Bothwell Bridge, Battle of, Scotland, 1679 -- Fiction; Historical fiction; Scotland -- History -- 1660-1688 -- Fiction; War stories
“Do not speak thus, my lord,” said Edith, “you distress me, and do
injustice to yourself. There is no friend I esteem more highly, or to
whom I would more readily grant every mark of regard--providing--But”--A
deep sigh made her turn her head suddenly, ere she had well uttered the
last word; and, as she hesitated how to frame the exception with which
she meant to close the sentence, she became instantly aware she had been
overheard by Morton, who, heavily ironed and guarded by soldiers, was now
passing behind her in order to be presented to Claverhouse. As their eyes
met each other, the sad and reproachful expression of Morton’s glance
seemed to imply that he had partially heard, and altogether
misinterpreted, the conversation which had just passed. There wanted but
this to complete Edith’s distress and confusion. Her blood, which rushed
to her brow, made a sudden revulsion to her heart, and left her as pale
as death. This change did not escape the attention of Evandale, whose
quick glance easily discovered that there was between the prisoner and
the object of his own attachment, some singular and uncommon connexion.
He resigned the hand of Miss Bellenden, again surveyed the prisoner with
more attention, again looked at Edith, and plainly observed the confusion
which she could no longer conceal.
“This,” he said, after a moment’s gloomy silence, “is, I believe, the
young gentleman who gained the prize at the shooting match.”
“I am not sure,” hesitated Edith--“yet--I rather think not,” scarce
knowing what she replied.
“It is he,” said Evandale, decidedly; “I know him well. A victor,” he
continued, somewhat haughtily, “ought to have interested a fair spectator
more deeply.”
He then turned from Edith, and advancing towards the table at which
Claverhouse now placed himself, stood at a little distance, resting on
his sheathed broadsword, a silent, but not an unconcerned, spectator of
that which passed.
CHAPTER XIII.
O, my Lord, beware of jealousy!
Othello.
To explain the deep effect which the few broken passages of the
conversation we have detailed made upon the unfortunate prisoner by whom
they were overheard, it is necessary to say something of his previous
state of mind, and of the origin of his acquaintance with Edith.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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