by its searching and varied influences, to enlarge his
intellect, and unveil the treasures of his heart.
Sir Edgar de Neville had now been a whole week a close prisoner
in Newgate. The man who had inherited from his ancestors
thousands of broad acres, teeming with produce, had no other
habitation than a small room, some dozen feet square. The bare
stone walls, black with age, were broken only by the door and
window, the latter of which was far above his reach, and, as if
that precaution were not sufficient, was defended by several iron
bars. A pallet-bed, with a table, and two settles, or chairs,
embraced the whole furniture of the room, and served but to
render its nakedness more apparent.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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