The dark came down—the double dark of storm and evening. The great time-candle in its sheltering lanthorn burnt the quarters down, and the hours. Villagers came scurrying to the hall in dismay. The meads were under water. Their fresh-cut hay was floating down the stream, with many a tree and bush from parts beyond in the west. The lovely sisters had busked themselves afresh to receive their lovers; dark tresses and fair were coiled in golden nets, and on each bosom shone her token cross of gold. But as the hours and minutes flew, dress was disregarded, their lips quivered with anxiety. At length Avice whispered to her mother, “Had we not best set a cresset burning on the watch-tower, and send torch-bearers to light the passage of the ford?” “I have already given orders, child; I feared to speak my alarm to you.” But even torches will not keep alight in rain and hurricane. The men, headed by Will Harpur, returned to the hall drenched and discomfited. “The blazing sky will be their surest guide,” said he; “we cannot keep a torch alight. But do not give way to bootless terror, good aunt, the storm will have kept our friends at Ashby, or, at least, have driven them back. They would never be so mad as to attempt the passage of the ford.” Then, aside to the prior he added, “The land is covered for more than half a mile, and in mid-stream the marly water runs like a torrent, bearing bushes, beams, and haycocks swiftly out of sight. They must have gone back.” Almost as he spoke there was a rapid thud of hoofs heard advancing up the hill. There was the strong black charger of Earl Bellamont, and close behind came the bay mare of Sir Gilbert. They were both riderless! A moment of speechless horror, then shrieks and wailing filled the air. Mid the sobbing and lamentations of women, and the clamour of men, fresh torches were kindled, horn lanthorns lighted and affixed to poles. Then, with the prior and Will Harpur at their head, all the men about the place rushed forthwith ropes and shepherds’ crooks, and aught that might save a drowning man. Alas! it was all too late. Their bravest and best beloved were gone for aye. Too rashly impatient, and trusting the leadership of impetuous Earl Bellamont, Sir Ralph and Sir Gilbert had disregarded the remonstrances of more cautious companions, and dashed across the waste of waters, so low at first as barely to cover their horses’ fetlocks. Alas! some floating bush may have misled the old man, for all at once they seemed to be carried down stream and disappear, as if they had missed the ford, or the current had been too strong for men weighted with armour. Sir Ralph had mounted his foot page behind him, and the scion of another noble house was lost. Their esquires, following behind, had been impotent to save, and only by turning sharply round and fighting with the rising waters did they manage to preserve their own lives.