Music was heard from the battlements, through the casement; the moon shed her softening light upon the young hero’s armour, and he almost fancied that the rays were the fingers of his beautiful companion. They spoke not, though their eyes had met, and though the emotions with which they were lighted up, could not be mistaken. They loved fondly, and to them both it was that holy and rapturous thing--first love--which is for ever remembered, even in old age, as something more beautiful and real than a dream of earth. In war, love is seen only as in a glimpse, yet then it is most interesting. Does the dove ever appear so much the spirit of peace and hope, as when her silver wings are seen, like eternal types of light, through the darkness of the storm, ascending to heaven? How beautiful then is every flutter! Darkness is over all, except these wings, and they appear purer and whiter than ever! Thus is it with love, when it clings, fonder and fonder, in the midst of danger; and when slender arms twine themselves around the martial form, as if they could give a charm against wounds and death, which reach through corslet and shield. Young Tyldesley had taken her hand, and she had not withdrawn it, when a shadow was reflected from the casement, at which they sat within hearing of the Darwen. Anne started, and on turning round beheld her maid, who motioned her to leave the hall. There was an unusual earnestness in her manner as she whispered “for God’s sake--for your own--not a moment’s delay, my lady!” Her mistress silently obeyed her. They were now both upon the battlement, at the eastern extremity. “We are out of hearing,” said the maid, looking cautiously around; and gazing upon Anne, whispered with terror, “you are betrayed!--betrayed--and in the power of false hearts, but daring hands!” “Never,” replied her mistress with energy, “who dares asperse his character and motives?--the stranger is true--” “My young lady thinks of love,” returned her maid,--“but I refer not to a lover. Nay, blush not; I meant not, that falsehood, either to his king, or his lady-love, is in the heart of that young and handsome cavalier; no, he and his companions I could swear over my dead husband’s bible, are loyal and noble. But the new comer, whom Colonel Seaton admitted, is a traitor!--nay, start not, my fair mistress,--and Houghton Tower is now in the hands of Charles the First’s murderers!” There was a fearful reality, thrilling in the voice of the attendant; so different from the gossiping tone, for which she was somewhat noted. “Gracious heaven!” exclaimed her mistress, “and are we betrayed? I doubt the fidelity of Seaton. He had the countenance of an honest man until this day; but I now fear me, that his heart is deceitful and villainous. The stranger, too, seemed sullen; still, there was an expression of cunning. Yet why should we tremble? Let their heads grace the walls of Houghton Tower!--my father shall see it done.”