“Maiden,” said Derby, “thy counsel is good. Let them, moreover, be informed of Seaton’s just death, and should they revolt, it would be at the moment, and then Sir Richard might hang out a signal from the walls, and in a short time my troops would advance to the rescue. Meanwhile, Sir Thomas, it is necessary that we should instantly be at the head of our men, prepared for every emergency. Let us to horse!” This proposal met the sanction of the warrior. Our young hero, however, turned pale; he was to be torn from the object of his fondest love, never, perhaps, to meet again. He committed his mistress to the care of her attendant, who now appeared. “Nay,” said Sir Richard. “We part not thus; let my noble guests once more, in the hall, pledge the good old cause. Meanwhile your horses shall be prepared for the way.” Young Tyldesley, as long as they remained in the hall, looked in vain for Anne to enter. He was obliged to leave without pronouncing farewell. They had now reached the gateway, where stood their horses. A young page was likewise in waiting, who craved in a low, yet sweet voice, to accompany them, as he was of no use to his fair mistress, and might be the bearer of warlike messages, though a very unwarlike personage himself. “Does your mistress know of your departure?” asked Sir Thomas Tyldesley. “Yes,” was the reply. “Then, nephew, he is but of slender form, and cannot burden your horse. Mount him behind you.” When all was in readiness, the drawbridge arose, they spurred their horses, the moon shone upon the armed horsemen, and the pale face of the page, who clung fast to Henry Tyldesley, and soon from the tower their march could not be heard. Sir Richard sat in the hall, considering in what manner he should best break his message to the garrison. Wishing to consult Anne, whom he fondly loved, and whom, young as she was, he used to call his premier, he retired to her private chamber, but she was not there. He was not at first alarmed, because he knew, that on a moonlight night, she was in the habit of walking on the battlements, and enjoying the sweet influences which breathed upon her from so many sources. But after an hour had passed, and still she came not, though she must have known the perplexed state of her father’s mind, occasioned by the strange events which that night had disclosed, he summoned her attendant. “Where is my daughter?” anxiously asked the knight. The woman was silent, but some secret intelligence seemed lurking on her lips. Sir Richard became enraged; at length, she muttered, “She is not in Houghton Tower.”