Ten years have elapsed, and Lady Mabel had arisen early. She sat alone in a room, which might have been more appropriately called a cell. Grief had anticipated the silvery touch of time, and grey hairs were visible amidst her raven locks. Yet, there was the same sweet and majestic countenance as before. Bathe the human countenance in heaven’s own dew, or in the gentle and clear stream, and it will beam joyfully; but bathe it in the heart’s tears, and it beams so sweetly! She counted her beads, and then looked up for pardon, as fondly and anxiously as a wife numbers the minutes before her lord’s return. She heeded not the fragrance which stole in at the small casement; it neither assisted nor marred her devotions. The sun was bright, and joyous, still she turned not her pale face to its cheering influence. She laid aside her rosary, and sat like a statue of sorrowful thought, if statues can be stamped with such an expression. At length she slowly arose and looked out of the casement into the deep wood, and sighed. Overpowered by disagreeable reflections, she wished to fly from the place, where she had no other view. But the door refused to give way to her repeated attempts. It was early noon, and all the day, so long and weary, must she remain there! She clasped her hands together, and bitterly exclaimed, whilst she gasped for breath, at the discovery, “Gracious heaven! why, am I then a prisoner, and in mine own mansion! Ha! the very banner of my family waves over this tower, proudly; and yet I, the mistress of Haigh, must be confined, and denied the privilege of the meanest servant! It is but just, though I deserve it not from Sir Osmund. But hush, I hear footsteps. My soul, rise brave within me, and tell the usurper what he is, although he may be my--husband,” and she raised an hysterical laugh at the word, and drew herself proudly up. A hasty scuffle was made in the passage, and an angry voice was heard; it was Sir Osmund Neville’s. “Dost hear me, boy! Back to thy crib! Dost wish to suck thy dam--the wolf? Back--” and a heavy stroke enforced the words. But no cry of pain was raised; it might have fallen on the wall, but for the loud laugh of joy, raised by the tormentor. The scuffle continued, when a weak, but firm voice was heard-- “Strike on, Sir Osmund; strike hard. I care not, for I _will_ see my mother! This is a Bradshaigh’s resolution!” “A Bradshaigh!” was the reply, “I have put horns upon the noble head of the family, and have written Sir William a cuckold, by marrying Mab!” “Hold,--not a word,” returned the boy, in tones fierce and daring, “a few years make me a knight, and then chastisement for the fat and cowardly Welsh! Stand back, Sir Osmund, and let me see my mother.” The voice had gradually heightened until all the boy had vanished, and the accents sounded manly and defying. Lady Mabel shrieked, and exclaimed--