Last night a proud page came to me; Sir Knight, he said, I greet you free; The moon is up at midnight hour, All mute and lonely is the bower: To rouse the deer my lord is gone, And his fair daughter’s all alone, As lily fair, and as sweet to see; Arise, Sir Knight, and follow me. The stars streamed out, the new-woke moon O’er Chatsworth hill gleamed brightly down, And my love’s cheeks, half seen, half hid, With love and joy blushed deeply red: Short was our time, and chaste our bliss, A whispered vow and a gentle kiss; And one of those long looks, which earth With all its glory is not worth. The stars beamed lovelier from the sky, The smiling brook flowed gentlier by; Life, fly thou on; I’ll mind that hour Of sacred love in greenwood bower; Let seas between us swell and sound, Still at her name my heart shall bound; Her name——which like a spell I’ll keep, To soothe me and to charm my sleep. “‘“Fellow,” said Sir Ralph Cavendish, “thou hast not shamed my belief of thy skill; keep that piece of gold, and drink thy cup of wine in quiet to the health of the lass who inspired thy strain, be she lordly or be she low.” The minstrel seated himself, and the interrupted mirth recommenced, which was not long to continue. When the minstrel began to sing, the King of the Peak fixed his large and searching eyes on his person, with a scrutiny from which nothing could escape, and which called a flush of apprehension to the face of his daughter Dora. Something like a cloud came upon his brow at the first verse, which, darkening down through the second, became as dark as a December night at the close of the third, when rising, and motioning Sir Ralph Cavendish to follow, he retired into the recess of the southern window. “‘“Sir Knight,” said the lord of Haddon, “thou art the sworn friend of John Manners, and well thou knowest what his presumption dares at, and what are the lets between him and me. _Cavendo tutus?_ ponder on thy own motto well. ‘Let seas between us swell and sound’:——let his song be prophetic for Derbyshire,——for England has no river deep enough and broad enough to preserve him from a father’s sword, whose peace he seeks to wound.” “Knight of Haddon,” said Sir Ralph, “John Manners is indeed my friend, and the friend of a Cavendish can be no mean person; a braver and a better spirit never aspired after beauty.” “Sir Knight,” said the King of the Peak, “I court no man’s counsel; hearken to my words. Look at the moon’s shadow on Haddon-dial; there it is beside the casement; the shadow falls short of twelve. If it darkens the midnight hour, and John Manners be found here, he shall be cast fettered, neck and heel, into the deepest dungeon of Haddon.”